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| June 2008 »
Playing the Building — my installation in the Battery Marine Building — opened to the public today. Creative Time had music, hot dogs, beer and ice cream downstairs. (No food or drink from the party was allowed in the actual installation space.) My iPod provided the music and I saw at least one couple dancing! The line to play the organ traversed all the way to the Staten Island Ferry Terminal. The fire department only allows 150 people in the space at one time since the exits are not all well lit — hence the long wait times. But there were other long lines were just for ice cream or beer.
There was a piece in the NY Times and in Newsweek, which helped get the word out. I felt bad that folks were waiting in a line to get in, but it was one of those lovely NY days, and lots of the folks seemed to run into old friends (I did too), so the waiting didn’t seem all that tedious. At times the party seemed to spill out to the street.
I was happy to see that the crowd has few trepidations about getting their hands on the device, and the New Yorkers were, contrary to their reputation, incredibly polite about not hogging the thing. It was also good to see such a demographically diverse crowd: little kids (well, with their parents), students, twenty-somethings, hipsters, artists and musicians (I met one of the guys from Mouse on Mars), city officials, and some folks even older than myself.
Elsewhere on my website and on the Creative Time site there is more information about the installation. It will be open to the public every weekend through most of the summer. Big thanks to Anne Pasternak, the donors, and to Mark McNamara, Justin Downs, and Danielle Spencer for their work on this piece.
As much as people enjoyed the device, I think they also enjoyed entry into an incredibly beautiful building in downtown Manhattan that was previously closed to the public for fifty years! It’s almost hard to believe such a thing could be possible, so thanks to CT and others for opening up that secret doorway in our city.
Last night, I attended the annual Robin Hood benefit event at the Javits Center. Robin Hood targets poverty in New York City by partnering with, and funding other local youth, education, employment and survival programs. Its annual fundraiser is well-known as the splashiest charity event in town, and that’s saying something. They raise a LOT of money, and donate 100% percent to their partner causes.
Upon entering the event — whose space was the size of an indoor football field by the way — we could see the dining and auction area surrounded by a massive curtain. Walking to our table, we passed enormous models made from donated items. Here is a castle made of NY coffee cups.
There was also a giant chair made of bottled water, and some pieces were filled with donated towels.
The event production company David Stark — specializing in extravagant corporate and charity events, and off-the-hook weddings — designed the decor. After Googling the company, I realized I’d been to another of their events — Tate Modern’s Inaugural Artists’ Dinner, also held in NYC. The dinner was decorated with undulating curtains made from 15,000 Benjamin Moore paint color swatches. The scale and visual impact of these “installations” rivals those by many contemporary artists at the Whitney Biennial or any Chelsea gallery; although, in this case, the works are not for sale, and will eventually end up either in the trash, or, as is the case for the Robin Hood items, dispersed to the needy. Here is the “installation” at the Tate dinner.
Before entering the event, I stood outside and watched the parade of swells emerging from their town cars. The men were pretty much exclusively wearing business attire: dark suits and ties. And though some were high profile, visually, they were all interchangeable. The women were dressed in fancy dresses, but nothing over-the-top like you’d see at the Oscar ceremonies or the Met Costume Balls. Most of the guys were, I suspect, alpha-male businessmen — CEOs and hedge fund types out to do good works in front of their peers. There were almost no paparazzi, as most of the attendants are not “names” to the general public, though they might be amongst themselves.
After the food was served, there was a break for schmoozing, after which the event started in earnest. As co-MC, Conan O‘Brian made a bunch of jokes with references to businessmen and business events that I didn’t get — I’m not sure he got them either. At one point, a section of the aforementioned curtain opened, and a children’s choir, soon joined by Sheryl Crow, performed “Lean On Me.” Tom Brokaw and Jamie Niven, a Sotheby’s auctioneer, led the bidding on various packages, one of which included a performance by the Jonas Brothers at your kid’s party, and another, a five star African safari hosted by a conservationist and filmmaker. The bidding went pretty high — close to half a million in some cases.
Then, as if that weren’t impressive enough, Niven asked who would give a cool million for a gold brick inscribed with his or her name. Slowly, the glow sticks went up, and the offers reached 10 million dollars in less than five minutes! A second round requesting 250 thousand for each silver brick got even more glow sticks. You get the idea as to what kind of money was thrown around there. If the economy is shaky, no one here is letting on.
I wondered about the whole idea of these charity events, which raise money for programs and cultural institutions that are, in some countries, supported instead by government programs. In the UK for instance, a lot of arts funding comes from the lottery, so ordinary taxpayers don’t need to feel they’re supporting possibly dodgy artworks. I have a hunch that many attendees would balk at the implementation of higher taxes to cover these same types of programs: kids’ meals, education, medical expenses, etc. Where is the glory in giving if everybody does it? And if it’s virtually invisible? If you HAVE to do it, it’s not the same.
These charity galas are, of course, feel good events for those who can afford to give. They offer the potential to reposition a cutthroat CEO as a good person with a heart — and now a brick — of gold. Yet, who can deny that giving to these programs is socially beneficial? Does it seem cynical then, to suggest that the attendees received at least their money’s worth in glory and reputation correction, and that their motives were less than completely altruistic? I believe it was Niven who exhorted the crowd to “Build Your Legacy!” which is pretty obvious code for “Increase your social standing and raise your status!”
That’s the weird aspect of all these charity events — any evolutionary psychologist will tell us that beneath the lovely displays of altruism lie hidden, and perhaps not so hidden, benefits. For instance, social benefits such as status elevation may potentially lead to financial benefits. Status upgrades are genetically beneficial as well. Do truly good Samaritans — altruists expecting nothing in return for their kindness and generosity — actually exist? I suspect they sometimes do. But, most of the time giving flows easiest when others are around to bear witness. That’s not being cynical; it’s simply how social animals work. And though I wish the government cared a bit more for some if it’s citizens, I can’t complain about the generosity demonstrated by those who can afford it.
After all the excitement around redistributing massive amounts of money, the curtain opened at the opposite end, and Shakira began a set. The dining area was so huge (we were at table #360), that we had to saunter across the expanse to get a closer glimpse, although large, bright video screens surrounding the whole dining area displayed the performance. The Columbian diva started with a song in Spanish, a seemingly smart statement about her identity (the choice of language, not the song itself). Later in the set, John Legend joined her on stage.
Most guests probably had musical tastes that lay elsewhere, but they knew they were getting a top-notch show, even if they didn’t know the songs. I tried to imagine a more apt selection: Rod Stewart? The Eagles? Al Green? Or, perhaps a revue from Jersey Boys or South Pacific?
I recorded a couple of songs Sunday and Monday with the band Dirty Projectors for an upcoming Red Hot project. Red Hot puts out compilation albums to benefit AIDS research and I’ve been on a few of them since they started in 1990. So, who’s on this one? Feist, Sufjan Stevens, Grizzly Bear, Sharon Jones, The Decembrists, The National — jeez, what a lineup!
Anyways, I like what Dave Longstreth and Dirty Projectors are doing, although part of what attracts me to them is something I can’t exactly place, can’t figure out. Their music has familiar elements, yet often sounds like pop music by someone who has read about the form, but never heard it, and then handed the essential building blocks to make some songs. That’s not actually true though, as Dave made plenty of jokes about music while we were working —he has a deep knowledge of tunes and their respective artists. But the band’s music remains completely strange and oddly familiar at the same time. I’d been told more than once that we should all work together, and it seems the suggestion was fated to be realized.
For one song, Dave L sent me a demo by email that he had recorded in a Vienna hotel room on tour. I did my best to figure out the chords and the tempo, and record my own version, for which I then wrote the words. We didn’t end up using my recorded version; but the words, and my somewhat straightened out version of the melody, came in handy.
As a starting point for the second song, I sent Dave some lyrics I had written in maybe ’75 or ‘76. I used to type out odd little pieces in those years, some of which turned into Talking Heads songs. These lyrics were unlike any I knew at the time, and made some of those TH tunes so peculiar. These songs didn’t lack emotion, but filtered it through an extremely constricting linguistic bottleneck, making the tension more pronounced, though never explicit. That sounds pretentious — and maybe it is — but looking back I can now see how truly odd those lyrics were. And I realize I don’t, and probably can’t, write like that anymore. Given the Projectors’ output however, these lyrics seemed like something they might “get”.
Here are the words to the second song (I always wrote lyrics all in caps back then):
HERE IS THE SOUND THAT PHOTOGRAPHS MAKE
WHEN I SEE THEM
WHEN I HEAR THEM
I SEE REGIONS OF SHARP PRECISION
OVER ABUNDANCE
OVER INDULGENCE
TIED TOGETHER WITH ROPE AND TWINE
STUCK TOGETHER WITH PASTE AND GLUE
TWO OLD PLANKS OF KNOTTY PINE
A COUPLE OF NAILS THAT POKE RIGHT THROUGH.
Dave and Co. set them to a bouncy little tune. The tune is as oddly structured as any of their pieces, but you sort of don’t notice because it is really catchy and it all flows as if nothing untoward is going on whatsoever. Amber sang the first verse, and Angel, Dave and I sang the second.
I added a little guitar solo at the end and we were done. Nicholas began mixing as I hobbled back to Manhattan with my broken ribs. I still feel that I may have straightened out these DP tunes just a tiny bit, although perhaps it’s not an entirely bad thing: I sense that my participation reveals that there is a lot of method into what — at least for some — appears to be the total madness of the DP’s tunes.
“You drank too much and fell off your bike” could be the title of a drawing by David Shrigley. But in this case, it actually happened to me after meeting Shrigley for dinner and drinks. While riding home, C and I were briefly separated. Upon reuniting, my tire slipped on the cobblestones of West 14th St., and I remember lying in the street, looking at oncoming headlights and rolling towards the curb so they wouldn’t run me over. Two cops approached and looked down at me. “Have you been drinking?” they asked. Probably a typical question in that neighborhood at that time of night. “Yes, I’ve had a few drinks,” I replied. “But I’m hurt.” I managed to get up by myself and retrieve my bike (no help from the NYPD, though one of them asked if I was David Byrne) and it wasn’t until later, when I was in bed, that the pain made itself truly known. I wondered how I would ever even get out of bed. The next day I went to the hospital and x-rays revealed two broken ribs — numbers 3 and 5, way up high. They're healing now, little by little, and I was told that in 3 weeks I should be OK.
The D.C. Madame Jeane Palfrey, whose clients include prominent politicians (Senator Vitter, R-Louisiana), lobbyists, and other power brokers (Randall L. Tobias, a senior official in the State Department), was found hanged on Thursday. In mid-April, Palfrey was convicted of money laundering, using the mail for illegal purposes, and racketeering. She remained free while awaiting sentencing on July 24.
Palfrey’s death was pronounced a suicide, and she was quoted as saying she’d rather die than go to prison. One of her former employees, Brandy Britton (her real name, are you serious?), was arrested in January 2006, and committed suicide before standing trial. Needless to say, the names of most of their clients have probably died with these women.
This sure looks like the plot of a movie.
I saw Errol Morris’s film Standard Operating Procedure, the “documentary” about the Abu Ghraib photos. I have the term documentary in quotes because, as the interviewees describe past events, the film re-enacts scenarios not filmed or photographed at the time. For some, these re-enactments are a problem, as documentary convention prescribes a style and logic that, in most cases, simulates truth telling and objectivity. Many assume that in documentaries, the camera is a mute witness to “facts” and “events” and any interference or fictional techniques or touches destroys this, well, myth.
The re-enactments do not adhere to the form typical of those criminal investigation TV shows, which recreate the crime scenes with actors, out of focus, slow-motion shots, and voiceover narration. Instead, Morris employs fragmentary images: a close up of snarling dog, its teeth lunging at the camera; a close up of skin covered in swarming ants; and most expensive, a helicopter exploding above our heads, the flaming parts descending on the camera.
It should be obvious that all documentary filmmakers have an agenda they hope to put forward. I’m not talking about Michael Moore and Alex Gibney (Taxi to the Dark Side, The Smartest Guys in the Room) who obviously have a polemic to deliver, but about the countless docs, TV shows, news reports and educational pieces that evince a style that says, “We don’t have a point of view. We’re simply recording what’s in front of the camera and you make up your own mind.”
These ostensibly objective works invoke specific filmic devices that audiences have come to accept and recognize as indicators of truth telling and impartiality. Upon examining these “unbiased” films, we may sense their deep, inherent agendas, but for the most part, the style masks the filmmakers’ underlying prejudices, and we buy into it.
In a sense then, fiction films are also just recording what’s in front of the camera, but in their case, it happens to be costumed actors staging events. Fiction films are documentaries of the performances of actors.
Next, I watched Barbara Kopple’s Harlan County, USA, an incredible, award-winning documentary about a violent mine strike in Kentucky. It took her four years to make the film, which she originally intended to be about something related, though different. It’s obvious that Kopple was embedded with the miners. During some particularly violent confrontations, the camera is clearly on the “side” of the striking miners, as scabs and corporate toadies take shots at them. The filmmaker hung with the mining families and otherworldly community in these hollers in order to secure some of the intimate details. Upon release, the film was an exposé, drawing attention to lives and injustices that otherwise would have been ignored.
Likewise, as Errol Morris and some of his interviewees point out, the photos taken at Abu Ghraib are responsible for drawing attention to the prison’s systemic practice of abuse. Had these photos never surfaced, the whole situation would have been swept under the rug, as was the violent, habitual torture practiced by the CIA and MI, never photographed. Since these practices can’t be proven, most media outlets pretty much ignore them. To paraphrase one of the film’s talking heads: ‘These photos made the President of the United States have to apologize to the world, so someone was going to pay.’ Unsaid, although implicit, is that those who caused the embarrassment to Bush would pay over those responsible for setting up a situation where abusive behaviors were condoned and encouraged.
Morris doesn’t broach the “Chain of Command” issues Seymour Hersh examines in his book of the same title. Hersh carefully traces the legal maneuvers of Gonzales and the policies of the Rumsfeld-Cheney-Bush tripartite, effectively encouraging and excusing torture and anything goes behavior.
The film details the fascinating use of forensics to establish accurate information about the photographs. Metadata embedded within the digital images is extracted and cross-referenced to handwritten logs to recreate a timeline, and uncover who took the pictures and with what camera. Morris limits the focus to the Americans, not the Iraqis. Some interviewees have the look of those whose experiences have twisted and mangled their souls deeply. They seem haunted and possessed. Especially the young women, former innocents who, like characters out of some horror movie, were fucked over by some invisible, monstrous entity.
So maybe the film is not a documentary in the accepted sense, or maybe we must realize that docs are not exactly what they appear to be. At any rate, by examining a set of infamous photos, how they came to be, who authored them, and how they survived, Morris creates a meditation on the meaning and reception of images—particularly news images—in our culture at large.
As these photos are reexamined, one can’t help but wonder whether a people often rounded up, imprisoned and tortured for no reason—many prisoners are simple cab drivers and local shopkeepers—will keep their grudges and desire for revenge close. And of course, one wonders whether a terrible price will be paid somewhere down the line. George Bush might be dead by then, Cheney will surely be gone soon—he’s running on watch batteries as it is—but some naïve and “innocent” generation will pay for our current government’s policies and actions and wonder, “What did I do to deserve this?”
I’m currently working on a piece for a benefit supporting the local arts organization, The Kitchen. The event, scheduled for May 21st at the Puck Building, will honor artist and DJ Christian Marclay. I like much of Marclay’s work, so my piece is sort of a tribute to him — or at least it’s fairly inspired by his work. My piece will be comprised of a kind of carpet of one hundred guitar pedals, which benefit attendees must walk on in order to enter the main dining and performance space. A guitar will be plugged into and run through all the pedals, and then into an amp. We’ve tested a portion of it to see if there are any unexpected problems and I was surprised to discover how well it works. Of course, the sounds are fairly random, and stepping on one or two of the distortion or fuzz pedals raises the screaming noise level pretty high, but that will be adjusted. Happily, some pedals will loop whatever is going on at the time of their activation, and so there will be constant sound changing all the time. Here is a picture of it partially finished in my studio:
The organizers pragmatically pointed out that there could be issues for attendees in heels, as did CS. I had hoped to make participation in the installation mandatory, something each guest would have to experience in order to move from cocktails to the next part of the event. But women’s heels will be my Achilles heel, uh, duh…It’ll still be OK. We’ll just have to leave a narrow passageway or alternate route for the heeled ladies, or place the thing in a less obtrusive location.
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