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Went to some art openings last night. At Pace/MacGill was a photographer Jim Goldberg who I had first seen in a book he did called "Raised By Wolves" in which he documented street kids in San Francisco for 10 years.
In the words of one of the kids: "You show us how we are and let us tell our own story. Young people will only listen if society lets them speak too. Make sure that your work tells true stories, show people that they are not the only ones who matter, and that they do not have the right to categorize kids, for that won't make them disappear."
Now he's showing some other older work — similar to the picture above but this other series contrasts images of rich and poor people accompanied by captions written by them. One of the poor young men pictured in this series was present at the opening, now older and bearded, dressed in a cowboy hat, boots... and spurs! He was talking loud to all who would hear — obviously proud to be a past subject and he was representing Goldberg's work to all who would listen.
There was another long wall piece, an autobiographical timeline montage that in less sensitive hands would have been a spilled drawer of pix from a stranger's attic glued to foam board. Somehow he managed to make the events photographed in his life resonant, touching and tragic — there were trips and travel — judging by the pictures these were inspiring and enlightening — lovers, relatives and children — sad partings and old age, birth and sex. There were years spent among the down and out, druggies and society's castaways.
There were collectors, some museum curators and a lot of art students at the opening, in contrast to the next one I went to.
Down to Chelsea to an opening of new work by Bob Rauschenberg, whom I've known for years, ever since he did a Talking Heads LP cover. The big Chelsea gallery was packed and Bob arrived in a wheelchair — he had a stroke a few years ago and part of his right side is paralyzed — but he's come back and, according to his partner Darryl, he's been working nonstop, and has at least 4 large international shows this year.
The new stuff is made of color photos that Bob took (I assume), transferred to canvas by first printing them on paper using water-soluble inks — then the paper can be placed on wet canvas and the image inks, or most of them, stick to the canvas. It makes the images look rough, imperfect, like color Xeroxes, but larger.
I liked these much better than some other recent shows of Bob's I've seen — I like when the use of photography is less painterly, and to be honest I always felt the drips and smears in much of his earlier work were guilty remnants of abstract expressionism, an attempt to give photo-based work the credibility of painting.
Anyway, these have none or little of that. There were lots of colorful images of orange traffic cones and roadwork, a subject I focus on sometimes, so I was a little jealous, too.
I ran into acquaintances from Bob's studio, folks from various print edition studios he's worked at — some folks I hadn't seen in a long time. Most of the other attendees were of a "certain" generation of the art world. Wild and crazy once, but hardly now — the men were in suits or jackets at least, most of them with gray hair like me, and some of the older women had oversized glasses that they might have worn glamorously in the 70s.
Then I biked to a dinner that the gallery owner was having for Bob at his Upper East Side aptartment. It's a part of town I don't venture into often, but this would give me a chance to say hi to some old friends and acquaintances outside of the crowded gallery scene.
The house was of course filled with art. There were real Picassos, hanging Calders and a giant Donald Judd on one wall. The windows looked north and south on the FDR drive, so one could see the Queensborough Bridge nearby out one side and from another window the east coast of Manhattan and the in the distance the Williamsburg Bridge downtown. Wow.
Meryl Streep said hello(!) Saying "we used to be neighbors" which is true, as we both lived on the same block of 12th Street a year or so ago. We'd never met. I asked if she'd ever seen the web posting that compared and contrasted her townhouse with ours when they were both up for sale last year — "Real Estate Celebrity Smackdown" I think it was called. Using images and descriptions posted by the various real estate agents they compared the exteriors, some of the rooms and the appraised value of the two houses. It was snide and pretty hilarious.
Sat with Sidney B Felsen, of Gemini editions in L.A., who does a lot of stuff with Bob. Jim Rosenquist and he are big jazz fans and when Jim was in New York he would hang at the jazz clubs. He began to tell stories of encounters he had. He met Thelonius Monk, who, when approached repeated over and over “Nitsky Noo, Nitsky Noo”, which according to Jim was the name of the child of a 50s comic strip character. Once Jim, a huge Monk fan, traveled all day with some friends to catch a concert that Monk was participating in. Monk came out, played exactly one note, and departed.
Jim was at a bar where jazzers hung out and in walked Miles Davis and in his raspy voice said "What mutherfucker is going to buy me a drink?" Jim took him up on the offer.
A lady with big glasses is taken by the statement Bob wrote for his catalogue. She's going to read it aloud. Bob's sort of embarrassed and sort of proud.
Then the woman reappears and announces that Sigourney Weaver will be doing the reading instead. I didn't even know she was in the room. She borrows the giant glasses and begins — people poke their heads in from the other room full of chairs and tables. It's a charming inspiring paragraph, and she doesn't over dramatize it, as it's naturally funny.
Joannie, Sidney's wife and partner, spots Marc Jacobs and says to Sidney "Get to work!" as she pulls him out of his chair to make an introduction. Sidney isn't a pushy person, but he introduces himself and tells Jacobs about Gemini and Jacobs says he's opening his first L.A. store almost across the street from them.
Being a fashion designer he's naturally the most slovenly dressed person in the room, aside from Thomas Krens, the Guggenheim Museum director, who may be the most powerful person in the room, in some ways. Maybe it's a sign of status NOT to feel the need to dress up, in fact, maybe more status is implied if one intentionally dresses down. Jacobs is wearing baggy clothes and white running shoes and Krens entered wearing a nylon running outfit — though I'm sure neither of them were running recently. I'm in dress shoes, collared shirt and a pin striped jacket, dressed up for me, though I rode over here on a bike. (I find that if I pace myself I don't necessarily get sweaty while pedaling, so the skin-tight bike riding pants some folks wear seem an affectation to me — unless the person is seriously in training.
Talking with Christof De Menil whom I met through Bob Wilson years ago and with Keith Sonnier, the artist. Christof and Keith wonder who painted what appears to be an all blue painting on a wall nearby. The assumption is, of course, that it MUST be some important modern artist, it couldn't possibly be a nobody. I throw out Yves Klein, as it's blue, as does Streep's husband, a sculptor — but that idea is given the thumbs down.
Someone identifies it as an Ad Reinhart — an appropriately influential name in the modernist cannon — and points out that it's actually stripes of two different blues, so close in color and hue that the difference is almost imperceptible.
I look closer. I love this effect. I stare at it and it plays tricks with the eyes. Kind of like some of Bob Irwin's work... and that of his acolyte Jim Turrell. I stare and the dividing regions appear and vanish or become indistinct — it's a surprisingly retinal work for an artist who became known for intellectual games.
Bob and Darryl have temporarily relocated from Captiva Island, where his home and studio was, to Fort Meyers, FLA, the larger town on the mainland. Captiva was hit pretty hard during the recent hurricane bouts. Many of Bob's buildings were heavily damaged and the trees were uprooted and the place is a mess. Miraculously, no artwork was damaged, but the fish house, a little wooden structure on the end of short pier — where I once wrote some of the songs for my CD Uh-Oh while visiting there in the early 90s — was pretty much destroyed.
Dick Tracy’s associates: Enemies: 3-D Magee (used killer ants), 88 Keys, Angletop, B-B Eyes, Big Boy Caprice (Tracy's arch enemy, and leader of the Apparatus gang), Big Frost (killer of Brilliant), Black Pearl, The Blank (face destroyed by gunshot), Blowtop, Bony, Breathless Mahoney, Broadway Bates, The Brow (Nazi spy), Chameleon (disguise expert), The Claw, Coffyhead, Cueball, Cutie Diamond, Deafy Sweetfellow, Doc Hump, Faceless Redrum, Flattop Jones (professional assassin with mis-shapen skull), Flattop Jr., Gargles, Gruesome, Haf-and-Haf, Headache, Heels Beals, Honeymoon, Itchy Oliver, Johnny Scorn, Larceny Lu, Lips Manlis, Littleface Finney, Matty Square, Maxine Viller, Measles, Miss Egghead, Mrs. Pruneface, Mrs. Volts, Mr. Bribery, Mr. Crime, The Mole, Mousey, Mumbles, Olga, Peanutbutter, Pear-shape, Perfume, Pruneface (Nazi spy), Puckerpuss, Putty Puss (able to change his features), Rughead, Scorpio, Shakey, Shoulders, Sphinx, Splitface, Splitscreen, Spud Spaldoni, Squareface, Tiger Lilly, El Tigress, Tonsils, Torcher, Yogee Yamma
Known Relatives: Tess Trueheart (wife), Bonny Braids (daughter), Junior Tracy (adopted son), Moon Maid (daughter-in-law, wife of Junior, extra-terrestrial, deceased)
Here is a comic book cover from 1955!:
Marina's mom, who is Japanese-American, has a Japanese face but doesn't speak Japanese. She was born in the USA, but people who meet her expect her to know about Japan (which she does a bit) and to be fluent. I sensed in talking to her that she almost feels she should learn Japanese, as a way of knowing herself better. Then she'll be a little bit more what people expect her to be. Maybe she'll also be more herself, maybe a self that never existed before, that lay buried. Maybe our identities don't always match our faces, and we either put up with the mis-match or try and be somewhat accommodating. Identity is what we make it, we as individuals and as people. It's malleable, invented, true but not true.
Until fairly recently, the Finns spoke Swedish (except for the peasant class) as Sweden dominated not just Finland, but a lot of the region. But in 1828 Elias, a country doctor and folklorist, began collecting tales from the peasant class — they had a meter but no rhyme. He strung a bunch of them together — wrote some connecting bits himself — and it was received as the national epic saga, The Kalevala. This helped give the Finns an identity, it helped unite them as a people, and as they were feeling a bit nationalistic anyway, the moment was right and it eventually led to their independence. Finnish began to be taught in schools and songs and symphonies were written that were, or had claims to be, uniquely Finnish. Maybe some of the adoption of Finnish was a way of distancing themselves from the Lapps as well. National identity implies superiority to someone. And to think that a big part of this particular identity was partly made up, invented, by one man!
Language divides and unites. Not just nations, but classes within those nations. The upper and aristocratic classes hold and guard their use of language as being official, correct and proper. In the past royalty often spoke a completely different language than the peasants, a way of making the separation obvious and evident. Russian and many others spoke French. Lingua Franca. Controlling language is a way of maintaining status.
The newly wealthy, the nouveau riche, uncertain as to their status and standing, tend to be more demanding in their adherence to the rules or language. They want to be sure, in language and in appearance, that the lower orders can see and know that they who have arrived are no longer a part of the messy crowd.
The language and accents of U.S. TV announcers tells a story. In the past the accents were of the American Brahmin castes — the sound of the upper class voice said, "here you find quality and reliability. You can trust this man."
More recently, according to a book "Do You Speak American?", the Midwestern twang had replaced the upper class honk as the voice of U.S. TV. The perceived neutrality of the Midwestern accent which dominates now was, they claim, a reaction to the incoming waves of Jewish and Catholic immigrants — and stemmed from a need to assert a primacy, a dominance and superiority over those uncouth foreign masses.
Could this get out of hand? Could a nation adopt a wholly fictional identity? Lots of people would love to live in Middle Earth. Histories get rewritten all the time. School kids in Texas are shocked to learn that the brave defenders of the Alamo were actually land-grabbers, stealing land from Mexico. And who knows if the stories that we call history could get rewritten once again, and again. Could the next story be less self-serving but more fantastic than the first one?
Here is a picture of a Hasidic reggae artist named Matisyahu. If he wasn't real I'd think it was a Saturday Night Live skit. But he's real.
According to a New Yorker piece on Election Polls, the decisive factor in the election was NOT the moral values issue but the terrorism issue. Or at least that's what it's called. Enough people believe that "the country is safer now than before 9/11 and that only Bush can protect us from terrorists" to tip the scales. Never mind that this opinion is based on ignorance and misinformation — conflating Iraq and Saddam with 9/11, for example — but some pollsters claim this is what enough people feel to tip the scales.
The moral values issue, touted in the media as the deciding factor, is thought by many to be a red herring — a conclusion based on the semantics and structure or on the polls themselves. Although some claim, and I would tend to agree, that "moral values" are code words for being against gay marriage and abortion and not for moral values like equality, peace and social justice, those who claim to be for moral values would not have stood quite so tall if their poll choice was based more clearly on the gay marriage and abortion issues.
A book review of An Empire Of Wealth in the Times points out some interconnected areas that surprised me.
The McCormick eliminated the need for large number of farm laborers, who could then be funneled into the labor needs of rising post Civil War industry. In a sense the reaper made industrialization possible.
"The rise of the automobile created a crisis for American farmers who in 1900 had devoted a third of their land to growing oats and hay for horses. By 1929 the horses were almost all gone, and the land set aside for fodder now produced food crops" — which we would initially think would be a boon to the farmers — higher overall yields! But the increased production drove down prices — the cost of some kinds of success — and drove down prices, devastating the farmers.
The Guardian seems to be giving prime coverage to the continued bombs and devastation being wreaked by the insurgents in Iraq. In the NY Times it’s a second tier story. (Today Dec. 6 they made the front page, a series of attacks rolled up into one article.) The two recent Baghdad explosions killed many and injured scores (80 over the weekend.) Maybe the U.S. media wants us to think the U.S. Falluja campaign was a success and that the insurgency is "quiet"?
Lockheed is the nation's largest military contractor.
Lockheed writes more code than Microsoft.
Their CEO says they stand "at the intersection of policy and technology."
To others that means you can't tell where the government ends and Lockheed starts. One watchdog says about government checks and balances on big contractors "The fox isn't guarding the henhouse, he lives there."
If WalMart were a nation it would be ranked 19th biggest economically. It is the biggest company in the United States.
Did a performance for a DIA benefit last night. I was asked to do so nicely by Bob Hurwitz, head of Nonesuch. I know what these black tie arts events can be like so I declined doing a musical performance — I'd feel demeaned as they slouched back, sipping the last of their wines, picking at their deserts and secretly chatting or networking with their tablemates. So I offered that I do a short version of my PowerPoint talk. They only wanted about 20 minutes of entertainment, which was perfect, the first 20 minutes of the talk was the funny part that is essentially a jokey history and description of the software. I was really nervous. I sat with Hurwitz a bit before I went on, I was dressed in a black suit and tie so as to both blend in with the art collectors, museum directors and corporate CEOs and to play the part of the "expert" during my talk. I was also worried because a man on my right, an author, had never heard of PowerPoint. Maybe the CEOs had underlings to do their PowerPoint and the artists in the room would never have had any contact with it, as I didn't until a few years ago. It went over really well. Got so many laughs sometimes I had to stop. Lauren Hutton, the former(?) model, heckled from a table near the front. I mostly ignored her — maybe she was drunk, or maybe excited about the subject. I mentioned that I wasn't going to subject the art curators to slides of my own work, though I slipped one or two in there. Mostly the images were of PowerPoint stuff I'd downloaded from the web — lots of nutty uses and abuses of PowerPoint. I wrapped up with the PowerPoint piece Mike Fincke the astronaut sent me from the International Space Station — PowerPoint sent from outer space seemed a nice closing — it's universal, see? Earlier, listening to some of the Bush Of Ghosts outtakes — I think there might be some cool stuff there worth including on the re-release, we'll see if Eno agrees. An Italian town has cops in a Lamborghini (top speed 190 MPH!). Here are the cops. An attractive woman (Laura Ciano) and what appears to be her clownish batman — Vincenzo Bizzarro (real name!)
Sounds like a TV pilot to me. I can imagine some macho Italian driver running red lights, speeding along, then suddenly pulled over by Vincenzo as Laura leans over and asks to see his ID.
Birdies, bunnies and black people. Those are the 3 subjects of cute watercolors in a gallery in the historical district. This district seems to be about half shopping and half residential. Half of the historical district has become a sort of colonial-themed mall — with the occasional church or Confederate museum interspersed between the Gap, Banana Republic, Calvin Klein, shoe stores, candle shops and colonial-style furnishing shops. The other half of the center is mostly well-kept, beautiful mansions, and may be entirely inhabited by the gentry and by interior decorators.
After a walk around, Tracy, Mauro and I have oysters, crab cake, shrimp and alligator sausage at a bar in town. It's delicious, though the oysters seem like they're on steroids compared to most I've seen.  I suggest to Tracy that the town has 2 opposite and complementary sides — the frilly feminine side of gift shops, colonial furnishings and chintz, and the macho side represented by The Citadel, a private military college which is also more or less right in the center of town, though tucked off to one side. Even in the romanticized past the Southern ladies in long dresses were protected by an impressive array of canons and fortified seawalls.
Tracy points out that there is a third side — the ever-present but sometimes out of sight Black population, who, in this town, appear to be relegated to the service industries. There is almost no integration or mixing whatsoever, although there are a few Black tourists here by the waterside, taking in the sights.
The Civil War started here. It seems it hasn't ended yet. There is a Daughters of the Confederacy neoclassic edifice, a Confederacy museum and numerous buildings housing fraternal and Masonic organizations.
I am reminded of the theory that the war was not really about slavery. That was an excuse, a high moral justification by the North for subjugating the Southern agricultural lands. The North, so this theory goes, controlled the manufacturing and much of the shipping and finances, so the South felt under the thumb of the Yankee businessmen, manipulated and squeezed. No wonder they wanted to secede, if that was indeed the case. The anti-slavery crusade was real and just alright, but it may have been used like the words "democracy" and "freedom" are used today to justify an essentially economic war.
During the last week, the missing 320 tons of high explosives that have been missing in Iraq (this was known by the U.S. government for over 6 months) has become a political football. It is the largest missing arms cache in world history. Today the Pentagon has produced a spokesperson and a soldier who claims he blew up some explosives — but, when questioned whether or not it was these missing explosives, no one could say. So basically they are muddying the water, confusing the issue, and hoping for misinterpretation, as election day is only a few days away.
The issue is whether the explosives were still in the bunkers when the U.S. troops arrived, as it seems they were. In that case, they fall under U.S. responsibility, which makes the management look pretty incompetent.
This show was sold out weeks ago. It's in a nice theater right in town. When we enter the stage, the audience rises and I am shocked, pleasantly, to see how young the crowd is — it seems to be mostly college age kids. In the course of the tour, these kids usually make up some percentage of the crowd, maybe 1/3 or 1/2, but here they're the majority.
As the set proceeds, they're up and dancing and the whole front row seems to be young women. From the looks of it they're either on dates or here to party — the crowd at times appears like a giant sorority mixer gone wild. Not that I've ever been to one of those, but I'm imagining what they must be like — a lot of screaming blondes and arm waving. They’re the loudest crowd we've ever encountered — they seem to revel in the incredible volume they can achieve. Terry, mixing from the middle of the floor, is doing his best to get the band heard above the din — he's got the PA cranked. My between-song patter is useless, it's met with a rising wave of indistinct yelling and conversations with friends who must be across the room. Afterwards, Terry tells me he ended up putting in earplugs in between songs, the applause and yelling was deafening him.
Crowds need to express their crowdness, their existence. Sometimes we're just a justification for them to come into being, and a good show is one in which they can vent their joy and pleasure at the communal experience. The music is important, but secondary. (I hope not really, but there's an element of truth there.)
This will be the last show for a while... until a short Australia/New Zealand leg in February. After the show, the band and crew convene at the restaurant next door, a French place with good wines and a raw bar. I sort of say thank you and goodbye to some of our folks, then George, Paul, Mauro and I board the bus at 1:30 AM for a 10+ hour drive to New York. [It turns out to be more like 14 hours, though, to be fair, I suggested the driver rest during the night if he felt like it.] The rest are all dispersing to Austin, Milwaukee, Houston, Atlanta, Oxford Miss, Oakland and Minneapolis, where Terry is mixing an Alanis Morrisette acoustic show.
It's 10AM as I write this and we've just passed Spotsylvania, so we've got a few more hours to go. The trees have turned — the reds, yellows and oranges of fall have reached this far south. We've been in summer/spring weather for the last month, so it's odd to be returning to the chilly climate where some of us live.
Over the next few days some of the gear will be returned to its owners and some of it will be checked, repaired and eventually put in storage until we go out again. Halloween and Election day are right around the corner. NY will be jumping. Daylight savings time is over at midnight tonight. I will have to adjust to sedentary life, which isn't always easy. I tend to feel restless without the focus of the shows at the end of each day. I'll have quite a few boxes of stuff to sort through — stuff I've collected and stuff that was given to me on the road.
Why do these exhausting tours?
Well, looking at it pragmatically; in North America I made money. In Europe, South America and Australia/NZ I will probably end up losing a little, but North America will cover it. Then why do the areas that don't make money?
In the past, the rationale was that touring generated record sales. Well, this might be true for some. For new acts it generates a certain increased awareness and some press activity, but for me the connection is pretty indirect. I may have played to more people than have purchased my new CD this year. Granted, the record company would be pretty disappointed if I didn't perform, so maybe there's an unspoken agreement going on there.
My business managers say that getting out there activates the catalogue (I own part of much of my publishing and writers share income with record companies when stuff is used in movies, etc.). This happens, they say, by reminding people of my existence, and possible relevance, especially the people who license music who might think of my name more than they would if I had stayed at home. So eventually more income is generated than just from the concerts. Or so the theory goes.
But there are other reasons to leave home for so long and return so exhausted. In the past I had to get on stage simply in order to communicate, to express a part of myself, as I was pretty shy socially. It was out of desperation. It was almost a matter of psychological survival.
I'm not as shy now, so that desperate need isn't there as much — but what has happened is that the performing now has become a pleasure. It has become, on many nights, a real joy to hear the music, to sing, to dance and try things out and see if they work (they don't always). I think the band and crew partake in this pleasure as well — I hope so, because there is not a lot of glory in it.
Performing is also a way of letting the material evolve, breathe, coalesce into slightly new forms — some of which often hint at a place to explore next, a new musical direction with seeds in something that was tried on the road.
And, I love to travel, to see new places, to visit old acquaintances and to meet new people. I think of my peers as being scattered all over the place, a network that exists but isn't always humming, and traveling helps re-cement some of those bonds.
Thursday's paper says that a new species of human has been discovered. Miniature people — 3 1/2 feet (about a meter) high — once inhabited the island of Flores, an island east of Indonesia. Neither dwarves nor midgets, these beings were true miniatures who hunted 10-foot (3 meter) dragons (whose ancestors now inhabit nearby Komodo) and elephants that had evolved down to the size of a cow. There were giant rats on the island too, which were also hunted by the Floresians.
It was a lost world where size and scale realigned themselves. As one creature shrank another became giant. I imagine there are other lost worlds too. We tend to think of these islands as figments of the imagination, quaint relics of novelists of the 19th and early 20th centuries. But if one such place really exists, until fairly recently, why not others? Granted, this species is extinct, but not that long ago, they filled this island. There were reports of them still inhabiting caves when Dutch settlers and explorers arrived in the 16th century. No wonder novelists' imaginations ran wild. Other outposts in other parts of world might have, or may still, shelter even smaller people — intelligent, industrious, inhabiting elaborate miniature cites, with tiny temples, tiny factories using tiny books to detail a science of time that posits a completely different and, to us, unimaginable universe.
I read that MTV has a new show premiering that they claim is ad-free — except for the unacknowledged insertion of a segment created by an ad agency and staring a jeans icon. Oh. It's an example of imbedded advertising, a future trend in which the product is part of the program and therefore the ad and the programming are inseparable. There are no commercials to skip or ignore, which pleases the client, so the producers and the ad agency work hand in hand to integrate the story, the scene and the characters.
It was often said that commercial television programs were merely a means of delivering viewers to the commercials that ran every 10 mins (or less) but now it will be like much of the rest of the country's visual landscape — the advertising and the editorial content will be hard to tell apart.
It is a nice taste of reality to see characters using real products and eating in real restaurants — we know more about the character by the stuff they wear, use and eat. But, sadly, much of this is paid for rather than being part of the writers' character development or depth. It actually makes the program more shallow, more fake, not more realistic.
In the future, this might reach a point where there are no producers, no studios and no TV networks anymore. The advertising agencies will make the shows, in their own studios. There will therefore be a nice savings to them of the cost of ads, money which could then be plowed into the "content," upping the budget of the "program." All of this is in turn paid for by the large corporations that sell diapers, drugs, beers, jeans and cars. Granted, these are the folks who pay for most shows already, but by eliminating obvious ads they can meld with the medium completely and seamlessly. (Wasn't this the way TV began? Didn't even the newscasters on old 50s programs shill for products without cutting to a commercial?)
Entertainment values will be high in the future — as one has to keep the viewers attention. So we don't expect anything too difficult, or anything that takes a while to get into. Expect a lot of winks and irony, cleverness, smirking and smartass behavior (a kind of inoculation of the empathetic heart)... and a big helping of sentimentality.
I also read that when Adam Smith proposed the laws of laissez-faire capitalism, there were few if any huge factories of millions of workers packed into grimy cities. His model was based on a scenario that soon ceased to exist.
I am here for an exhibition and talk at Eastman House, the former home of George Eastman, founder of Kodak; the House is now a film archive and museum. I am mainly showing my PowerPoint pieces, which is slightly odd, as they don't really feature photography, but, to its credit, the museum wants to update its exhibition policy and become more current. In the past, it pretty much just showed photography, unsurprisingly. I'm also giving a talk on PowerPoint later in the afternoon.
 Mr. Eastman, as they refer to him here, never married; he lived with his mother and killed himself with a gun. He left a one-line suicide note (on display, "To my friends: My work is done. Why wait?") and did the deed almost immediately after signing an updated will. Ever considerate, efficient, and maybe just a little obsessively neat, he placed a damp cloth across his chest to minimize any splatter, and then pulled the trigger. George was ill and wanted to avoid further suffering.
There are clocks placed inconspicuously all over the residence, most of them hidden in corners and alongside paintings so he could keep his servants punctual. Every object and piece of furniture he owned had an engraved tag: Prop of G Eastman.
His mother's bedroom, across from his, has two small beds side-by-side. George's bedroom is empty; only the fireplace remains. It was the scene of the suicide. I suspect that George and his mom slept side-by-side, but maybe I'm being cynical.
 In the center of Rochester is a wonderful waterfall, a smaller but still spectacular Niagara where the Genesee river plummets into a large gorge. I biked by it last time I performed here, sort of stumbling upon it by accident. The falls are pretty spectacular. Why the city hasn't made them more of a focus is at first a puzzle.
I look around the gorge. An almost-abandoned Kodak plant dominates one side. No doubt it once used the river for power and as a dumping place for photo chemicals. On the other side are more factories and remnants of a hydroelectric plant. It seems that this boom town happily prioritized industry, which soon dominated the waterfront on all sides. The river was practically hidden from public view throughout most of the town. The wealthy lived well outside this former industrial zone. George even had his own cows on his premises; he liked fresh milk, we are told.
When those businesses slumped, the former industrial sites were abandoned and the riverfront became a not a very desirable place — a derelict wasteland, as in many former industrial cities. A man driving Danielle and I to Eastman House says that the projects dominated part of the riverfront, as it was not prime real estate when they were built. They would soon become run down and then they'd tear them down and then those would become run down, in turn. Now developers are hoping to oust those folks altogether, as the riverfront is becoming cool and desirable.
This area is home not only to Kodak, but to Xerox, Bausch and Lomb and, in a nearby small town, Jell-O.
March 17, 1993, technicians at St. Jerome hospital in Batavia test a bowl of lime Jell-O with an EEG machine and confirm earlier testing by Dr. Adrian Upton that showed that a bowl of Jell-O has brain waves identical to those of adult men and women.
All of these industries seem to me to be evocative of the last century. Kodak made some serious layoffs lately, and the company seems optimistic, but who really believes that film will remain a large industry for long? I can see it remaining as an artisanal and sometimes technical material for quite a while, but beyond that? The huge demand for film, developing and photo paper will disappear within a decade. That seems inevitable.
Kodak, as compensation, has made inroads into digital imaging, but no one thinks of Kodak when one thinks of digital cameras or technology. Not to say they couldn't change all that, but having a virtual monopoly for so many decades must have encouraged entrenched ways of thinking, so revamping the company must be quite a task.
Likewise, what's up with Xerox? How much longer will people want finicky copiers when they can make copies from computer printers that cost under $100?
Wonder what will happen to this town then?
My talk goes well. Lots of laughs in the first part, as I detail the development and attributes of PowerPoint. Then it gets more serious and sometimes maybe a little obscure — fewer laughs — but maybe that's good. I end by showing the PowerPoint piece I was sent by Mike Fincke from the space station. I guess partly I include it to show off and show how ubiquitous this program truly is. It makes a pretty nice wrap-up.
Our show is at the Carolina Theater, a nice theater on the Duke campus that's quite a bit larger than the previous clubs I've played here. The Fort Worth venue was also quite a bit nicer. I've stepped up, but why?
James B. Duke gave this university its name. It was originally called Trinity College, but, with what must have been a sizable endowment, he "offered" his name as part of the deal.
From a website:
I might be over-simplifying matters, but James B. Duke was the sort of man only the U.S. can produce. He started with nothing and clawed his way to the top, becoming the most ruthless of tycoons. His forte was the 1880s tobacco industry. In 1890, he created the American Tobacco Company by merging the five largest tobacco companies in America at that time.
The years 1900-1902 are now known as the "Tobacco Wars." But, in fact, the battle was between James B. Duke and the rest of the world. The end of 1901 saw the birth of the Imperial Tobacco Company (ITC), formed by Wills and twelve other companies. During this period, many smaller tobacco companies were carried from the field because big companies were selling cigarettes below cost.
In 1911, the U.S. Supreme Court ordered the dissolution of the tobacco trust as a combination in restraint of trade.
Duke's older brother, Benjamin Newton, had launched the family into the textile business as early as 1892. As their textile interests developed, the need for economical water power led the Dukes into the hydroelectric-generating business. In 1905, they founded the Southern Power Company, now known as Duke Power, one of the companies making up Duke Energy, Inc. Within two decades, this company was supplying electricity to more than 300 cotton mills and other factories, electric lines, and towns primarily in the Piedmont region of North and South Carolina.
I try to get Ames and Mauro to join in a bike ride with my friend Sam Dryden, but there are some late risers. So just Tracy and I follow Sam up the canyon created by Boulder Creek (I guess), then head up Poorman. We climb a steep, unpaved road that allows us a view of snowcapped peaks by the continental divide and, below, the plains of Boulder. Tracy and I end up walking our bikes up the last stretch — we do have a show later.
The show is at a Chautauqua, a great, big, barn-like structure that is a remnant of a movement that peaked in the early 20th century. Apparently, the movement — once a circuit of 12,000(!) mostly rural venues — was a way for far-flung settlements across the country to catch up on "culture." Speakers, dance companies, musical groups, lecturers, and vaguely edifying entertainments made the rounds; it was hugely successful. The public thirst for "culture" translated as a means to better oneself — an expression of Protestant and Victorian values that still inform the world of the arts. (It's pretty common to think that that arts and culture — high culture, not skateboarding — are good for you, edifying, enriching.)
I personally don't subscribe to this idea. I don't think the arts makes one a better person at all — maybe a better bullshitter. Everyone knows that a Harvard grad can be just as crooked as a toothless lout in a West Virginia holler. All that education doesn't make one a better person.
But I digress. Most of the circuit consisted of tents — one for the main hall, and smaller ones for dining and lodging. In a way these were like month-long rock festivals. In this Boulder edition, there were permanent structures, a beautiful community hall, dining hall, and a whole community of cabins for the temporary residents to says in.
Todd usually goes over security issues with the local staff before shows. This often includes negotiating how much dancing in the aisles will be allowed, when, and at what point in the set. It works amazingly well, most nights, as it tends to short-circuit the natural tendency of security, the promoters, and theater owners to exert too much control. We let them know we are concerned with safety and fire codes, but want to find a way for the audience members to express themselves.
Tonight, Todd calmly says that by the 6th song or so, they should expect the audience to be getting up and dancing. The promoter is shocked, and counters that people in this venue really don't dance. It's not prohibited, it's just not what happens here. He seems absolutely certain that the audience will remain seated.
Todd bets him $200 that the entire audience will be up by song 7 (I think — I might have the number wrong). The promoter immediately and confidently accepts.
The show begins, and sure enough, by the 7th song Todd walks over to the promoter, who silently hands him the money.
Up at Graham and Aja's for dinner and drinks. L mentions that, in Japan, it is no longer possible to buy used schoolgirl undies from a vending machine. (Perhaps this was an urban myth...) However, she says there are now German men who are in the market for soiled men's underwear. (Another urban myth in the making?) I reply, "Then I'm sitting on a goldmine," which gets a laugh. I wonder for a moment, though, if everyone now thinks I have lots of soiled undies at home, or if the ones I'm wearing are soiled.
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