C & I accepted the offer to be jurors along with a couple of others at a modest film festival in an off-season, seaside town 25 minutes outside of Lisbon. For me it’s a way of taking a forced vacation, as I dove right back into various kinds of work and projects as soon as my year-long tour ended.
We had dinner with some of the other festivalgoers, along with a classical pianist who was visiting. Some wondered what was to become of music as filesharing and illegal downloading becomes more prevalent. I offered that yes, it is a huge problem for record companies and for some types of musicians — but it seems that not coincidentally, the illegal downloaders are the same people who spend the most money on music and music-related “products” (concerts, etc.). More than anyone else, these “offenders” are passionate music fans and consumers. I suggested that maybe if buying music online had been encouraged sooner, and if the process didn’t have so many catches (like DRM-hampered files), things might not have gone badly so quickly for the record companies.
I mentioned that this digital technology gives many types of artists more power over the means of production, and even distribution — which might not be such a bad thing. I then began to speculate about other media beyond music that are going digital — films, books, television — and that the “view on demand” technology that Netflix uses, or something similar to it, might allow indie filmmakers to take charge of their own distribution (not via Netflix, but through their own sites, giving them a larger income percentage). The communal theatrical film experience might be lost, but that seems to be the case for those small films anyway — so there isn’t much of a trade-off. There’s little downside in trying out a non-theatrical kind of distribution.
I could sense the eyes glazing over as I talked excitedly about various possibilities and somewhat optimistic scenarios for the near future. The conversation then turned to European cultural history, and the patronage that supported Mozart and Bach. Our fellow juror, choreographer Rui Horta, mentioned that André Malraux had been innovative and influential in this regard in the last century. Malraux was, from 1959 to 1969, the Minister of Cultural Affairs in France under De Gaulle, during which time he developed maisons de la culture in several small French towns. These were the first state-supported culture centers in France — basically performing arts centers with rehearsal rooms attached; the latter implying that new works would be created on-site. This aspect was the innovative and radical part, as it meant that creation would be decentralized — that more than a few officially sanctioned organizations and artists would be allowed, theoretically, into the fold of cultural production. Rui had been artist in residence at one of these centers in France, and had more recently initiated a similar center in the Portuguese countryside.
Malraux was also a novelist and anti-colonialist activist in Indochina and elsewhere. I’ve read his book The Voices of Silence — an amazing art history book in which he proposes that art has replaced religion in the West. Here he is editing Museum without Walls, in which he argued that art books are portable museums — again a move towards decentralization, putting creation in the hands of folks all over the country.
Days later, during a magazine interview with Inês de Medeiros, the senator for culture in Portugal, I put my foot in it. I suggested that it was more important that children, and everyone really, be imbued with a sense that they themselves might make things — that the things they might make have value — as opposed to learning mainly to appreciate the great masters, whether they be Bach, Picasso or the literary canon. I proposed that the value of art might be of more use to society in that regard, rather than focusing on supporting, well, museums and symphony halls. Naturally, to a senator who has made it her noble mission to argue for more support for the arts, this is slightly heretical and, as she said, “very American.” America’s lack of state support for the arts and skepticism of the value of fine art is legendary.
I qualified my opinion by saying that I myself love a lot of “refined” contemporary art, and some highbrow or academic music as well — but I don’t assume that everyone should. Those who enjoy that stuff are not all wealthy, but they do constitute an elite, rarified world. By this definition, comic book fans and heavy metal fans are elite bunches as well. Every subculture is, in a way. I don’t presume that my tastes or those of my friends require lots of state support — although a little more in the US would be nice — and I would argue that supporting the arts and culture in schools at all levels is worth a lot more to our future quality of life. Encouraging students to write, to make stuff, to cook, design, to draw, play an instrument, record music, sing, edit films, etc. — all of that creates a sense of self-worth, curiosity and experimentation that has applications way beyond each of those disciplines. I would argue that this is where the greater percentage of state funding should go. Of course in the US, it’s the part that has been eliminated almost completely.
A couple of days later at the hotel breakfast table, I overheard FF Coppola at the next table espousing the merging of live performance and film as where the future of film might lie. C and I thought that he must not be aware of many of the performance groups we know who already do this — the Wooster Group has been doing it for years, and Big Dance Theater just did a short run at The Kitchen in NY that was a seamless blend of live projected video and live performance. But yes, other than in isolated scenes it hasn’t caught fire in a big commercial way just yet, although arena rock concerts do it all the time.
I noted to myself that we North Americans (and I’m not even native born) tend to get excited (with reservations) about future possibilities. We are curious about what is to come, good or bad, and how we might be part of it, and possibly find our niche or avoid the worst. Here in Europe, where admittedly things are often more “civilized,” the weight of the past consumes people’s thoughts. While a European sees oneself as part of a continuum — a long line of culture receding into the dim and distant past — North Americans can only feel in their guts that they are standing upon a thin veneer of history. They are both excited and stimulated by the idea of what can be imagined, what might come into existence that never existed previously — sometimes stimulated to the point of dangerous insanity. This is, I guess, a bit of a cliché, but here I was having examples thrown in my face. There might be a grain of truth to it at least.
In a recent New Yorker article on murder, German sociologist Norbert Elias is mentioned as promoting the concept of the idea of a “civilizing process” that encompasses many of our behaviors…a process that requires increased self-control and restraint. The growing dominance of the state, especially in Western Europe, is seen in this view as part of this process, whereby the application of justice is entrusted by the people to the state. It involves the “replacement of a culture of honor [and honor killings] with a culture of dignity… Duels replaced feuds,” resulting in fewer casualties.
In much of the US, it might be argued, this process has a ways to go, as many North Americans are loathe to give power to the state, and prefer to exact revenge and justice on their own (and to take responsibility for their own medical costs and health — or lack of it). This is one possible explanation as to why the US has the highest homicide rate of any affluent democracy — we are the least “civilized.” Our wildness is often a well of creativity and gumption; it’s a font of opportunity and hope, a draw and seduction for immigrants, and maybe equally an explanation for the extremes and prevalence of stupidity that exist in the US as well.
In the end, I wondered to myself, if we assume, cliché though it might be, that Europe focuses on the past, and North America on the future, then does it follow that there is another continent that is more oriented to the present? Africa? The line of reasoning is ridiculous, but I’m curious where it leads. I wonder if each continent might have a temporal focus. And if so, does this mean that there are more kinds of time than past, present and future?
Here is a tube station poster for this installation:
I spent the day talking to the British press and demonstrating the workings of the Playing the Building installation, which opened here tonight in a building called the Roundhouse, a former Victorian industrial train repair facility in north London (near Camden Town, and sort of near Kings Cross station). Because the building is round, steam engines could be rotated over troughs radiating from the centre, positioning them in the proper direction for repair.
In the ’60s it was the site of (UFO) psychedelic rock shows, some promoted by my friend Joe Boyd — Ten Years After, Pink Floyd, etc. It also hosted The Living Theatre and other scandalous naked performers. I played my first UK gig here — Talking Heads opened for the Ramones and the Stranglers in ’76. We had a single out at the time, no album yet. The place was pretty grotty, and here we had our first experience of gobbing — the quaint UK custom of audiences spitting on bands as a sign of appreciation. Yes, it’s for real, and it was disgusting. One could see, like little shooting stars in the stage lights, the white gobs of phlegm flying your way. I didn’t get hit that much, but the Ramones really got pelted. They REALLY didn’t like it. Luckily their leather jackets served to protect them and, in this case, went beyond just presenting a unified look. Beers in plastic cups were also thrown — one landed right on my hairline and tipped its half-consumed contents over my head. Funny how England, the country fairly well known in centuries past for fulfilling its self-proclaimed duty to export “civilization” to the unwashed and the heathen of the world, has a flip side on a par with any unsavory sport or bizarre cultural practice anywhere else. Well, we all do I suppose, but gobbing is a pretty weird way to show your love by any measure.
The venue fell into further disrepair, though being an industrial landmark it was never torn down, and its unique shape made it recognizable. Occasionally it was used for performances that took advantage of its funky rawness, but that also limited its use. A few years ago it went under extensive renovations, and a new structural shell was built that, miraculously, is almost invisible — the Victorian era scrollwork, and cast iron pillars and girders still appear to hold the building up, and are what my installation “plays” — and the new supporting structure is now largely hidden from view, sandwiched between the exterior roof and the massive, original wood beams of the inner roof.
Here is a view showing where new and old interact:
The new roof can support 20 tonnes of weight if needed, more than ample for flying PA systems, lights, stage gear and sets. None of that was possible before, so now this is poised to become a much more viable and active venue in town — though the round shape still makes it unique, and inappropriate for shows requiring a conventional proscenium.
The book I wrote over the last couple of years (though the notes for it date back as far as 15 years) came out in the UK this week. I decided that since I am finishing my tour here, the UK publisher (Faber and Faber) and I would auction off the bike that I rode around many of the cities featured in the book — Sydney, Istanbul, Berlin, Columbus, and London. The proceeds will benefit the London Cycling Campaign as the bike is located there — which means that the auction is really geared towards UK bidders.
After helping to oversee the installation of Playing the Building at the Roundhouse on Thursday, Danielle, my studio manager, and I needed to get to the Smithfield area of London for a dinner appointment. London traffic is notoriously snarled much of the time — though congestion pricing has alleviated that a bit — so we decided to take the tube (subway). Rain began to pelt down; we used bin liners (plastic trash bags) to cover ourselves. The nearby Chalk Farm tube station lobby and ticket area was filled with people, and a young man was writing on a whiteboard that no trains on the Northern line, northbound or southbound, were running. There was no suggestion of “20 min. delays” or “We’ll let you know when it’s fixed.” Instead the instructions were, in a word, “Go away.” Then, to add insult to injury, he hollered at everyone, “You need to clear this space because of fire regulations, you can’t stand here” — effectively shoving everyone out into the torrential rain. We saw a sign for a southbound train approaching the station and rushed down to the platform, but we missed it and that was the last one. We took the man’s advice and went looking for a southbound bus, which we found not too far off.
The windows were all fogged up, but using the GPS on our phones we could see where the bus was going, and when it began to diverge from the direction we needed to go, we hopped off and got on another one (at least London busses run frequently), then repeated the process. After riding three busses (and purchasing two umbrellas) we made it to the restaurant, slightly soaked but on time.
The show at the Barbican was being filmed in HD, so I went in early and helped adjust lights with our LD David Ambrosio and Will from Hillman Curtis’s crew so that the stage looked to the camera more or less the way it looks to the eye… at least on the songs that hadn’t previously been shot. Before that I went up to Camden Town to the Roundhouse, where the Playing the Building installation will open on Friday, to see how it was going. The building, now cleared of circus staging and other crap, and with its skylight open for the first time, is spectacular. Mark McNamara and Justin Downs were just getting some of the motors and pipes into position, so no sounds to be heard yet… but all seems to be well. Here’s a shot of work in progress:
The crate containing the actual organ was opened in shipping — probably by Homeland Security, who carelessly repacked it, as they do — and in the process the keyboard was almost destroyed (though it’s repairable). We hope none of the other mechanical or electronic bits inside were damaged, but will know soon enough. I feel more secure, don’t you? How, I wonder, is international shipping of goods, samples, art, products, etc. supposed to happen if this kind of behavior is tacitly encouraged by the US government? The Bush legacy lingers. Is there someone we’re supposed to pay, some service we’re supposed to use to guarantee more considerate handling? The inspection would be fine if they had put the bits back with some semblance of care.
[Alice Rawsthorn adds: "Your problems with Homeland Security reminded me of László Moholy-Nagy's misadventures when taking his enormous Light Space Modulator into the various countries where he and his family lived in the 1930s. Whenever it crossed a border, customs officials pounced and refused to believe that it was a work of art, until Moholy took to describing it as "hairdressing equipment" and it sailed through unscathed."]
I walked on the net, high above the Roundhouse floor, that rings the innermost catwalk… you can see it in the photo. The ring looks like it’s floating… very exciting.
I tubed it down to the Barbican Centre, where our show will be. The walkways, as one approaches this sixties brutalist monstrosity, provide views reminiscent of the scenes in A Clockwork Orange when Alex returns to his parents’ flat after a night of the old ultra-violence (minus the blowing trash).
Anyway, at the show Leo Abrahams sat in with us for two of the songs on which he played on the recent CD collaboration with Brian. He wore the mandatory white, and plugged straight into and out of his laptop, using some software effects — and it sounded great. No amp or other bits of gear! I lent him my spare Strat, so he didn’t even need to bring a guitar.
Jenni surprised us by bringing Julian Barratt (Howard Moon) from The Mighty Boosh backstage to say hello as we gathered in our snack room. We were all stunned and flattered. He came to see us even though he really, seriously does like jazz. Julian, Thom Yorke, Brian, and some others joined us after the show. I made the rounds saying hellos, then Cindy and I went back to the hotel. Thom was very excited to meet her — I guess from his art school days, she was (is) an icon of sorts. I was wearing a not so special white shirt and Thom immediately knew the designer — a friend of his. He must have spotted some subtle detail. I never would have pegged him for someone knowledgeable about fashion.
C and I pedaled over to a show of design art furniture at the V&A. There is some truly lovely and wacky stuff, but not enough of it to be a real survey of the currently hot genre. The whole categorization is questionable for some — as it’s limited edition furniture that is super expensive, and usually not that comfortable to sit on, placed into an art context. It’s functional but not really. The not really part makes it art — if one agrees that art doesn’t serve an (obvious) practical purpose. I’ve done a series of functional (you can sit in them) but uncomfortable chairs in a variety of materials that could be considered to fall into this genre, so I’m fascinated.
This one, by Sebastian Brajkovic, is made mostly of cast bronze — it must weigh quite a bit!
The show is called “Telling Tales”, as if there was some Grimms’ Fairy Tale theme running through the work — death and incest and dark mothers and fathers and forests… though to me that all seems like a stretch. Pretty much all the work, except for two pieces (one British — Julian Mayor — and one by Boym, the Russian-American designer), is Dutch. Leave those out and the show could have been called a survey of recent extreme Dutch furniture design — though there is a lot more going on there design-wise as well. The Eindhoven-based Droog Design crew, which spawned Hella Jongerius and quite a few others, don’t strictly make furniture — they are also pushing design boundaries.
A road sign in Hyde Park — there’ll always be an England.
The One Year Family
The tour is winding down and we’re all feeling a little weird. I suppose my dreams are all related to the imminent end of the tour. It’s amazing we all held it together this long — there were few meltdowns and only one crew person defected, and that was months ago. The shows have been successful, and the band doesn’t have any serious substance abusers or complete lunatics — which was fairly common for a pop music tour back in the day — so maybe all those factors helped to contribute to how well we held it together for an entire year.
Extended tours like this are like movie shoots — everyone bonds, like a little family. We often do things together, and we all sleep together (well, close by) on the buses. We know our family will only last a year, though there are sometimes splinter unions that last longer. Some of the crew will go on to work on other projects and tours; some of us musicians, singers and dancers will work on stuff together in the near future; friendships and even love bonds have formed — but none of those projects or relationships will include the whole one year family. This particular unit will break apart in about a week…
We’ll all keep in touch, I hope.
There was going to be one final farewell concert in NY— a free show in Times Square to inaugurate the permanent closing of Broadway there, and celebrating the greening of the zone, on August 17 — but the production needed funding from some donors. We would play for free (or at least I would), but the cost of the stage, toilets, trailers, PA, local crew, lights, etc. was considerable. Though we came very close to finding the money (Janette from the DOT was doing this part — I don’t know donors or sponsors) and doing the show (a free show in Times Square! Santogold was going to open!), at the last minute there just wasn’t enough to cover costs, so we had to admit defeat.
South America? Didn’t get there this year (except on holiday). I’ve played many cities there many times, but this time — maybe due to the financial crisis and its ripple effect down there — the offers simply weren’t enough to pay for band, crew and shipping. So, despite asking friends and others for advice and contacts, I had to let the idea go after a while.
So that’s it. A year of touring this show (there was a break over Xmas and New Years, and during the month of May) and we’ve been almost everywhere we can reasonably go — sometimes more than once. The show has been incredibly well received, the record has sold so-so (though because it was self-distributed in a fashion, there were profits early on) — and we all feel exhausted but very, very satisfied… like, um, after something else.
It’s the middle of winter and it’s a gorgeous day — jacket weather, sunny. I’ve done the bike ride around Stanley Park before, so this time I bike to the Art Gallery of BC to see a new show of BC artists. Some fun stuff, like an artist who made fake elevator doors, but almost as interesting was the amazing bird poop splatter in the top of the rotunda.
There was also a nice audio piece — outside the museum entrance, hidden speakers playing the sound of English starlings from a tree.
I then visit a museum devoted to the world of Bill Reid, an artist and activist who passed away in 1998. His dad was of European descent and his mom was from Haida Gwaii — she was Haida, one of the Northwest Indian or First Nation tribes on the west coast of North America. He made a huge sculpture dedicated to her, and that place, called “The Spirit of Haida Gwaii.”
An image of this sculpture is on the Canadian $20 note. An old English lady is on the front. In the many photos of Bill in the museum, it seemed he looked pretty much like a typical Canadian of European descent, but he declared himself Haida and all his work owes a huge debt to the traditional work of those peoples. It’s a curious thing for me to try and wrap my head around. Reid’s work is somewhat contemporary — the material of the sculpture is untraditional — and he also made prints and lithographs. But what is curious to me is that the images look like, or are very closely related to, those typically seen in and on Northwest Coast tribal lodges that date back a century or more. He must have made a conscious decision to become part of a long lineage of imagery and mythology.
I suspect that the Haida view of art is different from the European view that dominates most museums. Reid worked using styles, images, characters and mythologies that were not his alone, but part of the long history of his people. Though he contemporizes the work by pulling the imagery into newer materials and contexts, he leaves very much of the traditional imagery intact — like an artisan working as an apprentice in a renaissance workshop. From a European standpoint, his work lies outside “official” art history — but he would say he’s part of a longer, deeper history.
Reid became an activist, helping to prevent logging and deforestation of Haida lands. He constructed an elaborate model of a traditional village that is incredible — a giant diorama of decorated lodges, side by side, interspersed with a myriad of totem and other poles. The whole village appears like one giant ritual object, or a living symbolic sculpture, facing the nurturing sea.
I then rode over to North Vancouver, over a bridge with a great view of the town, and a range of snow-capped peaks in the background. I’d been told by a friend in Seattle about a great Indian restaurant called Vij’s. Vij’s was only open for dinner (and I’ve got a show to do) but their next-door café Rangoli was open for lunch. It was worth the trip. I had a drink of something called Jal Jeera, a mixture of tamarind and cumin. I’d never tasted anything in the world like that combination before. I saw other people’s dishes arriving and they all looked incredible. I settled on the goat curry (how often do you see that on the menu?), which was delicious but not so different from flavors I’d had before — possibly just better, fresher.
There was a rack of coolers over by the register with pre-made boil-in-a-bag meals, so I bought a grocery bag’s full to divide among the buses for our long ride to Edmonton tonight. This restaurant is no local secret — Mark Bittman and Jamie Oliver have raved about it.
Our show, in the 3000-seat Queen Elizabeth Theatre (that old English lady again), went very well. I noticed a little old lady, in an usherette/security uniform, trying to get people to stop dancing — or at least stay in their seats — but after the 4th song she gave up. After that there was no stopping the crowd — they were dancing almost the entire rest of the set.
After the show, I was told that the mayor was backstage. Keith, Mauro and I hauled a bucket of beers and wine into the green room, where the guests were waiting. The mayor, Gregor Robertson, and his wife Amy chatted with most of us, and it turned out they had arrived on bikes! At one point they seemed slightly antsy, so as an out I offered that they probably had to get going, but they hung around — and after a bit, we all went to a nearby bar-rest for local wine and mussels. I chatted with Robertson about my own bike rides around Vancouver, and how NYC has made great strides in becoming more bike-friendly. I mentioned the efforts of Enrique Peñalosa, Janette Sadik-Kahn and Jan Gehl in transforming some cities into more livable places.
Robertson said that there has been a radical transformation of the land and cityscape in a generation. Vancouver is no longer a small city, and having seen all the new condos and office buildings here, I wondered aloud if developers were simply unstoppable; if the city might lose some of its charm and character; that the human scale of the city will be lost if profit is left as the prime force determining urban texture. In Peñalosa’s terms this means that people with lots of money determine how everyone else lives, and what kind of city we all live in — which, he feels, is undemocratic.
Robertson responded,
“I don't really see them as unstoppable. I'm doing the aikido thing, moving that drive for building and profit into the most positive outcome possible for the community. Not a simple thing. But my hopes are high.”
He continued that the development industry in Vancouver has built lots of great stuff, and has accepted the terms and conditions requiring large whacks of community amenities (parks, childcare, public art, community centers, etc.). He claimed that the Vancouver formula is far better for the community than almost any other city’s, which has made for some very livable urban hoods.
“I'm encouraging projects with affordable and rental housing, and ensuring we keep pushing the leading green building standards we have. And I’m very much open for business.”
Being a New Yorker, maybe I’m sadly more cynical. In spite of how well things are going in New York, the balance is always precarious. I offered that the economic downturn might slow development a bit, and turn out to be an opportunity for all folks, wealthy and less wealthy, to reassess what kind of town they want to live in and what kind of life they want — given the unexpected (for some) break in the years of relentless acquisition and striving. “Given a second to think about it, would people really choose to live in vertical ‘rabbit hutches’?” I said, glancing out the window at a new condo tower with only a few lights on. “Well-appointed rabbit hutches,” Robertson replied. Change is not always a bad thing; I wouldn’t claim that all development is evil. But maybe with some safeguards in place, we might save that which makes a city livable — and that seems to be the tack that Robertson is taking.
Being only a visitor, my impressions are of the surface, and probably influenced by the mess that many US cities are in. Judging from their health care industry, maybe the Canadians have more perspective.
Robertson chatted with Paul and mentioned the gang problem that Vancouver is dealing with. Paul suggested, semi-seriously, that the mayor might watch some episodes of The Wire.
We said good night, I folded up my bike, and the drivers began the long haul to Edmonton. A little before 8am, I got out of my bunk to pee and glanced at the spectacular scenery outside. I never went back to bed. Here is the road around Lake Louise, near some hot springs — steam rose off the water and covered the road.
In the afternoon, one group went to the Stax Museum of American Soul Music and raved about how interesting, well thought out, and moving it is. I went to visit Winston Eggleston regarding a project to project some of his dad’s photos onto the side of a massive former Sears building here in November. This project would coincide with dad Bill’s upcoming retrospective at the Whitney in New York City. Jenni and Graham stopped by Willie Mitchell’s studio, where so many amazing records were and are recorded. On my way to the Eggleston Trust, I took a phone call from Teenie Hodges, co-writer of “Take Me to the River,” while I was biking down Poplar Avenue. (Teenie played guitar on most of those great Al Green songs and hundreds of others.) We agreed to connect in a few hours.
Between the richness of the Country music that we had soaked up by osmosis in Nashville and the Soul music that still lives in this town, a big part of my cynicism that continually dogs me about the U.S. got lifted, slightly. The beauty and depth of the music from many of these places is simply astounding. There are scoundrels and greed and things are fucked up, but look at the music these folks have produced and you sense there’s a lot of soul and heart beyond the highways and strip malls. Not just the music — Teenie joined us on stage for our version of his song wearing a bright yellow and blue outfit with an open shirt revealing a kind of shiny blue spandex wifebeater. I am reminded of Elvis’ outfits too, and all those spangly Nudie suits the Country artists used to wear — a whole world of haberdashery untouched by the fashion and tastes of the big coastal cities.
We sat around the catering table backstage after soundcheck as Teenie told stories about being mistaken for Al Green (he signed a lot of autographs) and playing on an Albert Collins session without knowing who he was — thinking to himself, “Who is this unhip guy with the process? And why is a white man carrying his amp for him?” After the Collins session got underway, they cut maybe 7 songs in 3 hours. Teenie, nicknamed Cool Breeze by his bandmates (many of whom were his brothers) was nudged by one of them who said, “What do you think NOW, Breeze?”
At the end of our set, as I began to introduce Teenie as “someone many of you will know,” someone in the audience shouted out his name, confirming my suspicion that these guys — Teenie, his brothers, and many others — are not completely overlooked and unknown in their home town. Sometimes there is a little tiny bit of justice.
I’m here at the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia in Madrid to take part in a large museum show called “Máquinas y Almas: Arte digital” (“Machines and Souls: Digital Art”), which, as one might expect, includes a lot of contemporary techie work. The exhibition title presumes an opposition, and I suspect that many of the show’s participants might disagree with this implied duality since much of the work here demonstrates a symbiotic relationship between artist and machine. Just as Descartes once separated the mind and body, we now separate machines — which we see as extensions of our body and senses — from something we refer to as our souls.
What is a soul? Some suggest it’s what survives death, joining the other evanescent and matterless essences when our “machines,” our bodies, cease to function. Some claim it has a weight, that the body mysteriously loses 21 grams at the moment of our passing. In this view, it is not DNA but the soul that contains the true self, our sacred and immutable identities.
When a limb is amputated, is part of the soul lost? According to convention, no, it is not. When a lobotomy is performed or a person has a stroke is part of the soul “lost” or diminished? Presumably not — even a person in a vegetative state still has a soul, though we don’t know exactly where it is. Where do we draw the line? Would a brain kept alive but apart from its body still have a soul? Who cares?
I remember a comic book I read as an adolescent, Binky Brown Meets The Holy Virgin Mary, by Justin Green.
It’s an irreverent look at a young man’s tortured Catholic upbringing. In one section, after being inundated with Church dogma regarding the soul, young Binky tries to imagine what it looks like. Where is this thing they keep referring to, and what form does it take? Binky imagines his own soul is a small, amorphous lump located somewhere in the chest, tarnished and dirtied by his accumulated sins. In other narratives, evil scientists and Voodoo priests know how to locate and remove the soul, or to control it, while normal doctors haven’t a clue to its existence or where it hides.
What about machines? Will there come a time when machines have the characteristics of a sentient, self-aware being? Raymond Kurzweil believes that a day will soon come when machines and living beings will merge. He predicts that we will augment ourselves with machines to such an extent that our sense of self will encompass the silicon, the circuitry, and the chunks of titanium — we and the machines will become one, what he calls The Singularity.
During some intensely emotional portions of my recent past, I would dream that I either lost my laptop, or that the screen suddenly went blank, and I would feel traumatized and distraught. The laptop, it seems, was a stand-in for myself. Others may toss and turn when they dream of losing their Blackberries, or their houses burning down, or their cars mysteriously dying, but for me it was my computer.
Our identities can be tied to certain machines, though not just any type. A power drill? Probably not, but a luxury watch, a sexy car, a camera (for a DP, or photographer, maybe?), a typewriter (for a writer stuck in the last century?), and a computer for those like me who use it to store their personal information and to interface with others. The tools we use can represent — at least symbolically — our very identities: a Western gunfighter sees his weapon as a totem, a chef lovingly sharpens his knives, and the suburban guy washes his new car in the driveway for all to see. Though, it seems some of these machines might be standing in for a different organ, and not the soul. Oh, well.
I don’t think what I’ve addressed thus far really engages the supposed theme of the exhibition; many works seem to address the uncanny, the creepy, and the vaguely lifelike, though there are some exceptions. For instance, Theo Jansen’s marvelous giant walking sculptures are somewhat uncanny. Their insect-like movements make them appear to be alive since the artist didn’t rely on wheels or other common mechanical devices. A piece by the Japanese artist Sachiko Kodama creates weird shapes with iron filings suspended in oil, which, when subjected to massive magnetic forces, makes even stranger shapes, seeming to morph organically from one shape to another. These squirming shapes appear disturbingly alive.
A series of video projections resembles tiny deep-sea creatures or protoplasmic life, pulsing, slithering, and interacting with one another. The piece by Ben Rubin and Mark Hansen gathers blog texts, then filters and speaks them aloud, evoking a visible/audible manifestation of the hive mind, and makes me wonder if our the essence of our being is now scattered, dispersed into the ether, across the internet, and living in the computers of a billion people across the world.
Other pieces move away from the uncanny, addressing different ideas. Natalie Jerimenjenko’s hydroponic plants act as lungs to cleanse the air outside the museum. Antonio Mutanda’s map shows human connectivity around the globe, as does the work of some of the other artists.
Julio, the singing robot made in collaboration with David Hanson’s lab, fits in mainly with the creepy uncanny side of the show. Julio is old-school creepy — he resembles a person, uses lifelike motions, and — yikes! — smiles and looks around, mumbles to himself, and then bursts into song. He recalls a Frankenstein monster, although, instead of being outwardly and obviously scary, he’s quasi-friendly looking and bursting with emotion. I hope the sense of realism together with the singing make him doubly creepy. How can a machine be feeling what’s expressed in the songs?
I could have designed Julio to say “human” things like, “Hi there!” or “Wussup?” I thought of having him say more disturbing things like “Touch me,” “I’m so horny,” or “Come closer.” But instead I opted for singing.
Like many animals, humans sing for pleasure, for sex, for attention, to express pain, to relieve angst and to join and participate in a social group. All of these urges seem, if not uniquely human, at least not at all machine like. To see machines mimic these aspects of human life, is to watch some part of our imagined souls being appropriated.
While machines can mimic aspects of human, animal and biological processes, they still lack souls, or whatever it is that leaves us sentient, independent beings. Machines, even computers, are for the most part still modeled on digital, binary and logical thought processes, clutching the legacy of Descartes and the Enlightenment. For machines to truly simulate human beings, they will need to reason with their hearts, their emotions, as we and other animals do. We may like to think that cool logic guides, buffers, and tames our hot emotions, but many now believe that the amygdala and other emotional areas of the brain do most of the “thinking.” It seems that much of our thought process is unconscious, based on impulse, gut feeling, and instinct — and no less wise because of it. This is what’s absent in these machines.
For me, an important part of this show is about this lacuna, this missing part. Witnessing a machine approach being human — and for it to be almost believable, but not quite — can be a creepy and unsettling experience. [See Julio the Uncanny essay]
What would a machine that “feels” be like? I think it would have something like acquired instincts — a lot of them — coupled with a constellation of fears, desires, and loves. The machine would experience desire, hate, friendship, and inexorable ties to other objects and living beings. It would learn the art of deceit, whom to trust, and test the limits of its relationships. It would perform favors and help out, but might expect something in return. What a handful!
In order to think like a human, or like an animal, the machine would need the faults, foibles, and self-interests characteristic of living things. Of course, it would have mirror neurons too — or some equivalent capacity — allowing it to predict what people, animals and other sentient machines were feeling and how they might behave or react next.
We can guess the potential scenarios to follow. We’ve seen them in a hundred sci-fi movies in which the machines take over. In some of these, the machines are even arguably “better” than the people (and certainly better than some of the actors). They make more informed decisions, behave more altruistically, and are marginally less fucked up. In some dramas, the machines adopt the ultimate human foible, or strength, depending on your point of view — religion. They should be showing Battlestar Galactia at this exhibition.
Does this stuff belong in an art museum? Shouldn’t it be in the science museum, some might ask? Is it even science? Some would say that it’s engineering and innovative design, not true science, and certainly not art. I’d argue that their essentially useless content and attention to metaphor in these works suggest that they can only be shown alongside art — thereafter, let the deciders decide.
Participating artists:
Antoni Abad, 1956, ES David Byrne, 1952, UK & David Hanson, US, robot Daniel Canogar, 1964, ES Vuk Cosic, 1966, RS Evru / Zush, 1946, ES Harun Farocki, 1944, CZ, football Paul Friedlander, lights Pierre Huyghe 1962, FR, anime girl Theo Jansen 1948, NL, insect machines Natalie Jeremijenko, 1966, AU, recycling Sachiko Kodama magnet forms Rafael Lozano-Hemmer, 1967, MX Chico MacMurtrie John Maeda, 1966, US Antoni Muntadas, 1942, ES, map Daniel Rozin, 1961 Ben Rubin & Mark Hansen 1964, US, blog feed
About a year ago, I was approached by some Spanish curators to participate in a show scheduled to open at the Museo de Arte Reina Sofia in Madrid at the end of this month. I was told the show would be called “Machines and Souls: Digital Art,” so I suggested I work with David Hanson (of Hanson Robotics) to make a quasi-realistic singing robot. Animatronics date at least as far back as Disney’s Lincoln robot delivering part of the Gettysburg address, although Abraham’s delivery all but ignored any emotional fervor. Having seen some of Hanson’s work at Wired Magazine’s Nextfest—and having heard about it for years before that—I thought it might be time to attempt a collaboration. I immediately thought the robot should perform an action with a weird emotional resonance, like singing. An impassioned speech, laughter, or tears, would have worked just as well, but I had an inkling I could write a short passionate song (in both English and Spanish) for Julio the robot to croon.
Here is a piece I wrote for the museum:
Julio The Uncanny
I had heard of David Hanson and his robot creations—the Einstein head and especially the robot of Phillip K. Dick that responded to questions from the public—but I had never seen one. At an event called Nextfest in New York, I saw a prototype of Jules, a fairly lifelike-looking head of an ordinary young man, slightly androgynous, who could change his facial expressions to simulate emotions. Jules could frown, smile and look slightly skeptical. In addition, Jules could make eye contact—of a sort. Hanson had rigged a system by which the thing could lock on to someone standing in front of it and then, within limits, follow them as they changed position. The robot thus appeared to be looking at you—which in a way it was. There were other robots at this event, but Hanson’s seemed to me to be on the verge of something—something both truly uncanny and something that might cause us to question what is seeing, what are emotions and what is communication and conversation.
Hanson and I chatted briefly and later, when the organizers of “Máquinas y Almas" asked me if I had something that might be appropriate for the exhibit I immediately thought of contacting Hanson to see if he could program Jules to appear to sing if I recorded a vocal for him. By sing I don’t just mean open and close the mouth—that wouldn’t fool anyone. What we call singing is not just the vibrating of the vocal chords and the mouth moving to create the proper syllables and timbres; it’s also tied to a host of emotions that play across the muscles and tissues of the face and neck. The movements of these muscles, the facial expressions, give us clues as to what the singer is feeling, what the singer intends to communicate and what the song means.
Of course, a large percentage of this meaning is in the song itself—the sound and lyrics—but one of the reasons we enjoy a live performance is that we are given (visual) bonus features, clues that give us additional information about the singer, the song and about our immediate situation.
Hanson said such a thing was possible, so I suggested that we make the presentation very simple: just a young man, dressed in a nondescript, ordinary manner, standing in a room, singing to himself. Hanson suggested that this new robot be christened Julio.
Part of the enjoyment of seeing the various robots at Nextfest was experiencing a taste of the uncanny. The idea of the uncanny was proposed by Ernst Jentsch in 1906. He refers to the uncanny as something uncertain or undecidable which therefore makes us uncomfortable. [Freud disagreed—or elaborated on this]. He calls it un-heimlich, the un-home-like. His idea is that our psychological concept of home implies familiarity and comfort, a sense of ease, and, according to him, any concept we hold also implies the existence of its polar opposite—the un-home-like, the unusual, the unknown, the strange.
I love where this is going. It brings to mind an image of someone sitting in a comfortable chair, maybe with friends, and maybe they’re having drinks—and at the same time Jentsch posits that layered over or under this image is the profoundly creepy, the deeply strange and disturbing. We’re in the land of David Lynch and Hitchcock. ET landing in the familiar U.S. suburbs could be viewed this way, or the various living dead and vampire movies.
More recently Japanese roboticist Masahiro Mori proposed the existence of something called the uncanny valley. This “valley” is an area of emotional uncertainty and often revulsion experienced by an observer when a robot or computer animation (for example) approaches being human, is almost believable, but not quite.
He suggests that our emotional empathy with animations and robots increases as they get closer and closer to being human (or animal)—but then, at a certain point, they fall into the valley, and our empathy turns to disgust. In his view they switch from being a cute thing approaching humanity to a bad or faulty version of humanity. It is at this point that we see them as not merely slightly strange, but as a human with serious problems. If the creation can succeed in being a little bit better as a believable creature the feeling of revulsion disappears. For some viewers, recent films like Beowulf fall into this valley, while others find the almost humans acceptable.
Mori further suggests that this reaction might be innate—that it might be linked to our biological reactions to people who are physically or mentally ill—or to corpses. Evolution would have ingrained this reaction as a way of weeding out sick people from the social group. Hanson and others dispute the scientific veracity of the uncanny valley, but I think no one can doubt the strange and weird emotions that well up when confronted by one of these entities.
Knowing that singing elicits an emotional reaction from a listener and observer, I sense that encountering Julio might push some very odd buttons. I remember that my first encounter with Hanson’s robot made me rethink what it means to see, to look. We think of seeing and looking as something optical, something the eyes do. But actually seeing something, and recognizing it, is a lot more than that—it is the act of “naming” the thing the eyes are locking on to. It involves other meta brain functions that often have nothing to do with optics or the muscles controlling the eye. If seeing were just the visual and eye-muscle behavior, then isn’t that the same as what Jules does? And then isn’t singing, and displaying the attendant emotions, the same as what Julio does?
We tend to think that our emotions live inside—in our “hearts” and minds—and that the cues given by facial expressions, for example, are simply more or less involuntary reflections of these “true” inner feelings.
I think it’s more complicated and more confusing than that. I sense that sometimes the effect can produce the cause. Smiling can make you happy. Scowling can make you aggressive and angry. Actors experience this all the time—many of them act by learning to produce the visual effects of an emotion—the posture and facial expressions, the tone of voice—rather than always having to summon up an interior emotion in order to self-generate those affects. (That’s method acting, another whole topic)
So—if an entity displays the correct facial expressions, sounds and gestures, who’s to say it’s not “experiencing” the emotions? I personally still think it’s not, as emotions trigger hormonal release, breathing changes and a whole range of other physiological changes, and they’re not simply limited to what we see. They imply future action or inaction—they imply a set of behaviors guided and steered by the emotions we only see displayed in the face and voice. I love that Julio might make us confront some of these issues—that his emotional singing might give us a discomforting pause.
A video and other images of the robot can be found on the project's webpage, here.
It’s still a work in progress—the movements will be more “natural,” as will his hair. But this definitely demonstrates the creepiness factor at work!
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.
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.
