Sorta Sustainable

Simply said.

Bill Will, Are you listening to me? 

at Nine Gallery. Portland

It has been observed that when an art opening is attended mostly by fine artists, many of the conversations are not so much dialogic as they are recitations of résumés, perhaps more like what others would say of some presbyters networking rather than engaging in fellowship. One might also liken it to maneuvering through a sales meeting in an attempt to get the boss’ ear. Insiders may accept the rules of the game while those unfamiliar with these social settings, rightfully so, would find the practices wholly unsatisfying, and even rude.

This is how I remember artists’ receptions in Chicago some years ago. It was not uncommon for someone to leave a conversation without so much as a parting nod, only to set up camp next to someone of supposed greater social stature (curator, gallerist, critic, collector) and more beneficial to one’s art career. The art world is very competitive, and every little edge is needed to pad the vitae and pay the rent, so between artists, such behavior is soon forgotten, if not forgiven, because it is understood as the way the game is played.

Not a pretty world: social yet not always sociable, which goes a good way to deflate the myth or notion that art-types are a more sensitive and astute lot. The offenders may seem self-involved and arrogant when in actuality they are merely behaving in a manner perceived as needed to succeed in a food chain, therefore moving them closer to our furrier cousins. When people have only their individual agendas, nothing else matters, and the conversations ultimately are no more than empty chatter.

Judging from Bill Will’s installation, “Are you listening to me?” at Nine Gallery in Portland, he has noticed the same tendency.

Upon entering the gallery space, one sees groupings of various coffee makers affixed to iron rods that are in turn welded to platforms in grouping of 2 or more. The pots are all upside down with their lids hinged to the bodies. A string runs from each pot up to and across the ceiling, then down a wall to a mechanized contraption, which is in turn hard-wired to a box that instructs the viewer to “Press and Hold” a mounted button switch. When one follows the instruction, the mechanism causes this:

Most unsettling. So much so that one dares not hold the button down for long for fear of disturbing the sanctum that is the adjoining and larger gallery space on this quiet Saturday afternoon. Still, I was amused. Mr. Will makes his point quickly and clearly, thereby answering the installation’s title question: Just like so many openings with people chatting away at once, no, no one is listening.

I suppose I could stop with an analysis of the meaning behind Bill Will’s installation with the above remarks: The artist asks a rhetorical question, and the mechanized sculptures are emphatic in their response; end of story.  Yet, I remain troubled by the title of the piece, which in turn leads to a series of other questions, the most important one being: Is listening to me the same as understanding what I mean? Asking such a question opens the piece to further inquiry.

I don’t understand why the coffee pots were used. Is it because people in Portland are big coffee drinkers and may get so hyped on coffee that they are incapable of shutting up long enough to listen? Or were the pots used because their shape suggested heads and the lids hinged jaws? I’m guessing the latter.

And what does it mean that the viewer of the art has to choose to engage the mechanism to make it produce the noise? If the viewer does not see the button or choose to push it, does the installation have the same potential for meaning as when the piece is made to function?  How does this interaction or lack thereof relate to the social? Do we enter social situations voluntarily and are likewise free to engage or remain apart? And in that the noise persists only as long as we hold down the button, in essence controlling the clamor of the crowd, is he asking to be listened to during situations of his own making in which he cannot be heard without yelling? And finally, what does it mean to create a contraption that disturbs the otherwise relative quiet of the adjacent gallery space?

Trying to determine meaning from what is presented is not as straightforward as it as first seemed. I thought about emailing Mr. Will to ask him what he had in mind with this installation and its title, but thought again and decided against it. I would have listened to what he had to say; yet, I did not want the possibility of the multiplicity of meanings — no matter how troubling or buried in subtext — to be quieted.

Formal Considerations

Back to it (again)

The sun shining and dew drying, today was a day for getting things done, although I took my time getting to it.

DW has been running errands for the most part this week, while I’ve laid back. (I’m happy to say that at the time of this writing, I am nearly recovered from the cold. Thanks to those well-wishers.) Granted, I got out a bit yesterday, and that bug took hold today. Let’s call it spring fever — although it is a bit tardy — and a good cure for the cabin variety of late. So, today I made the trip to the Post Office and such.

One of my errands included a stop next door to the music shop from which our local AM radio station is transmitted, and thought to drop in on the station owner, Ken Cartwright. I wrote about this station back in January. Mr. Cartwright is an industrious and civic minded gentleman. He not only maintains a commercial business in our sleepy little downtown area and has his radio station, he also videotapes bluegrass concerts (that he sponsors and worth a watch) and our city council meetings. The videos are not only on his server, but transmitted via the local cable access.

As I left the business adjacent to his, luck had it that Ken was about to sit on the bench in front of his store and have a few puffs on a cigar. Greetings exchanged, he invited me to join him, which, having an inch and a half left on a Macanudo, I did. After health inquiries and updates were exchanged, Ken told me that he has been videotaping the dismantling of a water tower in the town north of us, a tower that had a bit of fame a few years back when that town tried to Ebay the thing away, to no avail. He was rendering the video as we sat. He told me soon this footage would also be available on his site.

Much else was going on for Mr. Cartwright, some which may best be kept mum until it comes to fruition; but when it does, I will let you know dear readers, for it may be a first in our nation.

I noticed that Ken’s cigar had been allowed to extinguish, which was cue enough for me to move on. Besides, I had another errand to run and a couple acres to mow.

Second errand accomplished, I caught the eye of our insurance agent in the parking lot as I was pulling away. In that he walked toward my moving vehicle, I figured I should stop and opted to park again. We assumed the position on the bed of my rig, exchanged  pleasantries, an inquiry was made as to my stamina these days and then question pointed toward our policy (that was the purpose of the former question), and (to further camouflage the intent) went on to talk of the upcoming fish runs and the rivers to chase them on this year. As one might expect, the conversation did not last long.

Errands completed, I headed home. Not only did I have the grass up front; DW also requested the path around the Back Ten be shorn double-wide, which meant the Kubota be brought out as well. I looked forward to a good five hours of chewin’ on a dead stogie.

Except my neighbor friend was on his Kubota near our fence. He retires for good (down to part time now) in a week, and we had not seen the other for a month, and did have much to share and strategize. It took a while, but we now have pasture maintenance settled for the summer.

I mowed until close to sundown. I thought about turning on the headlights, but the weather guy says we have at least four more days just like this one. I have time.

Mend

I left my camera out in the truck. I won’t worry about it, odds being such out here nobody’s coming through tonight with an urge to pillage an old rig with a big blue blinking LED on the dash. But I kinda remember a photo I thought I might share. I remember the thought, not the photo, so on second thought, maybe it’s not such a hot shot after all.

I have this strange feeling that I have left a handful of sentence frags lying about these tubes the last couple days. Blame it on the perpetual Nyte heralded to quell the phlegm. The battle is in its final throes, the last of the mean greenies spirited away in gossimer-like paper. I’ll double-back on my tracks in the next couple days and see how bad it got, and hope that meaning stayed intact. You know what I mean?

Like this ditty: Charles Barkley chimes in on the immigration thing, likening Hispanics to “the fabric of the cloth.” You know what he means, or at least recognize the spirit of the sentiment, although it lends little to the discourse. I’m down with that.

Lots of other stuff too, but for now I have to conserve my energy, narrow my focus. And go get my camera.

What'll it be?

Wherewithal

I have no excuse, I suppose, if I was set on posting daily, plopping any old photo or wisecrack as it must often seem; it would just take a few minutes.  Yet, a head cold will make any effort to think beyond immediate needs such as pills, juice and bed difficult. So unmotivated, it is best to log wakeful hours, all eight of them in the last forty-eight, in front of television.  And now, if you’ll pardon me, I think I’ll go lay down.

May Day in Portland