A quArterly mAgAzine of Art And culture issue 7 ... - Visual Studies
A quArterly mAgAzine of Art And culture issue 7 ... - Visual Studies
A quArterly mAgAzine of Art And culture issue 7 ... - Visual Studies
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CABINET<br />
A <strong>qu<strong>Art</strong>erly</strong> <strong>mAgAzine</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong><br />
<strong>And</strong> <strong>culture</strong><br />
<strong>issue</strong> 7 summer 2002<br />
us $8 cAnAdA $13 uK £6
cabinet<br />
Immaterial Incorporated<br />
181 Wyck<strong>of</strong>f Street Brooklyn NY 11217 USA<br />
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Editor-in-chief Sina Najafi<br />
Senior editor Brian Conley<br />
Editors Jeffrey Kastner, Frances Richard, David Serlin, Gregory Williams<br />
<strong>Art</strong> directors (Cabinet Magazine) Ariel Apte and Sarah Gephart <strong>of</strong> mgmt.<br />
<strong>Art</strong> director (Immaterial Incorporated) Richard Massey/OIG<br />
Editors-at-large Saul Anton, Mats Bigert, Jesse Lerner, Allen S. Weiss,<br />
Jay Worthington<br />
Website Krist<strong>of</strong>er Widholm and Luke Murphy<br />
Image editor Naomi Ben-Shahar<br />
Production manager Sarah Crowner<br />
Development director Alex Villari<br />
Contributing editors Joe Amrhein, Molly Bleiden, Eric Bunge,<br />
<strong>And</strong>rea Codrington, Christoph Cox, Cletus Dalglish-Schommer, Pip Day,<br />
Carl Michael von Hausswolff, Srdjan Jovanovic Weiss, Dejan Krsic,<br />
Tan Lin, Roxana Marcoci, Ricardo de Oliveira, Phillip Scher, Rachel Schreiber,<br />
Lytle Shaw, Debra Singer, Cecilia Sjöholm, Sven-Olov Wallenstein<br />
Editorial assistant James Pollack<br />
Pro<strong>of</strong>readers Joelle Hann & Catherine Lowe<br />
Assistants Amoreen Armetta, Emelie Bornhager, Ernest Loesser,<br />
Normandy Sherwood<br />
Prepress Zvi @ Digital Ink<br />
Founding editors Brian Conley and Sina Najafi<br />
Printed in Belgium by Die Keure<br />
Cabinet (ISSN 1531-1430) is a quarterly magazine published by Immaterial<br />
Incorporated. Periodicals Postage paid at Brooklyn NY.<br />
Postmaster: Send address changes to Cabinet, 181 Wyck<strong>of</strong>f Street, Brooklyn,<br />
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Immaterial Incorporated is a non-pr<strong>of</strong>it 501 (c) (3) art and <strong>culture</strong> organization<br />
incorporated in New York State. Cabinet is in part supported by generous grants<br />
from the Flora Family Foundation, the New York State Council on the <strong>Art</strong>s, the<br />
Frankel Foundation, and by donations from individual patrons <strong>of</strong><br />
the arts. Contributions to Immaterial Incorporated and Cabinet magazine are<br />
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Please send distribution questions to distribution@immaterial.net<br />
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Contents © 2002 Immaterial Incorporated & the authors, artists, translators.<br />
All rights reserved. Unauthorized reproduction <strong>of</strong> any material here is a no-no.<br />
The views published in this magazine are not necessarily those <strong>of</strong> the writers,<br />
let alone the spineless editors <strong>of</strong> Cabinet.<br />
cover: envelope recovered from the crash <strong>of</strong> the Pan American World<br />
Airways plane “Yankee Clipper” in Lisbon on February 22, 1943. Courtesy<br />
Kendall Sanford
Contributors<br />
Magnus Bärtås is an artist and writer based in Stockholm. In 2000, he<br />
published a collection <strong>of</strong> essays Orienterarsjukan och andra berättelser<br />
(together with Fredrik Ekman). His recent exhibitions “Satellites” and “The<br />
Museum <strong>of</strong> Homeless Ideas” were shown at Roger Björkholmen Gallery in<br />
Stockholm and OK Gallery in Rijeka, Croatia (together with Zdenko Buzek).<br />
Mike Ballou is an artist based in Brooklyn, New York.<br />
M. Behrens (born 1970 in Germany) has lived and worked internationally as<br />
an artist and designer in Frankfurt since 1991. Since 1996 he has worked<br />
mainly with sound and video installations.<br />
David Brody is an artist who lives and works near the Kool Man depot in Brooklyn.<br />
Matthew Buckingham is an artist based in New York. He is represented by<br />
Murray Guy Gallery, New York, and Galleri Tommy Lund, Copenhagen.<br />
Brian Burke-Gaffney was born in Canada in 1950 and came to Japan in 1972.<br />
He has been pr<strong>of</strong>essor at the Nagasaki Institute <strong>of</strong> Applied Science since 1996.<br />
Paul Collins edits the Collins Library for McSweeney’s Books, and is the<br />
author <strong>of</strong> Banvard’s Folly (Picador: 2001) and the forthcoming travelogue-memoir<br />
Sixpence House (Bloomsbury USA). He lives in Portland, Oregon.<br />
Nancy Davenport is a New York-based artist represented by Nicole Klagsburn<br />
Gallery. Her work has been exhibited recently at the Rockford Museum in<br />
Illinois and at the 25th São Paulo Biennial.<br />
<strong>And</strong>rew Deutsch is a sound/video artist who lives in Hornell, NY, and teaches<br />
sound art at Alfred University. He is a member <strong>of</strong> the Institute for Electronic <strong>Art</strong><br />
at Alfred University and <strong>of</strong> the Pauline Oliveros Foundation’s board <strong>of</strong> directors.<br />
Jon Dryden is a musician and writer living in Brooklyn, New York.<br />
Elizabeth Esch is completing a dissertation in the Department <strong>of</strong> History at New<br />
York University.<br />
Matt Freedman is an artist and writer living in Brooklyn.<br />
Dr. Merrill Garnett is a cancer researcher and the founder and CEO <strong>of</strong> Garnett<br />
McKeen Laboratory, Inc. Dr. Garnett has had research laboratories at the<br />
Central Islip State Hospital, Waldemar Medical Research Foundation,<br />
Northport Veterans’ Administration Medical Center, and the High Technology<br />
Incubator <strong>of</strong> The State University <strong>of</strong> New York at Stony Brook.<br />
Tim Griffin is a writer, curator, and art editor <strong>of</strong> Time Out New York. His book<br />
<strong>of</strong> essays titled Contamination, a collaborative project with artist Peter Halley,<br />
is forthcoming from Gabrius (Milan) in September. His book <strong>of</strong> poetry, July in<br />
Stereo, is forthcoming from Shark Press (New York).<br />
Daniel Harris is the author <strong>of</strong> A Memoir <strong>of</strong> No One In Particular (Basic Books,<br />
2002). He has also written The Rise and Fall <strong>of</strong> Gay Culture and Cute, Quaint,<br />
Hungry, and Romantic: The Aesthetics <strong>of</strong> Consumerism.<br />
David Hawkes teaches at a university in Pennsylvania. He is the author <strong>of</strong><br />
Ideology (Routledge, 1996) and Idols <strong>of</strong> the Marketplace (Palgrave, 2001), and<br />
his work has recently appeared in The Nation, The Times Literary Supplement<br />
and The Journal <strong>of</strong> the History <strong>of</strong> Ideas.<br />
Sharon Hayes is an artist. She is currently an MFA candidate in the Interdisciplinary<br />
Studio at UCLA’s Department <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong>.<br />
Brooklyn-based soundmaker Douglas Henderson has been working with<br />
electro-acoustic composition, music for dance, and installation pieces for 20<br />
years. He has run the Sound <strong>Art</strong>s program at the Museum School, Boston<br />
and holds a doctorate in composition from Princeton University. He can be<br />
reached through www.heartpunch.com.<br />
Bill Jones is an artist and writer. He is represented by the Sandra Gering Gallery in<br />
NY and is currently the Director <strong>of</strong> Operations <strong>of</strong> Garnett McKeen Laboratory, Inc.<br />
Jeffrey Kastner is a New York-based writer and an editor <strong>of</strong> Cabinet.<br />
Kris Lee and Matt Freedman met at the 1985 NCAA diving championships.<br />
They later discovered that they were distantly related.<br />
Nina Katchadourian is an artist who lives in Brooklyn and teaches at Brown<br />
University. She exhibits with Debs & Co in New York and with Catharine Clark<br />
Gallery in San Francisco.<br />
Emma Kay lives and works in London. She has exhibited widely in Europe and<br />
the US. She recently participated in the 2002 Sydney Biennial and has<br />
forthcoming exhibitions at The Approach, London, the Muscarnok Kunsthalle,<br />
Budapest, and Tate Modern, London. She has published an artist’s book,<br />
Worldview (Bookworks).<br />
Peter Lew is a New York-based artist whose work includes painting, installation<br />
and sound art. He has participated in the radio project WAR!, the sound<br />
show constriction at Pierogi gallery, and his paintings were included in Working<br />
in Brooklyn at the Brooklyn Museum. His work has been exhibited in Austria,<br />
Switzerland, and Japan.<br />
Dirk Libeer remembers Danny from when he was a boy.<br />
Paul Lukas, author <strong>of</strong> Inconspicuous Consumption: An Obsessive Look at the<br />
Stuff We Take for Granted and editor <strong>of</strong> Beer Frame: The Journal <strong>of</strong> Inconspicuous<br />
Consumption, is a Brooklyn-based writer who specializes in minutiae fetishism.<br />
His favorite color is green and his favorite state is Wisconsin.<br />
Christ<strong>of</strong> Migone is a multidisciplinary artist and writer. He lives and works in<br />
Montreal and New York.<br />
Susette Min is currently a Mellon Postdoctoral Fellow at Pomona College.<br />
She is also an indepedent curator and most recently curated Rina Banerjee in<br />
a show entitled “Phantasmal Pharmacopia.” She lives in Los Angeles.<br />
Sina Najafi is editor-in-chief <strong>of</strong> Cabinet magazine.<br />
Pauline Oliveros (born 1932) is a composer living in Kingston, NY, and teaching<br />
at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, Mills College, and Bard College. She is<br />
president <strong>of</strong> Pauline Oliveros Foundation, a creative cultural center in Kingston<br />
(http://www.deeplistening.org/pauline)<br />
Amy Jean Porter is an artist who recently moved to Cambridge, Massachusetts.<br />
Scott A. Sandage is Associate Pr<strong>of</strong>essor in the Department <strong>of</strong> History at Carnegie<br />
Mellon University. His book Forgotten Men: Failure in American<br />
Culture, 1819-1893 is forthcoming from Harvard University Press.<br />
Kendall C. Sanford is retired after working forty years in the airline industry and<br />
lives in Geneva. He has collected airmail historical material and air crash covers<br />
for nearly as long. He is a past president <strong>of</strong> the American Air Mail Society, the<br />
world’s largest aerophilatelic society.<br />
Peter Santino was born in Kansas in 1948.<br />
Paul Schmelzer lives in Minneapolis and writes on art and activism for<br />
publications including Adbusters, The Progressive, and Raw Vision.<br />
Tobias Schmitt. 1975: born in Frankfurt; 1989: first experiments with<br />
electronic music; 1994: started working as sbc; 1996: started doing artworks<br />
as Mischstab; 1999: founded Acrylnimbus.<br />
David Serlin is an editor and columnist for Cabinet. He is the co-editor <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong>ificial<br />
Parts, Practical Lives: Modern Histories <strong>of</strong> Prosthetics (NYU Press, 2002).<br />
Lytle Shaw’s most recent poetry book is The Lobe (Ro<strong>of</strong>, 2002). He co-edits<br />
Shark magazine and curates the Line Reading Series at The Drawing Center.<br />
Michael Smith is an artist based in New York.<br />
Nedko Solakov is a Bulgarian artist living and working in S<strong>of</strong>ia. His work has<br />
been exhibited in many venues, including the 48th and 49th Venice Biennials,<br />
the 3rd and 4th Istanbul Biennials, the 1994 São Paulo Biennial, and Manifesta<br />
1. The series from which his Cabinet contribution is drawn was first presented<br />
at Neuer Berliner Kunstverein, Berlin, in May 2002 and will then travel to the<br />
Ulmer Museum, Ulm, and Reina S<strong>of</strong>ia, Madrid.<br />
Yasunao Tone is a co-founder <strong>of</strong> Group Ongaku and an original member <strong>of</strong><br />
Fluxus. Born in Tokyo in 1935, he has resided in New York since 1972.<br />
He has exhibited in numerous shows, including the 1990 Venice Biennial and<br />
the 2001 Yokohama Triennial.<br />
Tom Vanderbilt lives in Brooklyn and is the author <strong>of</strong> Survival City: Adventures<br />
Among the Ruins <strong>of</strong> Atomic America (Princeton Architectural Press).<br />
Claude Wampler is an artist based in New York City.<br />
Allen S. Weiss has been working hard on ingestion: He recently co-edited<br />
French Food (Routledge), and his Feast and Folly is forthcoming (SUNY).<br />
Gregory Whitehead is the author <strong>of</strong> numerous broadcast essays and earplays,<br />
and is presently at work on a new play, Resurrection Ranch.<br />
Gregory Williams is a critic and art historian living in New York City. He is also an<br />
editor <strong>of</strong> Cabinet.<br />
David Womack was a Darmasiswa scholar in Indonesian literature and Javanese<br />
language at the Universitas Gadjah Mada in Yogyakarta, Java.<br />
He is currently the Director <strong>of</strong> New Media at the American Institute <strong>of</strong><br />
Graphic <strong>Art</strong>s.
Columns<br />
main<br />
failure<br />
and<br />
13<br />
17<br />
17<br />
19<br />
23<br />
30<br />
33<br />
36<br />
40<br />
44<br />
47<br />
51<br />
53<br />
58<br />
62<br />
66<br />
69<br />
70<br />
73<br />
76<br />
81<br />
85<br />
88<br />
90<br />
94<br />
96<br />
98<br />
102<br />
106<br />
108<br />
110<br />
113<br />
118<br />
122<br />
124<br />
126<br />
128<br />
the Clean room DaviD serlin<br />
leftovers Paul lukas<br />
Colors Tim Griffin<br />
ingestion allen s. Weiss<br />
ernst haeCkel and the miCrobial baroque<br />
DaviD BroDy<br />
field traCes Bill Jones<br />
mm, mm, good: marketing and regression in<br />
aesthetiC taste DaviD HaWkes<br />
beautiful indonesia (in miniature) DaviD Womack<br />
Paint and Paint names Daniel Harris<br />
things fall aPart: an interview with<br />
george sCherer Jeffrey kasTner<br />
the six grandfathers, Paha saPa,<br />
in the Year 502,002 C.e. maTTHeW BuckinGHam<br />
interPretations <strong>of</strong> the national Park serviCe<br />
sHaron Hayes<br />
soothe oPerator: muzak and modern sound art<br />
suseTTe min<br />
birds <strong>of</strong> north ameriCa sing hiP-hoP and<br />
sometimes Pause for refleCtion amy Jean PorTer<br />
hungrY for god GreGory WHiTeHeaD<br />
not Your name, mine Paul scHmelzer<br />
the bible from memorY emma kay<br />
blaCk box Tom vanDerBilT<br />
Crash Covers Jeffrey kasTner<br />
“shades <strong>of</strong> tarzan!”: ford on the amazon<br />
elizaBeTH escH<br />
hashima: the ghost island Brian Burke-Gaffney<br />
the floating island Paul collins<br />
old rags, some grand scoTT a. sanDaGe<br />
the war <strong>of</strong> the flea marvin Doyle<br />
the short, sad life <strong>of</strong> dannY the dragon Dirk liBeer<br />
better luCk next time GreGory Williams<br />
the disaPPointed and the <strong>of</strong>fended maGnus BärTås<br />
the invention <strong>of</strong> failure: an interview with<br />
sCott a. sandage sina naJafi & DaviD serlin<br />
travelfest is Closed micHael smiTH & naTHan HeiGes<br />
sYntax error: sPeCial Cd insert<br />
in Case <strong>of</strong> moon disaster William safire<br />
romantiC landsCaPes with missing Parts<br />
neDko solakov<br />
the life <strong>of</strong> ernst moiré lyTle sHaW<br />
ConCert nancy DavenPorT<br />
a/C cHeaTer.com<br />
orPhan nina kaTcHaDourian<br />
unlimited edition kris lee<br />
stoCk in failure institute PeTer sanTino
columns
“The Clean Room,” David Serlin’s column on science and<br />
technology, appears in each <strong>issue</strong> <strong>of</strong> Cabinet / “Leftovers” is<br />
a column in which Cabinet invites a guest to discuss leftovers<br />
or detritus from a cultural perspective / “Colors” is a column<br />
in which a guest writer is asked to respond to a specific color<br />
assigned by the editors <strong>of</strong> Cabinet / “Ingestion” is a column by<br />
Allen S. Weiss on cuisine, aesthetics, and philosophy<br />
the clean room / the new Face<br />
oF terrorism<br />
DaviD Serlin<br />
In the winter <strong>of</strong> 2002, the US Food and Drug Administration<br />
approved the use <strong>of</strong> Clostridium botulinum, a highly toxic<br />
microorganism, for medical use. In large, unsupervised<br />
doses, the bacterium taints organic products like meat,<br />
resulting in <strong>of</strong>ten-fatal cases <strong>of</strong> botulism or food poisoning.<br />
In small, controlled doses, the bacterium produces a<br />
paralyzing effect on nerve endings. Like anti-depressant<br />
medications such as Prozac, C. botulinum blocks the release<br />
<strong>of</strong> neural signals that transmit information to various<br />
parts <strong>of</strong> the body. For some physicians, the federal stamp<br />
<strong>of</strong> approval on Type A C. botulinum – otherwise known as<br />
Botox—means that patients suffering from cerebral palsy,<br />
blepharoplasm (eyelid muscle spasms), and other neuromuscular<br />
disorders will have much easier access to this<br />
medication.<br />
For many more physicians, however, the governmentapproved<br />
mass production and widespread availability <strong>of</strong><br />
Botox means a surplus <strong>of</strong> cold, hard cash. In elite consumer<br />
circles, the tiny bacterium has beckoned hither with one<br />
seductive promise: a single Botox injection paralyzes the<br />
nerve endings in an individual’s forehead muscles for up to<br />
three months. A middle-aged matron seeking to restore the<br />
smooth, wrinkle-free countenance <strong>of</strong> youth can undergo<br />
as many injections as her forehead (and bank account) can<br />
endure. Among the latest cosmetic possibilities for Botox are<br />
direct injections into the armpit to paralyze the sweat glands<br />
and render them moisture-free, a procedure whose effects<br />
can last for as long as half a year. Recent figures reveal that<br />
in 2001, physicians delivered over one million Botox injections,<br />
and the popularity <strong>of</strong> the procedure is expected to<br />
increase tenfold over the next few years. In response to<br />
consumer demand, Allergen, the main bio-medical supplier<br />
<strong>of</strong> Botox, is working with recombinant DNA technology to<br />
produce strains <strong>of</strong> C. botulinum that will double or triple the<br />
bacterium’s potency, thereby increasing its appeal for both<br />
new and longtime users.<br />
Not since the successful Dannon campaigns <strong>of</strong> the 1970s,<br />
featuring hardy Eastern European octogenarians wrapped<br />
in furs and babushkas extolling the virtues <strong>of</strong> eating yogurt<br />
for breakfast, have Americans so enthusiastically embraced<br />
the idea <strong>of</strong> putting active bacterial <strong>culture</strong>s into their bodies.<br />
Historically, individuals exposed to bacterial agents have<br />
been members <strong>of</strong> populations vulnerable to the authority <strong>of</strong><br />
medical science. In the 18th century, British scientist Edward<br />
Jenner infected himself with tiny traces <strong>of</strong> smallpox-rich pus<br />
to prove that the immune system could build up tolerance<br />
to illness, thereby establishing a precedent for the evolution<br />
<strong>of</strong> vaccines. But as Susan Lederer has described in her book<br />
Subjected to Science, in the 19th and 20th centuries, a large<br />
number <strong>of</strong> scientists eager to test new vaccines gravitated<br />
toward soldiers, prisoners, children, prostitutes, the elderly,<br />
and the mentally retarded, <strong>of</strong>ten with unimaginably brutal<br />
consequences. In 1908, for example, when pediatricians at<br />
the University <strong>of</strong> Pennsylvania wanted to perform diagnostic<br />
tests for tuberculosis, they intentionally infected more than<br />
140 children from a nearby Catholic orphanage, most <strong>of</strong><br />
whom were under eight years old. In 1911, Hideyo Noguchi,<br />
a microbiologist sponsored by the Rockefeller University,<br />
subjected over 400 patients to luetin, the causative agent <strong>of</strong><br />
syphilis. 1<br />
In the case <strong>of</strong> Botox injections, however, we see a transformation<br />
in the target audience <strong>of</strong> experimental infection<br />
from the most vulnerable to the most elite, while the parameters<br />
<strong>of</strong> what delineates “infection” have become utterly<br />
negotiable. At $300-500 a pop, vanity-obsessed dowagers<br />
and their cohorts are willing to pay exorbitant fees for the<br />
privilege <strong>of</strong> becoming vehicles for transporting dangerous
strains <strong>of</strong> bacteria in their foreheads—bacteria for which scientists<br />
have still not found a vaccine. Only under the genius<br />
<strong>of</strong> capitalism can a toxic killer grow up to become a cosmetic<br />
amenity.<br />
Initially, Botox injections seem to be the latest tool<br />
in an enormous arsenal <strong>of</strong> medical implants, injections, and<br />
other cosmetic technologies that include collagen, silicone,<br />
and even Gore-Tex. Virtually all <strong>of</strong> the organic or synthetic<br />
materials injected or implanted into human bodies produce<br />
physical side effects, many far worse than the petulant ennui<br />
that <strong>of</strong>ten leads one to pursue cosmetic procedures in the<br />
first place. As Elizabeth Haiken has described, in the first<br />
decades <strong>of</strong> the 20th century, doctors injected paraffin wax<br />
mixed with olive oil, goose grease, and vegetable soap into<br />
their patients’ faces, breasts, and legs in order to banish<br />
wrinkles and “sculpt” body parts to meet the cultural expectations<br />
<strong>of</strong> the era. 2 The practice ended by the 1930s with the<br />
high incidence <strong>of</strong> paraffin-related cancers, but the desire for<br />
a sculpted, malleable body among patients persisted.<br />
In the mid-1960s, famed San Francisco stripper Carol<br />
Doda injected a pint <strong>of</strong> silicone directly into each <strong>of</strong> her<br />
breasts. This was much more silicone than the standard<br />
amount used in breast implants produced by Dow Corning,<br />
which were taken <strong>of</strong>f the market three decades later amid<br />
a firestorm <strong>of</strong> controversy and litigation. <strong>And</strong> while the use<br />
<strong>of</strong> autologous human fat, which is cleaned <strong>of</strong> biological<br />
impurities before it is injected, seemed promising in the<br />
early 1990s, recent case studies have revealed its unsavory<br />
side effects. At best, the fat migrates from the injection<br />
site to one’s least-favored body part to join its kin; at worst,<br />
the fat forms an unsightly bas-relief comparable to the shape<br />
and volume <strong>of</strong> a small dwarf. The migration <strong>of</strong> autologous fat<br />
in penile enlargement procedures shocked many men who<br />
found themselves looking at penises with truly mushroomshaped<br />
heads.<br />
The use <strong>of</strong> Botox marks a departure from the history <strong>of</strong><br />
earlier cosmetic implants and injections in two distinct ways.<br />
First, it does not simply introduce an organic product (such<br />
as paraffin or collagen) into the body; it introduces a living<br />
microorganism, and a highly toxic one at that. Second, Botox<br />
injections do not seek merely to produce youthful-looking<br />
skin, or to aesthetically reshape a facial feature that will<br />
continue to function normally. The goal <strong>of</strong> the Botox injection<br />
is to paralyze and otherwise obliterate the function <strong>of</strong><br />
the collateral muscles in the forehead, just above the bridge<br />
<strong>of</strong> the nose. In practical terms, this means that one needs to<br />
be willing to sacrifice subjective expression for wrinkle-free<br />
features. On some level, the allure <strong>of</strong> Botox injections may<br />
be similar to that <strong>of</strong> exotic delicacies whose charm resides<br />
in their power to put consumers in danger: one thinks <strong>of</strong><br />
the pleasure/pain dialectic derived from the poisonous substances<br />
found in absinthe, psychedelic mushrooms, and the<br />
Japanese fish called fugu. Botox, however, is distinguished<br />
from these organic materials as an impure toxin to the body<br />
that produces—however temporarily—a youthful appearance<br />
and not an aesthetic experience or altered state <strong>of</strong><br />
consciousness.<br />
The widespread use <strong>of</strong> Botox ushers the first period<br />
in the modern era—certainly since the rise <strong>of</strong> visual technologies<br />
in the mid-19th century—where facial expressions<br />
will be disaggregated from the signified meanings to which<br />
they are typically moored. Over time, physicians expect that<br />
Botox customers will have to forfeit use <strong>of</strong> their forehead<br />
or eyebrows, two key vectors through which humans typically<br />
engage in nonverbal communication. As Norbert Elias<br />
described in his classic study The Civilizing Process, facial<br />
gestures are a central part <strong>of</strong> the modern lexicon <strong>of</strong> performative<br />
visual cues that, along with etiquette and refined<br />
behavior, are public markers <strong>of</strong> social class. 3 In the 1860s,<br />
Nadar captured the prototype <strong>of</strong> the exaggerated furrowed<br />
brow in his photographs <strong>of</strong> Parisian asylum<br />
15<br />
patients; in the 1970s, John Belushi elevated the mischievous<br />
single-raised eyebrow to an art form on Saturday Night<br />
Live. Indeed, what the frozen foreheads <strong>of</strong> Botox consumers<br />
call to mind, more than anything else, is the passivity and<br />
imperturbability <strong>of</strong> European aristocracy. One imagines an<br />
unflappable, furrow-less Queen Victoria waving from her<br />
horse-drawn carriage, or perhaps the sunken, emotionless<br />
visage <strong>of</strong> Catherine de Medici in languid repose, with<br />
a pomegranate in one hand and an open book in another.<br />
These were faces indifferent to the whims <strong>of</strong> fashion or<br />
popular opinion, born not only to rule but to resist physical<br />
weaknesses that might link them with their social inferiors.<br />
The iconic value <strong>of</strong> unruffled monarchs and aristocrats<br />
may have represented the solidity <strong>of</strong> power in pre-modern<br />
times, but in our current media-saturated <strong>culture</strong>, the desire<br />
to humanize celebrities and political figures demands an<br />
increased capacity to physically express a wider spectrum<br />
<strong>of</strong> emotions than ever before. The fertile territory between<br />
these two competing ideals <strong>of</strong> public expression is precisely<br />
what <strong>And</strong>y Warhol mined in his multiple silk-screened<br />
portraits <strong>of</strong> Jackie Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe in the early<br />
1960s. During the national mourning over Princess Diana’s<br />
death in 1997, the British public, seeking psychological<br />
satisfaction, called in desperation for the royal family to<br />
exhibit its collective grief through open displays <strong>of</strong> emotion.<br />
Instead, the House <strong>of</strong> Windsor’s decision to affect a traditional<br />
and icy aristocratic stance seemed to many to expose<br />
the artifice <strong>of</strong> hereditary power, rather than its permanence.<br />
In this sense, it is hard to conceive <strong>of</strong> a more O. Henryesque<br />
historical moment than our own: an era in which<br />
a volatile microorganism invisible to the naked eye has<br />
achieved popularity among a social niche that is completely<br />
indifferent to the political economy <strong>of</strong> global terrorism.<br />
Herein lies the paradox <strong>of</strong> Botox: how else to understand<br />
the staving-<strong>of</strong>f <strong>of</strong> aging, and ultimately the fear <strong>of</strong> death, by<br />
pursuing a medical treatment that promises to bring one in<br />
closer proximity to death than ever before?<br />
According to Science, US <strong>of</strong>ficials recently ranked C.<br />
botulinum second only to anthrax as the microorganism<br />
most likely to be used in bioterrorist activities—an unnerving<br />
statistic, considering that unlike anthrax, there is no<br />
known antidote even for common strains <strong>of</strong> the bacterium. 4<br />
Indeed, any country that can manufacture mass quantities<br />
<strong>of</strong> C. Botulinum—let alone synthesize new mutant strains<br />
<strong>of</strong> it—will have a weapon <strong>of</strong> incalculable power. After all,<br />
even the cosmetic use <strong>of</strong> Botox does not work to protect the<br />
immune system, but instead works to erode the body’s natural<br />
defenses. In our enthusiasm to promote the ephemera<br />
<strong>of</strong> youth over the grace <strong>of</strong> maturity, could we be producing,<br />
however inadvertently, a passive army <strong>of</strong> terrorists clad not<br />
in combat boots but in Prada heels?<br />
1 Susan Lederer, Subjected to Science: Human Experimentation in America Before<br />
the Second World War (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995), p. 60.<br />
2 Elizabeth Haiken, “Modern Miracles: The Development <strong>of</strong> Cosmetic Prosthetics,” in Kath-<br />
erine Ott et al, <strong>Art</strong>ificial Parts, Practical Lives: Modern Histories <strong>of</strong> Prosthetics<br />
(New York: NYU Press, 2002), pp. 171-198.<br />
3 See Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process, [1937], trans. Edmund Jephcott (New York:<br />
Urizen Books, 1978).<br />
4 Donald Kennedy, “Beauty and the Beast,” Science vol. 295 (March 1, 2002), p. 1601.<br />
opposite: Franz Xaver Messerschmidt’s 18th-century character heads from an age before<br />
Botox. Clockwise: the contrarian; the smiling old man; the mischievous man; the beaked man.
leFtovers / how to use scotch tape<br />
Paul lukaS<br />
We’ve all heard the cliché about “the gift that keeps on<br />
giving.” Those words never rang truer for me than they did<br />
last Christmas, when a friend <strong>of</strong> mine gave me a small,<br />
stocking-stuffer-ish gift: an old metal Scotch tape dispenser<br />
from 1942, scavenged at a secondhand store, its tape roll<br />
still intact but now hopelessly gummed up. At first glance<br />
it appeared to be just another eye-pleasing tchotchke given<br />
from one design geek to another. Upon closer inspection,<br />
however, it has turned out to be a veritable treasure trove <strong>of</strong><br />
corporate and design history.<br />
All artifacts are historical documents, <strong>of</strong> course, but the<br />
Scotch tape dispenser <strong>of</strong>fers an unusually broad window on<br />
several historical fronts, in part because both the product<br />
and its manufacturer, 3M, remain staples <strong>of</strong> the consumer<br />
landscape today, making time-wrought changes easy to<br />
gauge. Let’s start with the product name itself, which is<br />
printed on the dispenser’s side: Scotch Cellulose Tape. This<br />
sounds vaguely <strong>of</strong>f, because most <strong>of</strong> us would think <strong>of</strong> it<br />
as cellophane tape, not cellulose. But cellophane is a cellulose<br />
derivative, and in 1942 it was a trademarked product<br />
<strong>of</strong> DuPont, which would not allow 3M to use it as part <strong>of</strong> the<br />
product’s name. That is also why the dispenser’s front panel<br />
features a little logo seal that reads: “Made <strong>of</strong> Cellophane<br />
[Trademark], The DuPont Cellulose Film.”<br />
Although Scotch is a ubiquitous brand today, its familiar<br />
plaid design motif is absent on the dispenser. In order to<br />
understand why, we need to go back to the origin <strong>of</strong> the<br />
brand name itself. “Scotch” was born in 1925, when a 3M<br />
engineer named Richard Drew created a form <strong>of</strong> masking<br />
tape that he envisioned being used by auto painters. But his<br />
two-inch-wide tape had adhesive only at the outer edges,<br />
not in the middle, much to the frustration <strong>of</strong> a local painter<br />
who tried one <strong>of</strong> Drew’s prototype rolls. As the tape kept<br />
falling <strong>of</strong>f the surfaces to which it had been applied, the<br />
exasperated painter told Drew, “Take this tape back to those<br />
Scotch bosses <strong>of</strong> yours and tell them to put more adhesive<br />
on it!” In this context, “Scotch” was an ethnic slur connoting<br />
stinginess—an unlikely source for a brand name, but one<br />
that served 3M well during the Depression, when Scotch<br />
tape became a symbol <strong>of</strong> thrift and do-it-yourself mending.<br />
This helps explain the brand’s rather austere blue-and-white<br />
design visage during its first two decades <strong>of</strong> existence. The<br />
more playful plaid motif appeared in 1945, as national optimism<br />
surged in the wake <strong>of</strong> WWII.<br />
On the other side <strong>of</strong> the dispenser, in block letters, is the<br />
manufacturer’s name: Minnesota Mining & Mfg. Co. Many<br />
<strong>of</strong> us have forgotten—indeed, if we ever knew—that these<br />
words are the source <strong>of</strong> 3M’s three ems. Indeed, 3M has<br />
become so synonymous with high-tech polymer innovation<br />
that a hardscrabble activity like mining seems hopelessly<br />
old-economy by comparison. But in fact the firm was founded<br />
in 1902 by a group <strong>of</strong> Minnesota investors who planned<br />
to mine a mineral deposit for grinding wheel abrasives.<br />
The abbreviation “3M”—not quite an acronym, more like a<br />
ligature—entered the corporate lexicon soon enough, but<br />
old-timers in the Twin Cities region still refer to the company<br />
as “Mining” (as in “Oh sure, I used to work for Mining”).<br />
Those looking for present-day manifestations <strong>of</strong> the company’s<br />
old name will be pleased to learn that 3M’s stock-ticker<br />
symbol is MMM, and that its Internet domain name is mmm.<br />
com.<br />
3M’s nomenclatorial transition from unwieldy 15syllable<br />
name to two-character symbol was already under<br />
way in the early 1940s, as is evident in the company’s old<br />
logo, which is printed on both sides <strong>of</strong> the tape dispenser.<br />
The spelled-out name and “3M Co.” both appear on<br />
17<br />
the logo, a busy jumble <strong>of</strong> typography and geometry. That<br />
logo design is a variation on one that first appeared in 1906;<br />
its basic diamond-within-a-circle template remained 3M’s<br />
visual signature until 1950, when the first <strong>of</strong> several revisions<br />
took place. Each subsequent logo facelift has moved<br />
toward simplicity, culminating—for now, at least—in the<br />
current 3M logotype, whose simple sans serif typography<br />
was designed by the New York firm Siegel & Gale in 1977.<br />
Tucked into the dispenser is a small instruction sheet.<br />
Imaginatively entitled “How and Where to Use Scotch<br />
Cellulose Tape,” it uses a series <strong>of</strong> captioned illustrations to<br />
explain the product’s function. Repeated mention is made <strong>of</strong><br />
the dispenser’s “sawtooth edge”: One caption instructs<br />
the consumer to “pick up tape between roll and sawtooth<br />
edge”; another helpfully tells the user to “pull desired length<br />
[<strong>of</strong> tape] and tear down against sawtooth edge.” While all<br />
this may seem superfluous today, it’s worth remembering<br />
that the first tape dispenser with a built-in cutter blade didn’t<br />
appear until 1932, and the design patent for this one (one <strong>of</strong><br />
many patents listed by number on the dispenser’s bottom<br />
panel and, like all American patents, accessible at the United<br />
States Patent and Trademark Office’s website, www.uspto.<br />
gov) wasn’t filed until 1939. So 3M’s decision to leave nothing<br />
to chance may well have been warranted.<br />
As it happens, the whole thing will soon come full circle,<br />
because the instruction sheet is all tattered and crinkled and<br />
looks like it’s about to fall apart. At which point I will reach<br />
across my desk, deploy a certain sawtooth edge, and patch<br />
the sheet back together with some fresh Scotch tape.<br />
colors / saFety orange<br />
Tim Griffin<br />
These are the days <strong>of</strong> disappearing winters, and <strong>of</strong> anthrax<br />
spores whose origin remains unknown, or unrevealed.<br />
Concrete phenomena float on abstract winds, seeming<br />
like mere signatures <strong>of</strong> dynamics that supercede immediate<br />
perception. The world is a living place <strong>of</strong> literature,<br />
interstitial, eclipsing objects with the sensibility <strong>of</strong> information,<br />
and experience floating on the surface <strong>of</strong> lexicons.<br />
Everything is so characterless and abstract as the weather:<br />
Wars are engaged without front lines, and weapons operate<br />
according to postindustrial logic, intended to destabilize<br />
economies or render large areas uninhabitable by the<br />
detonation <strong>of</strong> homemade “dirty bombs” that annihilate<br />
<strong>culture</strong> but do little damage to hard, architectural space.<br />
Radical thought is also displaced, as the military, not the<br />
academy, <strong>of</strong>fers the greatest collective <strong>of</strong> theorists today; all<br />
possibilities are considered by its think tanks, without skepticism<br />
or humanist pretensions, and all nations are potential<br />
targets. Ordinary health risks described in the popular press<br />
are totally relational, regularly enmeshing microwaves and<br />
genetic codes; the fate <strong>of</strong> ice caps belongs to carbon. Everything<br />
is a synthetic realism. Everything belongs to safety<br />
orange.<br />
It is a gaseous color: fluid, invisible, capable <strong>of</strong> moving<br />
out <strong>of</strong> those legislated topographies that have been<br />
traditionally fenced <strong>of</strong>f from nature to provide significant<br />
nuances for daily living. Perhaps it is a perfume: an optical<br />
Chanel No. 5 for the turn <strong>of</strong> the millennium, imbuing our<br />
bodies with its diffuse form. (Chanel was the first abstract<br />
perfume, as it was completely chemical and not based on<br />
any flower; appropriately, it arrived on the scene at roughly<br />
the same time as Cubism.) The blind aura <strong>of</strong> safety orange<br />
has entered everyday living space. One pure distillation<br />
appears in the logo for Home Depot, which posits one’s<br />
photos: Ricardo de Oliveira
most intimate sphere, the household, as a site that is under<br />
perpetual construction, re-organization, and improvement.<br />
The home becomes unnatural, industrial, singed with toxic<br />
energy. Micros<strong>of</strong>t also uses the color for its lettering,<br />
conjuring its associative power to suggest that a scientific<br />
future is always here around us, but may be fruitfully<br />
harnessed (Your home computer is a nuclear reactor).<br />
Such associative leaps are not unique. In postindustrial<br />
capitalism, experience is <strong>of</strong>ten codified in color. During the<br />
economic surge <strong>of</strong> the past decade, corporations recognized<br />
and implemented on a grand scale what newspapers<br />
documented only after the onset <strong>of</strong> the recession: that<br />
colors function like drugs. Tunneled through the optic<br />
nerve, they generate specific biochemical reactions and<br />
so determine moods in psychotropic fashion; they create<br />
emotional experiences that lend themselves to projections<br />
upon the world, transforming the act <strong>of</strong> living into lifestyle.<br />
Something so intangible as emotion, in turn, assumes a<br />
kind <strong>of</strong> property value as it becomes intimately maneuvered<br />
by, and then associated with, products. (One business<br />
manual recently went so far as to suggest that “consumers<br />
are our products.”)<br />
The iMac, to take one artifact <strong>of</strong> the 1990s, was<br />
introduced to the general public in a blue that was more<br />
than blue: Bondi Blue, which obtained the emotional heat<br />
accorded to the aquatic tones <strong>of</strong> a cosmopolitan beach<br />
in Australia, for which the color is named. Similarly, the<br />
iMac’s clear sheath is neither clear nor white—it is Ice.<br />
(Synesthesia reigns in capitalism; postindustrial exchange<br />
value depends on the creation <strong>of</strong> ephemeral worlds and<br />
auras within which to house products. <strong>And</strong> so, as colors<br />
perform psychotropic functions, total, if virtual, realities<br />
are located within single, monochromatic optical fields.<br />
Control <strong>of</strong> bodies, the original role designated for safety<br />
orange, is set aside for access to minds, which adopt the<br />
logic <strong>of</strong> addiction.) In fact, the 1990s boom might be usefully<br />
read through two specific television commercials that<br />
were geared to hues: It began with the iMac’s introduction<br />
in blue, orange, green and gray models, in a spot that<br />
was accompanied by the Rolling Stones lyric “She comes<br />
in colors.” Later, against the backdrop <strong>of</strong> 2001’s dot-com<br />
wasteland, Target released an advertisement featuring<br />
shoppers moving through a hyper-saturated, blood-red,<br />
vacuum-sealed field <strong>of</strong> repeating corporate logos—colors<br />
and brands were by then entirely deterritorialized, lifted<br />
from objects and displaced onto architecture—to the sound<br />
<strong>of</strong> Devo’s post-punk, tongue-in-cheek number “It’s a<br />
Beautiful World.”<br />
Devo <strong>of</strong>ten wore jumpsuits <strong>of</strong> safety orange, which<br />
was, at the time, the color <strong>of</strong> nuclear power plants and<br />
biohazards—a color created to oppose nature, something<br />
never to be confused with it. It is the color <strong>of</strong> information,<br />
bureaucracy, and toxicity. Variations <strong>of</strong> orange have <strong>of</strong>ten<br />
played this role. Ancient Chinese bookmakers, for example,<br />
printed the edges <strong>of</strong> paper with an orange mineral to save<br />
their books from silverfish.<br />
Times change. In 1981, the Day-Glo connoisseur Peter<br />
Halley suggested that New Wave bands like Devo were<br />
“rejecting the cloddish substance <strong>of</strong> traditional humanistic<br />
values,” comparing their work to that <strong>of</strong> the Minimalists.<br />
(All colors are minimal.) Yet the course <strong>of</strong> Devo has been<br />
the course <strong>of</strong> <strong>culture</strong>: the band’s rejection <strong>of</strong> humanistic<br />
values has become more abstract and expansive, and<br />
enmeshed in cultural t<strong>issue</strong>. Their music moved away from<br />
the specialized artistic realm <strong>of</strong> electro-synth composers<br />
like Robert Fripp and Brian Eno (who produced the band’s<br />
first music in a German studio at the behest <strong>of</strong> David<br />
Bowie) and into the world. First, it appeared for the mass<br />
audiences <strong>of</strong> the television show Pee-wee’s Playhouse,<br />
for whom the band wrote music. More recently, its band<br />
members have written music to accompany Universal<br />
Studio’s Jurassic Park ride and, most recently,<br />
19<br />
Purina Cat Chow commercials. Their anti-humanism no<br />
longer approaches <strong>culture</strong> from any critical remove; there is<br />
no synthetic outside from which to unveil the bureaucratic,<br />
unnatural structures <strong>of</strong> a social façade that presents itself<br />
as entirely natural. We have entered an era <strong>of</strong> synthetic<br />
realism.<br />
Devo is hardly alone in this kind <strong>of</strong> abstract migration.<br />
Vito Acconci has recounted a similar shift in his subjectivity,<br />
which may be traced in his shifting modes <strong>of</strong> production<br />
from poetry and sculpture to architecture and, finally,<br />
design—where his work is intended to disappear into the<br />
world. His changing taste in music is more to the point.<br />
He started in the 1960s by listening to the long, introspective<br />
passages <strong>of</strong> Van Morrison, then moved to the public<br />
speakers <strong>of</strong> punk in the 1970s. Today, he prefers Tricky,<br />
in whose music “it is impossible to tell where the human<br />
being ends and where the machine begins.” Individuals,<br />
in other words, have given way to engineers. Music by a<br />
composer like Moby has no signature sound or style; art by<br />
a painter like Gerhard Richter similarly leaps from genre to<br />
genre. Subjectivity itself is encoded for Napster. <strong>And</strong> safety<br />
orange, the color <strong>of</strong> this synthetic reality, becomes <strong>culture</strong>’s<br />
new heart <strong>of</strong> darkness.<br />
ingestion / how to cook a phoenix<br />
allen S. WeiSS<br />
Angels must be very good to eat. I would imagine they are very<br />
tender, between chicken and fish.<br />
— Peter Kubelka<br />
Every art form is a matrix <strong>of</strong> synaesthesia. Each art informs<br />
all others. Every sentence, every allusion, every word activates<br />
a different complex <strong>of</strong> sensations. These evidences<br />
should not be lost on our daily pleasures. As a translator,<br />
one is perpetually caught in the dilemmas that stem from<br />
these complexities. For example, one quandary I encountered<br />
was in Valère Novarina’s Le discours aux animaux,<br />
which ends with the sentence, “One day I played the horn<br />
like this all alone in a splendid woods, and the birds were<br />
becalmed at my feet when I named them one by one with<br />
their names two by two,” followed by a list <strong>of</strong> 1,111 imaginary<br />
birds, beginning with:<br />
la limnote, la fuge, l’hypille, le ventisque, le lure, le figile,<br />
le lépandre, la galoupe, l’ancret, le furiste, le narcile,<br />
l’aulique, la gymnestre, la louse, le drangle, le ginel, le<br />
sémelique, le lipode, l’hippiandre, le plaisant, la cadmée, la<br />
fuyau, la gruge, l’étran, le plaquin, le dramet, le vocifère, le<br />
lèpse, l’useau, la grenette, le galéate… 1<br />
Needless to say, it would be impossible to translate such<br />
names, and transliteration would hardly be satisfying, as<br />
it would be but sheer linguistic play. Rather, the challenge<br />
is to recreate the very conditions <strong>of</strong> such idiosyncratic<br />
naming, to imitate not Novarina’s words, but his poetic<br />
methods; to designate as language itself designates; to<br />
be a demiurge unto one’s own speech. In the ornithological<br />
context, most names are in some part descriptive, referring<br />
either to a bird’s relation to its habitat, to its physical<br />
aspect, behavioral conditions, or decidedly unverifiable<br />
mythical analogies. I would, in all modesty, propose<br />
the following English parallels (if not, strictly speaking,<br />
translations):<br />
pimwhite, sandkill, partch, barnscrub, stiltback, goskit,<br />
persill, peeve, phyllist, corntail, perforant, titibit, queedle,<br />
jewet, phew, marshquiver, graywhip, corvee, rillard, preem,<br />
peterwil, cassenut, flusher, willowgyre, trillet, silverwisp,<br />
eidereye, wheeltail, ptyt, jeebill, wheatspit...
In an early volume, Flamme et festin, I had begun to muse<br />
upon the possibility <strong>of</strong> creating recipes for just such<br />
creatures, but I now must admit that this was a rather<br />
disingenuous proposition. Not because these birds are<br />
imaginary, but simply because each such name is a hapax<br />
(a word that occurs only once in a language), appearing<br />
without predication or description, in a context that <strong>of</strong>fers<br />
no denotations, but only the undemonstrable connotations<br />
implied by the name itself. (For how can we ever really determine<br />
if the cassenut actually breaks open nut shells in its<br />
quest for nourishment, or if the barnscrub lives in barns like<br />
certain swallows and owls, or if the sandkill is a shore bird?)<br />
Any such hapax is a pure signifier without signified, a word<br />
without object—we can never know whether or not it is a<br />
figment <strong>of</strong> the imagination. While they might enter a dictionary<br />
<strong>of</strong> imaginary creatures, they cannot be catalogued in a<br />
universal encyclopedia, for sheer lack <strong>of</strong> information.<br />
Years ago, I had hoped for some practical help from<br />
the International Society <strong>of</strong> Cryptozoology, located in<br />
Tucson, Arizona. But none was forthcoming. Cryptozoology<br />
is the science <strong>of</strong> nonexistent animals, such as the<br />
banshee, centaur, chimera, griffon, kraken, minotaur, rukh,<br />
unicorn—not to mention all those nameless species that<br />
haunt our fantasies and nightmares. I sought more precise<br />
qualifications in order to fortify my belief that this obscure<br />
field <strong>of</strong> wisdom could be made more joyous through its<br />
intersection with cryptogastronomy. However, it was rather<br />
in the abstract realm <strong>of</strong> theory that I found my inspiration,<br />
specifically in Umberto Eco’s article “Small Worlds,” 2 where<br />
he proposes a theory <strong>of</strong> fictional discourse whereby one may<br />
judge truth value and descriptive validity within imaginary<br />
or possible worlds. Such domains span the spectrum from<br />
those most resembling our quotidian environment to the<br />
farthest reaches <strong>of</strong> the speculative utopian imagination; their<br />
epistemological status may be verisimilar, non-verisimilar,<br />
inconceivable, or even impossible. In all cases, such worlds<br />
can be either relatively empty or furnished, depending upon<br />
the amount <strong>of</strong> information given about a particular fictional<br />
milieu. Following this lead, it is obvious that the general<br />
world <strong>of</strong> Novarina’s animals is relatively unfurnished, and<br />
the specific context in which the birds appear is absolutely<br />
impoverished: we are <strong>of</strong>fered no ornithological information<br />
whatsoever, and thus cannot begin to conceive <strong>of</strong> appropriate<br />
recipes for them.<br />
But, luckily, this is not always the case for fanciful<br />
animals. Consider the phoenix, that mythical bird which is<br />
consumed in spontaneously generated flames, to be reborn<br />
from its own ashes, a symbol particularly appreciated by<br />
the early Christian church for its blatantly resurrectional<br />
qualities. Indeed, we know much more about the phoenix<br />
than we do <strong>of</strong> many real animals. The history <strong>of</strong> this bird is<br />
ancient, and it appears in Hesiod, Herodotus, Plutarch,<br />
Tertulius, Tacitus, Pliny, Martial, Ovid, Dante, Cyrillus, Saint<br />
Ambrose, and Milton, among many others. It is estimated<br />
that half <strong>of</strong> the pre-modernist European poets have written<br />
about it, with, for example, seven mentions in Shakespeare.<br />
There thus exists a wealth <strong>of</strong> detail, albeit somewhat contradictory<br />
at times, about this creature. The 1967 edition <strong>of</strong><br />
the Encyclopedia Britannica informs us that the phoenix,<br />
whose ecosphere is the Arabian peninsula, is as large as an<br />
eagle, with scarlet and gold plumage, and a melodious cry. It<br />
is most <strong>of</strong>ten said to resemble the purple heron (Ardea purpurea),<br />
and less <strong>of</strong>ten the stork, egret, flamingo, or even the<br />
Bird <strong>of</strong> Paradise. Part <strong>of</strong> the confusion seems to stem from<br />
the fact that in ancient Egyptian mythology, the hieroglyph<br />
<strong>of</strong> the benu—a solar symbol, as is the pheonix— resembles<br />
a heron or some other large water-fowl, and a purple heron<br />
was sacrificed by the priests <strong>of</strong> Heliopolis (City <strong>of</strong> the Sun)<br />
in a grand ceremony every 500 years. It would seem that the<br />
sacred powers invested in this hieroglyph greatly influenced<br />
the perception <strong>of</strong> the natural world, as well as consequent<br />
ornithological classification. The life-cycle <strong>of</strong><br />
20<br />
the phoenix is unique in the animal world, here described in<br />
the classic account by Ovid in the Metamorphoses:<br />
There is one living thing, a bird, which reproduces and<br />
regenerates itself, without any outside aid. The Assyrians<br />
call it the phoenix. It lives, not on corn or grasses, but on the<br />
gum <strong>of</strong> incense, and the sap <strong>of</strong> balsam. When it has completed<br />
five centuries <strong>of</strong> life, it straightway builds a nest for itself,<br />
working with unsullied beak and claw, in the topmost branches<br />
<strong>of</strong> some swaying palm. Then, when it has laid a foundation<br />
<strong>of</strong> cassia, and smooth spikes <strong>of</strong> nard, chips <strong>of</strong> cinnamon bark<br />
and yellow myrrh, it places itself on top, and ends its life amid<br />
the perfumes. Then, they say, a little phoenix is born anew<br />
from the father’s body, fated to live a like number <strong>of</strong> years. 3<br />
The decadent Roman Emperor Heliogabalus—who<br />
shared with the phoenix a part <strong>of</strong> solar divinity—was a great<br />
gourmet and glutton, especially fond <strong>of</strong> such delicacies as<br />
flamingo heads, peacock tongues, and cockscombs cut from<br />
the live animal. He once sent hunters to the land <strong>of</strong> Lydia,<br />
<strong>of</strong>fering two hundred pieces <strong>of</strong> gold to the man who would<br />
bring back a phoenix. None did. An explanation for this prodigious<br />
culinary desire can be extrapolated from Jean-Pierre<br />
Vernant’s analysis:<br />
The incandescent life <strong>of</strong> the phoenix follows a circular<br />
course, increasing and decreasing, with birth, death and<br />
rebirth following a cycle that passes from an aromatic bird<br />
closer to the sun than the eagle flying at great heights, to the<br />
state <strong>of</strong> a worm in rotting matter, more chthonian than the<br />
snake or the bat. From the bird’s ashes, consumed at the end<br />
<strong>of</strong> its long existence in a blazing aromatic nest, is born a<br />
small earth-worm, nourished by humidity, which shall in turn<br />
become a phoenix. 4<br />
What more appropriate dish for a solar emperor?<br />
Perhaps tired <strong>of</strong> the repeated human sacrifices to his own<br />
divine nature, he sought a rarer <strong>of</strong>fering. For Heliogabalus,<br />
true to his own solar name, wished to bring heaven down<br />
to earth in a cruel and erotic scenario <strong>of</strong> death, so that the<br />
blood <strong>of</strong> the human sacrifices organized by the Priest <strong>of</strong><br />
the Cult <strong>of</strong> the Sun, flowing from the sacrificial altars <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Temple <strong>of</strong> Emesa, might have well been augmented by some<br />
more decidedly supernatural <strong>of</strong>ferings. The lifecycle <strong>of</strong> the<br />
phoenix is the very allegory <strong>of</strong> cuisine, taken in its structural<br />
instance, as it spans the antithetical conditions <strong>of</strong> raw/<br />
cooked, cold/hot, fresh/rotten, dry/moist, aromatized/gamy.<br />
The phoenix would thus be the perfect dish and the ideal<br />
<strong>of</strong>fering, paradoxically encompassing the contradictory possibilities<br />
<strong>of</strong> diverse cooking techniques, inherent alimentary<br />
differences, and sacred symbolism. Like the transubstantiation<br />
<strong>of</strong> the host, or cannibalistic communion, the eating <strong>of</strong><br />
the phoenix would constitute a truly transcendental gastronomic<br />
act.<br />
Setting aside whatever extravagance Heliogabalus<br />
might have had in mind, let us consider appropriate recipes<br />
for a phoenix. The end <strong>of</strong> the phoenix’s lifecycle, when it is<br />
consumed in its own flames, quite obviously suggests the<br />
proper manner <strong>of</strong> cooking: the phoenix is to be roasted<br />
outdoors over a fire <strong>of</strong> sweet-smelling resinous woods and<br />
aromatic herbs. This suggestion corresponds to the symbolic<br />
exigencies <strong>of</strong> this sacred bird, a symbolism elucidated<br />
in Claude Lévi-Strauss’s analysis <strong>of</strong> culinary practice in The<br />
Origin <strong>of</strong> Table Manners. The difference between the roast<br />
and the boiled entails respectively the following oppositions,<br />
all pointing to the fact that “one can place the roast<br />
on the side <strong>of</strong> nature and the boiled on the side <strong>of</strong> <strong>culture</strong>”:<br />
non-mediated (cooked directly on an open flame) versus<br />
mediated (cooked in water in a closed utensil); masculine<br />
(open fire) versus feminine (protected hearth); exo-cuisine<br />
(cooked outside and destined for foreigners) versus endocuisine<br />
(cooked in a recipient and destined for the family
or a closed group). 5 Thus while the roast is the sort <strong>of</strong> dish<br />
<strong>of</strong>fered to strangers, the boiled is destined for a small, intimate,<br />
closed group. Furthermore, the sociological markers<br />
are even more precise, ins<strong>of</strong>ar as boiling fully conserves the<br />
meat and its juices, while roasting entails destruction or<br />
loss. The former is popular and economical, the latter aristocratic<br />
and prodigious, with the smoke rising as an <strong>of</strong>fering<br />
to the gods. The boiled is an empirical culinary mode, while<br />
the roast is a transcendental one. The phoenix is, therefore,<br />
the most festive <strong>of</strong> dishes, truly appropriate for a once-in-alifetime<br />
occasion.<br />
The preparation <strong>of</strong> the phoenix is relatively simple, and<br />
similar to the preparation <strong>of</strong> much large game. First <strong>of</strong> all,<br />
as is suggested by its habits, the phoenix should be hung,<br />
so that the flavor <strong>of</strong> the flesh becomes gamy, according to<br />
taste, somewhere between the bird state and the worm state.<br />
Afterwards, it should be marinated in a mixture <strong>of</strong> red wine,<br />
herbs and spices (see infra). The reason for the marinade<br />
is, however, the opposite <strong>of</strong> what is usually the case. Many<br />
types <strong>of</strong> large game need be hung and marinated in order to<br />
s<strong>of</strong>ten their flesh, as their free-ranging lives produces a far<br />
greater proportion <strong>of</strong> muscle to fat than is found in domestic<br />
fowl and livestock. For the phoenix, however, tenderizing<br />
is unnecessary, since it is a very long-lived and sedentary<br />
creature, and thus has an extremely high and volatile fat<br />
content. (This complicates both hanging and roasting, as its<br />
flesh easily falls to pieces if tenderized too long.) As it has a<br />
distinct tendency to burst into flame, a marinade is necessary<br />
for moistening and flame-retarding purposes, and it is<br />
precisely for that reason that the bird should be continually<br />
basted with the marinade mixed with a bit <strong>of</strong> clarified butter<br />
or neutral vegetable oil. As for the recipes themselves,<br />
we should beware <strong>of</strong> misleading analogies. Certain <strong>of</strong> them<br />
believe that the phoenix should be treated like the heron.<br />
The Oxford Companion to Food reveals that the gray heron<br />
(Ardea cinerea) was treated throughout the European Middle<br />
Ages like other “great birds” such as the stork, crane, and<br />
peacock: stuffed with garlic and onions and then roasted<br />
whole, with an <strong>of</strong>ten lavish presentation, including gilding<br />
and the decorative replacement <strong>of</strong> its feathers. 6 But it<br />
is obvious that, though roasting is indeed the proper technique,<br />
the mere accompaniment <strong>of</strong> onions and garlic is an<br />
impoverishment <strong>of</strong> the phoenix’s culinary possibilities. Like<br />
all game, the flesh is already strongly flavored by what it<br />
feeds on: in this case, gum <strong>of</strong> incense, sap <strong>of</strong> balsam, and<br />
diverse savory herbs and berries (the phoenix is a vegetarian<br />
bird, which adds to its symbolic allure <strong>of</strong> purity); and the<br />
composition <strong>of</strong> its nest suggests that certain combinations<br />
<strong>of</strong> aromatic herbs and spices found in the Middle East should<br />
be used in the stuffing, such as the already mentioned cinnamon,<br />
cassia, frankincense, myrrh, and nard, to which we<br />
can add cardamom, ginger, turmeric, cumin, nutmeg, mace,<br />
sumac, allspice, etc. In short, many <strong>of</strong> the riches <strong>of</strong> the spice<br />
trade are appropriate; they judiciously harmonize with the<br />
phoenix’s flesh. The particular mixtures <strong>of</strong> spices, like Indian<br />
curries, differ from country to country and family to family.<br />
There is no “classic” recipe.<br />
There is little information about appropriate side<br />
dishes, though here too a false analogy reigns. In Greek,<br />
phoenix also means palm tree, and in Egyptian, the hieroglyph<br />
<strong>of</strong> the benu symbolizes the phoenix and, alternately,<br />
the palm tree; since both the tree and the bird are attributes<br />
<strong>of</strong> the sun god, they are <strong>of</strong>ten confused. This has led some<br />
to believe that the fruit <strong>of</strong> the date palm is either an appropriate<br />
stuffing or accompaniment. While such a rich fruit might<br />
well serve the purpose, I would much prefer a truffe sous<br />
cendres [truffle cooked in ashes] and some pomegranate<br />
jelly.<br />
It should be noted that the phoenix is so rare that<br />
its snob appeal by far supercedes that <strong>of</strong> all other<br />
luxury foods. Even the gold shavings and small gems<br />
21<br />
that Heliogabalus consumed mixed into his vegetables, or<br />
the huge pearls that Cleopatra dissolved in her beverages,<br />
are banal in comparison. The reason for this rarity is both<br />
because only one phoenix is said to exist at any given time,<br />
and because it is so very difficult to capture, as indicated<br />
by its life span: in the lowest estimate, Ovid places it at 500<br />
years; Tacitus claims that it corresponds to the Egyptian<br />
Sothic Cycle <strong>of</strong> 1,461 years; Pliny puts it at the length <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Platonic Year, the 12,994-year period needed for the sun,<br />
moon, and five planets to all return to their original heavenly<br />
positions; one extreme estimate suggests that its life span is<br />
97,000 years, but this seems ridiculous. Taking into account<br />
the ancient Egyptian ritual cycle would most probably lead<br />
one to accept the lowest estimate <strong>of</strong> 500 years. Despite its<br />
rarity, the phoenix is a foodstuff eminently worthy <strong>of</strong> consideration,<br />
and its absence from the culinary literature is most<br />
curious. It is hoped that this brief essay will to some extent<br />
aid in filling this noteworthy gastronomic gap.<br />
The International Society <strong>of</strong> Cryptozoology can be reached at P. O. Box 43070, Tucson,<br />
Arizona (AZ) 85733, USA. Telephone & fax: +1 520 884 8369.<br />
1 Valère Novarina, Le discours aux animaux (Paris, P.O.L., 1987), p. 321.<br />
2 Umberto Eco, The Limits <strong>of</strong> Interpretation (Bloomington, Indiana University Press, 1994),<br />
pp. 64-82.<br />
3 Ovid, Metamorphoses, trans. Mary M. Innes (New York, Penguin, 1984), p. 345.<br />
4 Jean-Pierre Vernant, “Introduction” to Marcel Detienne, Les jardins d’Adonis (Paris,<br />
Gallimard, 1972), p. xxxiii.<br />
5 Claude Lévi-Strauss, L’Origine de manières de table (Paris, Plon, 1968), pp. 397-403.<br />
6 Alan Davidson, The Oxford Companion to Food (Oxford, Oxford University Press), p. 379.
maIN
ErNst HaEckEl aNd tHE mIcrobIal<br />
baroquE<br />
DaviD BroDy<br />
In 1895, a group <strong>of</strong> mountains along the spine <strong>of</strong> the Sierras<br />
in California was named to immortalize the apostles <strong>of</strong> evolution,<br />
pioneers <strong>of</strong> a new enlightenment. Mts. Darwin, Agassiz,<br />
and Mendel topped the elevational pecking order. Next in altitude,<br />
at 13,418 feet – higher than Mts. Wallace, Lamarck, and<br />
Huxley – came a peak named for the German zoologist Ernst<br />
Haeckel, who at the time <strong>of</strong> christening was in the full vigor <strong>of</strong><br />
his remarkable career.<br />
You may not have heard <strong>of</strong> Ernst Haeckel (1834-1919), but<br />
for 50 years or so, until his death, he was the most influential<br />
evolutionary theorist on the map. He did more to spread the gospel<br />
<strong>of</strong> evolution than all his fellow snow-capped honorees combined,<br />
lecturing, demonstrating, thundering, and publishing<br />
dozens <strong>of</strong> books, some technical, some popular. In the decades<br />
before World War I, prominent display <strong>of</strong> Haeckel’s books was<br />
de rigeur in European or American households seeking to seem<br />
educated, up-to-date, and non-dogmatic; his opinions – spiritual,<br />
aesthetic, philosophical, political – carried the imprimatur<br />
<strong>of</strong> unquestioned scientific objectivity. But Haeckel was more<br />
than a progenitor <strong>of</strong> the Carl Sagan-like scientist-celebrity. His<br />
immense ambition was founded upon a visionary’s graphic talent,<br />
manifested in biological illustrations so hallucinatory that<br />
his lithographs <strong>of</strong> microorganisms still threaten to overwhelm<br />
all sorts <strong>of</strong> categorical distinctions between art, nature, and<br />
science. These images, however, cannot be examined without<br />
acknowledging the omnivorous, Faustian hunger for consolidation<br />
<strong>of</strong> knowledge that produced them.<br />
Haeckel had made his name, in the 1860s, by describing<br />
hundreds <strong>of</strong> new species <strong>of</strong> radiolarians, publishing volume<br />
after volume <strong>of</strong> taxonomic description <strong>of</strong> this order <strong>of</strong> marine<br />
protozoan. What really set his work apart, though, was not<br />
the science but the plates. Whether this emphasis was<br />
entirely legitimate was debated at the time – had Haeckel<br />
over-embellished and idealized his observations or, as he<br />
claimed, had he discerned for the first time their underlying<br />
crystalline structure? Certainly no biologist before him had<br />
applied the study <strong>of</strong> solid geometry to precise descriptions <strong>of</strong><br />
organic phenomena, and the penetrating insights resulting<br />
from this détente <strong>of</strong> disciplines seemed to justify the boldness<br />
<strong>of</strong> Haeckel’s drawings. If the images were not optically true,<br />
then perhaps they were truer than true. Wasn’t a search for the<br />
pattern beneath the noise the higher purpose <strong>of</strong> science?<br />
If certain <strong>of</strong> Haeckel’s colleagues were dubious, the public<br />
was not. Weltratsel (The Riddle <strong>of</strong> the Universe), first <strong>issue</strong>d<br />
in 1895, sold more than half a million copies in Germany alone,<br />
an unheard-<strong>of</strong> number for the time, and was translated into<br />
thirty languages. Kunstformen der Natur, or <strong>Art</strong> Forms in<br />
Nature published in installments between 1899 and 1904, has<br />
arguably enjoyed an even broader audience. Its lavish images<br />
<strong>of</strong> self-enlacing, baroque jellyfish, with their translucent baldachins<br />
<strong>of</strong> tendrils, and his constellations <strong>of</strong> plankton magnified to<br />
Romanesque filigrees, 1 directly influenced the more self-consciously<br />
decorative, asymmetrical vocabulary <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong> Nouveau<br />
and Jugendstil – René Binet’s cast iron entrance gate to<br />
23<br />
the 1900 Paris Exposition, for example, was modeled on<br />
Haeckel’s beloved radiolarians. 2 <strong>Art</strong> Forms was eagerly perused<br />
by the Surrealists, notably Max Ernst, and almost certainly<br />
by the Bauhaus painters Klee and Kandinsky. Thus, even contemporary<br />
artists who have never seen the book can hardly have<br />
avoided the pulsations <strong>of</strong> its influence. 3 But, about this, more<br />
later.<br />
From his pr<strong>of</strong>essorship in Jena, the university town that was<br />
associated with the immortal polymaths Goethe, Schiller, and<br />
Hegel, Haeckel advocated Darwinism to a hostile world, declaring<br />
war on the medieval mystifications <strong>of</strong> religion and unleashing<br />
a barrage <strong>of</strong> invective at the Catholic Church. In contrast<br />
to Darwin and most <strong>of</strong> his fellow evolutionists, though, he did<br />
not confine himself to the role <strong>of</strong> sober secular materialist. His<br />
almost mystical obsession with a rational and progressive<br />
march toward biological perfection was far removed from the<br />
random impersonality <strong>of</strong> natural selection, and his contempt<br />
for religion did not stop him from establishing one <strong>of</strong> his own.<br />
As his theories developed, he began to attack not only anti-<br />
scientific ritualism, but dualism in general. Evolution proved that<br />
man and nature were not separable, and thus neither were matter<br />
and mind. “Crystal souls” 4 inhered in the very minerals we<br />
were made <strong>of</strong>, human intellect being simply their higher expression<br />
achieved by means <strong>of</strong> the evolutionary drama. Accordingly,<br />
there was no need to project the existence <strong>of</strong> a creator outside<br />
the physical world: spirit lay within. In 1906, Haeckel founded<br />
a progressive church based on this quasi-scientific pantheism,<br />
calling it the Monist League in opposition to the dualistic religions.<br />
The Judeo-Christian ancestry was no more than a living<br />
fossil that could now be left behind.<br />
Haeckel’s immodest claim to have reconciled age-old<br />
antagonisms between science and spirit slipped, incrementally,<br />
toward the far side <strong>of</strong> social Darwinism. His philosophical support<br />
for racist eugenics, coupled with his widespread popular<br />
appeal, was arguably crucial to the legitimization <strong>of</strong> such ideas<br />
in Germany, and historian Daniel Gasman has gone so far as to<br />
lay blame for the Holocaust virtually at Ernst Haeckel’s feet. Gasman<br />
demonstrates, convincingly, that Haeckel was an anti-Semite,<br />
and that his ponderous authority “did much to bring the Jewish<br />
question into the realm <strong>of</strong> biology.” 5 Social Darwinism would<br />
better be named Social Haeckelism, it seems. Of course, racism<br />
and eugenics were in the very air <strong>of</strong> fin-de-siècle, “scientific” <strong>culture</strong>,<br />
and Gasman’s view <strong>of</strong> Monism as a wellspring underlying<br />
everything from French Symbolism to Futurism, Surrealism, and<br />
the Bauhaus is thinly documented and a bit monomaniacal in its<br />
own right. Still, consider this passage from Haeckel’s worldwide<br />
bestseller The Riddle <strong>of</strong> the Universe:<br />
The statement <strong>of</strong> the apocryphal gospels, that the Roman<br />
<strong>of</strong>ficer, Pandera, was the true father <strong>of</strong> Christ, seems all the more<br />
credible when we make a careful anthropological study <strong>of</strong> the<br />
personality <strong>of</strong> Christ. He is generally regarded as purely Jewish.<br />
Yet the characteristics which distinguish his high and noble personality,<br />
and which give a distinct impress to his religion, are certainly<br />
not Semitical; they are rather features <strong>of</strong> the higher Arian<br />
[sic] race. 6<br />
The Monist League’s promise <strong>of</strong> a scientifically sanctioned<br />
and racially purged spirituality appealed to the German elite,<br />
and after Haeckel’s death, the League’s longstanding argument
that state policies must not interfere with evolutionary necessity<br />
began to gather influence. The postwar economic crisis was<br />
theorized as a result <strong>of</strong> immigration and cultural decadence; the<br />
lower races, it was reasoned, must no longer be coddled into<br />
artificial survival if the German people were to thrive. Nature<br />
itself decreed it.<br />
Posthumous association with the methodical madness <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Nazis has cast a retrospective pall over Haeckel’s undeniable<br />
achievements in microbiological taxonomy; his grander evolutionary<br />
theories have been debunked. Nevertheless, <strong>Art</strong> Forms<br />
in Nature continues to inspire and provoke the artists who, like<br />
Ernst or Kandinsky before them, stumble upon its gorgeously<br />
elaborated plates. Admittedly, the boundaries between art<br />
and science have never been, and never can be, absolute. But<br />
their progressive and mutual violation may well turn out to be<br />
a defining obsession <strong>of</strong> 21st-century art, and there is certainly<br />
a renewed concern, on the part <strong>of</strong> contemporary artists, with<br />
the empirical mystique <strong>of</strong> the bio-lab – with its statistical procedures<br />
and DNA/digital frontier on one hand, its viscosities and<br />
oozings, its creepy-beautiful microcosmic landscapes on the<br />
other. Given his pervasive influence and subsequent, near-complete<br />
eclipse, I wondered how many artists today were actually<br />
familiar with Haeckel’s work. <strong>And</strong>, I wondered if those who<br />
have looked deeply into Haeckel and considered his example<br />
in the development <strong>of</strong> their own art might discern, in his triumphally<br />
willed organic patterns, a graphic signature <strong>of</strong> the scary<br />
ideology that selective cultural memory has lopped away. I conducted<br />
an informal poll, and sure enough: from Alexis Rockman<br />
and Philip Taaffe, who have borrowed from Haeckel’s prints<br />
directly; to Alex Ross, Karen Arm, and Tricia Keightley, whose<br />
working premises have been informed and inflamed by his aestheticization<br />
<strong>of</strong> microscopic rendering; to Fred Tomaselli, Susan<br />
Jennings, and Tom Nozkowski, whose engagements are mixed<br />
with severe critique, Haeckel’s influence remains palpable in<br />
the studios <strong>of</strong> New York artists.<br />
For these visual thinkers, the discovery <strong>of</strong> Haeckel’s portfolios,<br />
whether received as art or science, or both, or neither,<br />
has been revelatory. Once entranced, however, many also<br />
register an ambivalent attraction/repulsion to <strong>Art</strong> Forms’s<br />
romantically totalizing worldview, to the heavy, structuralizing<br />
hand that renders medusae as swimming chandeliers,<br />
and echinidea as hovering spacecraft. Most <strong>of</strong> the artists with<br />
whom I spoke had no idea <strong>of</strong> Haeckel’s proto-Fascist past.<br />
Nevertheless, many seem to have intuited something <strong>of</strong> that<br />
spirit from the material before them on the page.<br />
In their overall patterning, these pages – studded with<br />
elaborately symmetrical groupings, usually floating over a<br />
black void – are as striking as are the specimens themselves. A<br />
plate from <strong>Art</strong> Forms can minimize empty space to an almost<br />
neurotic degree, laying out finicky, jewel-box arrangements<br />
<strong>of</strong> like-to-like in vertical columns. This bilateral approach to<br />
display threatens to overpower the subtleties <strong>of</strong> individual<br />
organisms, whose symmetries tend to be radially complex, their<br />
multiple digits or leaves twisting with restless animation so as<br />
to bring maximal morphology into view. Sometimes the heavyhanded<br />
whole exceeds the sum <strong>of</strong> its delicate parts, sometimes<br />
not. Indeed, if one sees Haeckel’s lust for unification as suspect<br />
– leading to overdetermined (though fascinating)<br />
art, and bad (though compelling) science – then the very<br />
characteristics which attract an artist to his images – their integrated,<br />
harmonious, “monistic” design – would be their most<br />
dangerous and dishonest features.<br />
Yet this sort <strong>of</strong> judgment may itself be overdetermined.<br />
Haeckel’s florid conflation <strong>of</strong> aestheticism with empiricism<br />
made him a lesser scientist in some ways – leading him, on<br />
occasion, to fudge his illustrations for the sake <strong>of</strong> a beautiful<br />
argument. But it may also have made him a greater one, his<br />
formal acuity and imagination leading to genuine morphological<br />
discoveries. <strong>And</strong>, if the miscegenation <strong>of</strong> disciplines made<br />
him less <strong>of</strong> an artist – operating covertly, as it were, never quite<br />
seizing an artist’s prerogative or admitting to an artist’s seductions–in<br />
other ways, the rigors <strong>of</strong> the scientific idiom seem to<br />
have freed him, allowing him to channel his enduring talent for<br />
formal articulation into an almost superhuman penetration,<br />
focus, and deftness <strong>of</strong> hand.<br />
Fred Tomaselli, who discovered <strong>Art</strong> Forms relatively recently,<br />
notes that Haeckel’s mirror-image arrangements propose, in<br />
effect, their own meta-organism, a more-than-perfect symmetry<br />
which plays upon the “idea <strong>of</strong> the beautiful as it is coded<br />
deep within us.” He also acknowledges a comparison between<br />
Haeckel’s black backgrounds and his rationalized, proliferating<br />
layouts, and some <strong>of</strong> his own methods for animating a pictorial<br />
field. But at the same time, Tomaselli finds parts <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong> Forms,<br />
particularly those plates featuring creatures farther up the<br />
evolutionary ladder, to be limited by a “precisionist rigidity.” In<br />
the (relatively infrequent) groupings <strong>of</strong> frogs, lizards, bats, and<br />
birds, Tomaselli diagnoses a telltale “scientific override” – a<br />
certain stiffness that can make “cartoons <strong>of</strong> nature,” especially<br />
when compared to the more sensual and vivid work <strong>of</strong> John<br />
James Audubon or Martin Johnson Heade. In Haeckel’s depictions<br />
<strong>of</strong> microbiota, on the other hand, “you see the scientist at<br />
work.” Tomaselli discerns that within the realm <strong>of</strong> the exotically<br />
small, where Haeckel could use a compass, French curve, and<br />
ruler with impunity, “he gets to sing.”<br />
As a connoisseur <strong>of</strong> 18th- and 19th-century scientific illustration,<br />
Philip Taaffe also admires Haeckel’s contribution as a<br />
draughtsman, acknowledging that his drawings brought the<br />
field “to a new level <strong>of</strong> authority or life or animation … The brilliance<br />
<strong>of</strong> the graphic execution is undeniable; you have to be<br />
aware <strong>of</strong> these. You have to look and look.” Taaffe stops short,<br />
however, <strong>of</strong> touching; though his process <strong>of</strong>ten involves the<br />
silkscreening <strong>of</strong> biological illustrations in “gestural conjunctions,”<br />
and despite the fact that a couple <strong>of</strong> Haeckel’s more sinuous<br />
images have found their way into his work, on the whole<br />
he finds <strong>Art</strong> Forms “too willful, too aestheticized to use.” Susan<br />
Jennings agrees. Like Haeckel, Jennings actually spends time<br />
at the microscope, observing life forms that she <strong>culture</strong>s and<br />
photographs. She is interested in Haeckel’s “passion” and<br />
regards his drawings as “beautiful, fascinating,” but also uses<br />
words such as “uptight,” “oppressive,” and “claustrophobic.”<br />
“It’s something he’s imposed because he has looked for it until<br />
he’s found it. It’s not how nature is, necessarily.”<br />
Take, as an example, Plate 61 <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong> Forms. It features a<br />
radiolarian with the exoskeleton <strong>of</strong> a super-stellated Buckyball,<br />
a geomancer’s polyhedral dream, awesomely complex yet<br />
serenely Platonic. Though not a strictly scientific image, appear-<br />
24 opposite: Plate 85 <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong> Forms in Nature
ing as it does in a book aimed at general consumption, neither<br />
is it meant as fantasy or invention, raising possible suspicions<br />
about the draughtsman’s habits <strong>of</strong> fidelity to the organism. In<br />
<strong>Art</strong> Forms, the unmatched zeal for extracting architecture from<br />
the infinitesimal wigglings <strong>of</strong> life might be indulged as a kind<br />
<strong>of</strong> more-than-empirical insight; in one infamous case, however,<br />
Haeckel stands accused <strong>of</strong> out-and-out fraud.<br />
To bolster his theory <strong>of</strong> developmental recapitulation – the<br />
cornerstone <strong>of</strong> his life’s work, his all-explanatory dogma<br />
defended to the day he died – Haeckel <strong>of</strong>ten illustrated comparative<br />
stages <strong>of</strong> the human embryo alongside those <strong>of</strong> lower<br />
vertebrates. The point was to demonstrate how humans pass<br />
through the stages <strong>of</strong> phylogenetic ancestry, how we climb in<br />
the womb, as it were, up the evolutionary tree – hence those<br />
“fish gills” and “lizard tails” observed in the fetus. (For that<br />
matter, the “Tree <strong>of</strong> Life” image, still beloved <strong>of</strong> evolution textbooks,<br />
is completely Haeckelian; he was the first to draw the<br />
differentiation <strong>of</strong> species, with all its apparent ramifying logic,<br />
as a brooding, twisted oak. 7) Haeckel’s illustrations testified<br />
powerfully in favor <strong>of</strong> his argument that – in his famous motto –<br />
“ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny”: fish, frogs, chicken, cows,<br />
and humans all look the same at comparable stages <strong>of</strong> development,<br />
the higher animals passing through and beyond the terminal<br />
expressions <strong>of</strong> their evolutionary ancestors.<br />
Recapitulation “promised to reveal not only the animal<br />
ancestry <strong>of</strong> man and the line <strong>of</strong> his descent but also the method<br />
<strong>of</strong> origin <strong>of</strong> his mental, social, and ethical faculties.” 8 A similar<br />
epistemological template stamped itself on a number <strong>of</strong><br />
emerging disciplines, for example, on Freudian and to some<br />
extent Jungian psychology, where neurosis, paranoia, and<br />
mania were schematized as “primitive” vestiges, the child’s<br />
mind recapitulating the mental states <strong>of</strong> early tribesmen, etc.<br />
Even at the time, however, it was claimed by some <strong>of</strong> Haeckel’s<br />
peers that his telltale embryos were not to be found in<br />
nature. According to the late Stephen Jay Gould, a dogged foe<br />
<strong>of</strong> Haeckel’s distortions, Haeckel had “simply copied the same<br />
figure over and over again.” 9 Humans, in fact, have notable<br />
similarities with lower vertebrates only at the very beginning<br />
<strong>of</strong> development.<br />
Haeckel dismissed the embryo controversy by claiming<br />
that “all diagrammatic figures are ‘inaccurate’” 10 and <strong>of</strong> course,<br />
however disingenuous as a defense, in a way this was perfectly<br />
correct – there is no such thing as an objective transcript <strong>of</strong> scientific<br />
observation. For the artists I interviewed, it is precisely<br />
this shifty topography that compels exploration; in one way or<br />
another, navigation <strong>of</strong> the art/science divide defines these bodies<br />
<strong>of</strong> work, and each <strong>of</strong> my respondents recognizes <strong>Art</strong> Forms’s<br />
problematic siting in this terrain. For Alex Ross, “art and science<br />
overlap most poignantly in the areas <strong>of</strong> research and discovery<br />
… <strong>Art</strong>ists have no limits at all … but the beauty <strong>of</strong> science is that<br />
it is guided by the ultimatum <strong>of</strong> its own strictures: follow the<br />
rules or don’t call it science.” Ross, whose tightly rendered but<br />
imaginary biomorphs were fattened on the myriad delights <strong>of</strong><br />
<strong>Art</strong> Forms, calls it “a revelation, to be sure, a prime mover in the<br />
germination <strong>of</strong> my thinking. The careful taxonomic display presented<br />
such a potent dream-world. The crux <strong>of</strong> my work is that<br />
what for, say, Kandinsky, were shapes and relationships,<br />
26 are for me organisms and communities.” This concep-<br />
tion <strong>of</strong> pictorial autonomy was directly inspired by Haeckel’s<br />
aestheticization <strong>of</strong> life forms. As Ross puts it, “The work seemed<br />
to scream, ‘If nature can play reality designer, you can too.’”<br />
Hubristic reality-design, conversely, is Alexis Rockman’s<br />
target. His work specifically addresses evolution and ecology,<br />
but from a pointedly sardonic angle; his current paintings<br />
present a wry natural history that he calls “psychedelic ecotourism.”<br />
Rockman discovered Haeckel in high school. His mother,<br />
an archeologist, was Margaret Meade’s assistant at the American<br />
Museum <strong>of</strong> Natural History, and as a child he had unusual<br />
access to its dioramas and displays. In these, as in the wilderness-born<br />
American tradition generally, plant and animal specimens<br />
were shown interacting within a total ecosystem, whereas<br />
Haeckel catalogued only closely related species deployed in<br />
frankly abstract, etheric space. Even the few attempts at populated<br />
landscape in <strong>Art</strong> Forms – the same that Tomaselli deems<br />
“cartoonish” – manifest a charting or listing tendency that Rockman<br />
calls “vertical” compared to the “horizontal” polymorphism<br />
<strong>of</strong> Hudson River School naturalists like Audubon and Heade.<br />
“European organization,” Rockman asserts, “is about putting<br />
the organism in a vitrine or box.”<br />
Karen Arm, however, defends this isolating tendency, arguing<br />
for realms <strong>of</strong> organic truth in which aesthetic and scientific<br />
inquiry are allied. “‘<strong>Art</strong> forms in nature’ describes my work. Every<br />
time I pick up the book, it’s an affirmation <strong>of</strong> what I’m doing.”<br />
Arm’s paintings and drawings begin with observations <strong>of</strong> natural<br />
forms – branches, waves, spider webs, smoke – which she winnows<br />
from their chaotic matrix and reorders in dense, intuitive<br />
patterns. She describes her creative process much as Haeckel<br />
described his own, as heightened views that nevertheless ring<br />
true to the anarchic specificity <strong>of</strong> observation. As Arm points<br />
out, Haeckel’s depictions were empirically based, “but he still<br />
has his hand in it. That’s what makes him interesting to us now.<br />
His images are not dry; they have a life to them.” Or, as painter<br />
Tricia Keightley says, “a blob is not thought out”; Haeckel’s<br />
drawings demarcate a zone between the “gooey undefined and<br />
the schematic.” Still, like Philip Taaffe, Keightley finds that the<br />
eccentricity <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong> Forms works against its direct utility. Haeckel’s<br />
work, she says, can be “intimidating,” precisely because it<br />
is so tempting as source material. If one succumbed, then “400<br />
people would come up to you and say, ‘You know, that’s form<br />
number 10 on page 36, plate 17.’”<br />
Whether admiring or skeptical, the artists I spoke to understand<br />
the siren song <strong>of</strong> Haeckel’s lapidary pr<strong>of</strong>usions to be<br />
their selling point. The totalizing confidence <strong>of</strong> his project –<br />
its implication that nature is art is design is science – is what<br />
compels, in spite <strong>of</strong> the implied denial <strong>of</strong> humanistic values like<br />
idiosyncrasy or accident or freedom. As Taaffe (who knew <strong>of</strong><br />
Haeckel’s dark side) says, “there is an intellectual attraction to<br />
clockwise from top left: Philip Taaffe, Metacrinus Angulatus, 1997; Fred Toma-<br />
selli, Monsters <strong>of</strong> Paradise, 2001 (courtesy James Cohan Gallery); Thomas Noz-<br />
kowski, Untitled, 1999 (courtesy Max Protetch Gallery); Susan Jennings, <strong>Art</strong><br />
Culture, 1996-97 (detail); Alexander Ross, Untitled, 1998 (courtesy Feature, Inc.);<br />
Alexis Rockman, Amphibian Revolution, 1986 (courtesy Gorney Bravin + Lee); Tri-<br />
cia Keightley, 72.56.01A, 2001; Karen Arm, Untitled (Incense #3), 2001 (courtesy<br />
PPOW Gallery).<br />
overleaf: Plate 61 <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong> Forms in Nature
come to grips with that schizophrenia, that dichotomy, that<br />
strange will to systematize everything, to organize everything.<br />
But at the end <strong>of</strong> the day, it leads you to mass murder or something.”<br />
Tom Nozkowski, meanwhile, describes himself as an<br />
“anti-Haeckelian”: “I began with great enthusiasm. But the<br />
more I looked, the more pissed <strong>of</strong>f I got about him. His ordering<br />
processes are very 19th-century, very Germanic, and I<br />
think they lie. Haeckel’s project seems to be skewed in the first<br />
place and maybe not for good purpose.” Nozkowski echoes<br />
Jennings’s feeling that Haeckel’s sin is that “he finds what he<br />
expects to find. For all the work’s ostensible beauty, it does<br />
seem a period piece, inherently nostalgic. I don’t question the<br />
seriousness <strong>of</strong> how he plays the game, I just think that intellectually<br />
he fails.” Nozkowski is not afraid to diagram an equivalence<br />
between the pictorial and the political: “It plays back<br />
into the work, a kind <strong>of</strong> self-assuredness or self-certainty, a<br />
predisposition to knowing the answer the minute you ask the<br />
question. I think that can always lead to evil – aesthetic evil first,<br />
then maybe evil in the real world.”<br />
Perhaps. Leonardo designed ingeniously vicious war<br />
machines for the Sforzas and the Borgias, but we have no<br />
trouble calling him a humanist, and like the notebooks <strong>of</strong> the<br />
ur-Renaissance Man, Ernst Haeckel’s lithographs encompass<br />
an otherworldly formal clarity, teased out from messy reality by<br />
the delicate emphases <strong>of</strong> the trained hand; they evince a kindred<br />
delight in draftsmanship in service to science, a devotion<br />
to a truth higher than mere optical objectivity. Both Haeckel and<br />
da Vinci maintained a boyish fascination for spiky armored creatures,<br />
for the gracefully fantastic and grotesque. Of course, one<br />
is the greater scientist and the other the greater artist. But the<br />
megalomaniacal determinism that tints the edges <strong>of</strong> Haeckel’s<br />
vision signals, perhaps, the last shudder <strong>of</strong> a dying da Vincian<br />
ideal, a union <strong>of</strong> curiosity and craftsmanship, poetry and industry,<br />
science and art. Perhaps Haeckel’s preternatural exactitude<br />
is truly pathological. But if so, the force <strong>of</strong> his obsession, while<br />
edifying in its failures, only adds conviction to the appeal <strong>of</strong> the<br />
ancient argument he urges – that beauty is the pro<strong>of</strong> <strong>of</strong> natural<br />
intelligence.<br />
1 Haeckel’s delicate pencil and ink drawings were brilliantly interpreted by the<br />
lithographer Adolph Giltsch. A thorough assessment <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong> Forms in Nature would<br />
require that their separate contributions be disentangled.<br />
2 Ernst Haeckel, <strong>Art</strong> Forms in Nature (Munich & New York: Prestel Verlag, 1998),<br />
p. 27.<br />
3 <strong>Art</strong> Forms in Nature was kept in print for years by Dover Publications in their<br />
catalogue <strong>of</strong> uncopyrighted clip-art oddities, alongside compendia <strong>of</strong> Victorian<br />
stencils and 19th-century political cartoons. In 1998, Prestel <strong>issue</strong>d a superb<br />
color version <strong>of</strong> the book.<br />
4 Krystallsee is the title <strong>of</strong> a book published by Haeckel in 1917.<br />
5 Daniel Gasman, Haeckel’s Monism and the Birth <strong>of</strong> Fascist Ideology (New York:<br />
Peter Lang Publishing, 1998), p. 157. See also Gasman’s The Scientific Origins <strong>of</strong><br />
National Socialism: Social Darwinism in Ernst Haeckel and the German Monist<br />
League (London & New York: MacDonald, 1971).<br />
6 Ernst Haeckel, The Riddle <strong>of</strong> the Universe (New York: Harper & Bros., 1900), p.328<br />
7 Here is another example <strong>of</strong> Haeckel’s insightful but dangerous mixing <strong>of</strong> science<br />
and art. For a detailed discussion <strong>of</strong> the misleading teleological subtleties <strong>of</strong> Haeck-<br />
el’s trees <strong>of</strong> life, see Stephen Jay Gould’s Wonderful Life (New York: Penguin, 1991),<br />
especially pp. 263-267.<br />
8 Ibid, p. 116.<br />
9 Gould, “This View <strong>of</strong> Life,” Natural History, March 2000. Those phony embryos<br />
were recently discovered persisting in textbooks, and creationists have blustered<br />
about finding Haeckel’s skeleton in the closet <strong>of</strong> evolution ever since. See, for exam-<br />
ple, M. K. Richardson et al., “Haeckel, Embryos, and Evolution,” Science 280:983-<br />
985 (1998). Haeckel’s dogma <strong>of</strong> recapitulation had lost its luster on<br />
any terms by 1910 or so, when it became “unfashionable in practice, following<br />
the rise <strong>of</strong> experimental embryology, and untenable in theory, following scientific<br />
change in a related field (Mendelian genetics).” Stephen Jay Gould, Ontogeny and<br />
Phylogeny (Cambridge: Belknap Press, 1977), p. 77.<br />
10 Ernst Haeckel, The Evolution <strong>of</strong> Man: A Popular Exposition <strong>of</strong> the Principle<br />
Points <strong>of</strong> Human Phylogeny and Ontogeny (New York: Appleton, 1897. English<br />
edition vol. 1), p. xxxv.
FIEld tracEs<br />
Bill Jones<br />
For the past five years, I’ve been working with Dr. Merrill Garnett,<br />
a biochemist who has spent three decades researching<br />
electrogenetics, the behavior <strong>of</strong> biological systems altered by<br />
substances that increase the flow <strong>of</strong> electrical charge to DNA.<br />
The basis <strong>of</strong> Dr. Garnett’s approach involves the postulation<br />
that there is a corollary genetic code <strong>of</strong> pulsed electromagnetic<br />
current that enables communication at the cellular level<br />
within a given organism. The coaxial liquid-crystal structure <strong>of</strong><br />
DNA transmits and receives energy and information by a process<br />
known as flexo-electricity, the equivalent <strong>of</strong> the piezoelectricity<br />
produced by crystal oscillators in computers. Dr. Garnett<br />
theorizes that molecular nano-circuits, through which the corollary<br />
genetic mechanism transfers charge over great distances,<br />
induces the multi-cellular state, as well as being key to organized<br />
growth and development. Every cell has both an inward<br />
and outward current. The inward current builds up, and forms a<br />
metastable equilibrium involving multiple reactions. When the<br />
inward current reaches a certain level, outward current is forced<br />
to occur. We see the visual evidence <strong>of</strong> this flux <strong>of</strong> energies in<br />
experiments and resulting photographs that show changes in<br />
form. In such images, DNA liquid crystals that normally look like<br />
small flowers explode outward into starburst-like structures<br />
when charged at the correct frequency, expressing the energy<br />
field needed for cell maturation. During the life <strong>of</strong> an organism,<br />
this energy flux continually streams through its DNA in a number<br />
<strong>of</strong> axes <strong>of</strong> vibration – when the fluxes end, life ends.<br />
Microscopy and microphotography <strong>of</strong> electro-active biological<br />
polymers charged with pulsed electro-magnetic fields<br />
trace those fields as the liquid crystalline polymers dry on the<br />
surface <strong>of</strong> a glass microscope slide. The microphotographs<br />
presented here show field traces mapping the change in structure<br />
and symmetry <strong>of</strong> DNA and prothrombin – the bio-polymer<br />
responsible for blood clotting that one preliminary model suggests<br />
might function as a kind <strong>of</strong> vascular “internet,” facilitating<br />
communication with DNA – under the influence <strong>of</strong> a pulsed<br />
electro-magnetic field.<br />
opposite: Microphotograph <strong>of</strong> prothrombin dried on a glass slide. The fern-like<br />
fractal structure <strong>of</strong> this bio-polymer responsible for blood clotting demonstrates<br />
its liquid crystalinity.<br />
overleaf: Prothrombin is once again dried on a glass slide, but in this experiment<br />
the linear structure <strong>of</strong> transmission cables is formed by coating the prothrombin<br />
with the biological dialectric hyaluronic acid. The discovery <strong>of</strong> the electro-active<br />
nature <strong>of</strong> prothrombin and other bio-polymers such as DNA suggests the possibil-<br />
ity <strong>of</strong> a corallary genetic code and a “vascular internet.”<br />
30
mm, mm, Good: markEtING aNd<br />
rEGrEssIoN IN aEstHEtIc tastE<br />
DaviD Hawkes<br />
In the week following September 11, a portentous apparition<br />
appeared on the campus <strong>of</strong> the liberal arts college where I teach.<br />
A hugely fat man dressed as a tin <strong>of</strong> Campbell’s soup greeted<br />
shell-shocked students and faculty on their way to the cafeteria.<br />
The red-and-white blimp was imprisoned in a tight costume<br />
splattered with his employer’s logo. He sweated under a carnivalesque<br />
mask that twisted his once-human features into a hideous,<br />
mocking grimace. His polyester uniform must have been<br />
a torment in the late-summer sun, but at first he bore the curses,<br />
taunts, and gibes <strong>of</strong> passers-by with something approaching<br />
good humor. As the afternoon wore on, though, his demeanor<br />
began to turn ugly. The winsome advertising slogans he sung<br />
degenerated into sullen mutterings, eventually shading into<br />
outright threats. The cheery smile with which he greeted the<br />
co-eds mutated into an aggressively salacious leer. Perhaps<br />
his gloved hands slipped; in any case one girl responded to his<br />
attentions with a sharp kick to the shin. Finally, as a group <strong>of</strong><br />
simian fratboys began to circle him with violent intent, he slunk<br />
grumpily <strong>of</strong>f into the sunset.<br />
This monster’s visitation caused considerable consternation<br />
around the university, some <strong>of</strong> whose denizens were<br />
recently bereaved. I was one <strong>of</strong> those who complained about<br />
him to the manager <strong>of</strong> the “food court.” The response I received<br />
was quizzical, uncomprehending. Was the Campbell’s freak in<br />
questionable taste, a stunt better inflicted on a less distraught<br />
community? On the contrary, he had been summoned precisely<br />
because <strong>of</strong> the disaster, for the purpose <strong>of</strong> “cheering<br />
people up.” The representatives <strong>of</strong> the corporation that now<br />
controls our “dining services” simply could not understand why<br />
anyone should find this clownish spectacle unamusing. Commercial<br />
aesthetics, I came to realize, were regarded by these<br />
folk as unequivocally uplifting, and the thought that people<br />
numb with the shock <strong>of</strong> recent disaster should be anything but<br />
delighted by this ghoul had simply not crossed their minds.<br />
In retrospect, it was probably naive to cause a fuss. The<br />
hapless soup-man was merely a local eruption <strong>of</strong> the general<br />
plague <strong>of</strong> marketing, packaging, and mind-control currently<br />
raging through the college campuses <strong>of</strong> the Western world.<br />
Naomi Klein describes this phenomenon in devastating detail in<br />
her book No Logo, but her protests are already buried beneath<br />
the billboards. The university cafeteria is now a shopping mall,<br />
where Starbucks and Burger King lord it over consumers.<br />
Where, the campus shop once provided good, cheap, homemade<br />
sandwiches, the students must now purchase an Asian<br />
atom-bomb <strong>of</strong> MSG from an outlet labeled, with presumably<br />
unconscious Hitlerian overtones, “Mein Bowl.” An enormous<br />
wall is being constructed at the edge <strong>of</strong> campus, with the dual<br />
purpose <strong>of</strong> housing The Gap and sealing <strong>of</strong>f the university from<br />
the impoverished Puerto Rican neighborhood in which it is<br />
marooned. Needless to say, the bookstore has been taken over<br />
by Barnes & Noble.<br />
We may ask ourselves: Well, how did we get here? The<br />
answer we will be given is that we wanted it this way. For a<br />
while, it was my habit to question the authorities whenever<br />
a new piece <strong>of</strong> capitalist propaganda defaced my working
environment. Why, I used to say, are you doing this to us?<br />
The response never varied. A survey had been done, a<br />
poll taken, a study commissioned. The results had proved –<br />
proved – beyond all reasonable doubt that students desired,<br />
demanded, could not possibly live without, the comforting<br />
presence <strong>of</strong> multinational corporations. To object that Burger<br />
King is a purveyor <strong>of</strong> poison, or that Nike trainers are manufactured<br />
by six year-old slaves, would have been viewed as<br />
not merely unscientific, but actually undemocratic. In one<br />
<strong>of</strong> many forlorn and futile discussions with the campus decision-makers,<br />
I tried to explain that part <strong>of</strong> my job as an educator<br />
was to teach my students to think critically about the<br />
ideological structures upon which commercial advertising is<br />
built, and that having human tins <strong>of</strong> soup rampaging across<br />
campus tended to undermine my work. I was politely informed<br />
that while there was no desire to denigrate “your philosophy,”<br />
it was an incontrovertible and empirically tested fact that students<br />
took pleasure and succor from<br />
living in a brashly commercial, logosoaked<br />
environment. This ambience,<br />
outside <strong>of</strong> which students would, I was<br />
assured, flounder like dying fish, was<br />
frequently said to generate a “branded<br />
feel.”<br />
Obviously, there are more things<br />
in heaven and earth than are dreamed<br />
<strong>of</strong> in my philosophy, but the more I<br />
considered this ostensibly unlikely<br />
proposition, the more I found it to be<br />
true. Adolescents away from home<br />
for the first time probably do find it<br />
reassuring to be surrounded by the<br />
familiar signs and symbols, logos and<br />
brands, which gratified their desires<br />
as children. Why wouldn’t they? The<br />
“branded feel,” after all, is hardly confined<br />
to university campuses. I suppose<br />
that the traditional pedagogical<br />
mission <strong>of</strong> such institutions may once<br />
have protected students from what<br />
my colleagues in the Business College refer to as “the real world”<br />
for an unnaturally long time. When businesspeople talk <strong>of</strong> the<br />
“real world,” <strong>of</strong> course, they mean they world <strong>of</strong> money – that<br />
is, <strong>of</strong> imaginary value – and the phantasmogoric, hallucinatory<br />
techniques <strong>of</strong> advertising and entertainment that is necessary<br />
to induce consumption. Today, however, this hyper-real dimension<br />
can no longer be distinguished from the empirical world.<br />
The unreal has become real, and what we once thought <strong>of</strong> as<br />
the real world lying beneath the veneer <strong>of</strong> representation has<br />
been consigned to the unimaginably distant and exotic other<br />
country <strong>of</strong> the past, where they do things differently.<br />
Soup is one thing, books are another. Being forced to eat<br />
Burger King and Campbell’s will not kill me – alright, it will,<br />
but probably not for a couple <strong>of</strong> decades – but I did think we<br />
could draw the line at the bookstore. When Barnes & Noble<br />
took over, they naturally revised the inventory so as to eliminate<br />
those books that appealed only to the tastes <strong>of</strong> a minority.<br />
The travel section, for example, shed its guides to back-<br />
34<br />
packing in Africa and the <strong>And</strong>es, directing customers<br />
instead to toney restaurants in London and Paris, or all-inclusive<br />
Caribbean resorts deemed suitable for secure Spring Breaks. In<br />
general, books that were obscure or idiosyncratic disappeared<br />
from the shelves. This seemed a pity to me, so I wrote in protest<br />
to the new manager. Her reply was disarmingly frank:<br />
I do not understand why this is a bad thing. We only have so<br />
much room in the store so why would I want to fill it with items<br />
that students/faculty/staff do not want? The goal <strong>of</strong> any business<br />
is to have what people want when they want it. Paralleling this<br />
to your pr<strong>of</strong>ession: if a minimum enrollment for a course is not<br />
achieved it would be rare to never that a course would run (except<br />
as independent study?). In other words the course (product) that<br />
no one, or almost no one, wants is removed from the shelves<br />
(registrar list) and new products (courses) replace them in future<br />
semesters. Why <strong>of</strong>fer a course that no one is interested in taking<br />
(paying tuition)? Why <strong>of</strong>fer products that no one is interested in<br />
buying?<br />
We find here the extension <strong>of</strong> the<br />
supply-and-demand ethos <strong>of</strong> neoclassical<br />
economics into the life <strong>of</strong> the<br />
mind. People are regarded as “customers,”<br />
not only when they go shopping<br />
in a mundanely literal sense, but also<br />
when they figuratively “shop” for the<br />
“products” <strong>of</strong> knowledge. Students<br />
choose their courses on the basis <strong>of</strong><br />
cost-benefit analyses: how many hours<br />
<strong>of</strong> work will be required to achieve an<br />
A, and how much will this grade add<br />
to one’s starting bonus. Pr<strong>of</strong>essors<br />
have grown accustomed to student<br />
complaints that, having put in the requisite<br />
amount <strong>of</strong> study-time, they have<br />
not been rewarded by adequate final<br />
grades. Office hours at the end <strong>of</strong> the<br />
semester are filled with a haggling and<br />
a wheedling that would not disgrace<br />
the Cairo souk. Intellectual trends confirm<br />
and support students’ self-image<br />
as consumers: according to the popular philosophy <strong>of</strong> “rational<br />
choice theory,” the principle <strong>of</strong> the maximization <strong>of</strong> marginal utility<br />
can, and should, apply to every field <strong>of</strong> human endeavor, up to<br />
and including romantic love, artistic creation, and education.<br />
Appalled but intrigued, I wrote another letter asking how<br />
the Barnes & Noble takeover had influenced the day-to-day<br />
running <strong>of</strong> the bookstore. The manager once again responded<br />
with commendable honesty: “The biggest way B&N influences<br />
our daily lives is their customer service requirements… B&N<br />
has never lost a contract due to customer service… We have a<br />
motto we must follow: ‘Of course we can.’”<br />
This “service” mentality is closely analogous to prostitution.<br />
Other forms <strong>of</strong> servility, such as those found in feudal<br />
societies, are manifested in the interactions <strong>of</strong> individuals performing<br />
clearly defined and mutually understood social roles.<br />
But in the world <strong>of</strong> “customer service,” servility is mediated<br />
through the medium <strong>of</strong> money. It involves an abject debasement<br />
at the feet <strong>of</strong> the “customer,” the need to “serve” him in any<br />
way possible, combined with absolute, intransigent, and – yes –
principled insistence on the financial nature <strong>of</strong> the transaction.<br />
One hundred and fifty years ago, Marx pointed out that capitalism<br />
reduces all <strong>of</strong> us to whoredom. In the Economic and Philosophical<br />
Manuscripts <strong>of</strong> 1844 he observes that: “Prostitution is<br />
only a particular expression <strong>of</strong> the universal prostitution <strong>of</strong> the<br />
worker, and since prostitution is a relationship which includes<br />
not only the prostituted but also the prostitutor – whose infamy<br />
is even greater – the capitalist is also included in this category.”<br />
In the 19th century, this “prostitution <strong>of</strong> the worker” was at least<br />
limited to the workplace. In the endless market <strong>of</strong> postmodernity,<br />
however, allurement, seduction, and enticement for monetary<br />
gain achieve the status <strong>of</strong> an ethical code, a morality to<br />
live by.<br />
One way <strong>of</strong> illustrating the transition from the modernist<br />
to the postmodernist sensibility is to compare Thomas Mann’s<br />
Death in Venice with Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita. Both concern a<br />
middle-aged man, educated in the great tradition <strong>of</strong> European<br />
high <strong>culture</strong>, who is destroyed by his fetishistic fascination for<br />
a brainlessly beautiful child. But 40 years, a continent, and an<br />
entire aesthetic epoch lie between them. In Mann’s novella, the<br />
desire <strong>of</strong> the artist Aschenbach for the boy Tadzio has a heroic,<br />
self-sacrificing purity. It symbolizes the ancient attraction <strong>of</strong><br />
Apollo for Dionysus, the lure that the erotic has always held for<br />
the intellectual. In Nabokov’s book, Humbert Humbert’s lechery<br />
is dirty, disgraceful, sick. The reason is not the age <strong>of</strong> the lustobject<br />
(Tadzio is barely older than Lolita), but its nature. Aschenbach’s<br />
boy is silent, enigmatic, distant, European. Humbert’s<br />
girl attracts him for the opposite reasons – it is her vulgarity, her<br />
brazenness, her venality, her American-ness that enslave him.<br />
In a word, Humbert is captivated by Lolita’s commercialism.<br />
He loves her preoccupations with movie stars and jukeboxes,<br />
comic books and bubble gum, motel rooms and Levi’s jeans. He<br />
loves her “branded feel.” We see it in the exquisite, melancholy<br />
poem he writes for her: “Where are you riding, Dolores Haze? /<br />
What make is the magic carpet? / Is a Cream Cougar the present<br />
craze...?”<br />
Between 1912, the apex <strong>of</strong> high modernism when Mann<br />
wrote Death in Venice, and 1955, when Lolita appeared, the aesthetic<br />
sensibility <strong>of</strong> the Western world was changed, changed<br />
utterly. A terrible beauty was born from the shotgun marriage<br />
<strong>of</strong> aesthetics and commerce. In The Conquest <strong>of</strong> Cool, Thomas<br />
Frank takes <strong>issue</strong> with the myth that the post-war “counter<strong>culture</strong>”<br />
was an oppositional or liberatory force. He points out that<br />
the revolution in taste and lifestyle celebrated by the baby-boom<br />
generation was accompanied – and even directed – by analogous<br />
revolutions in advertising and marketing. Capital learned<br />
to embrace aesthetic and even political rebellion: “the Revolutionaries<br />
are on CBS.” In fact, “Rock ‘n’ Roll” represents the<br />
moment when image replaced substance in music, and when<br />
youth seized the social and cultural prerogatives which once<br />
belonged to age. <strong>And</strong>y Warhol’s “Double Elvis,” a simple reproduction<br />
<strong>of</strong> two identical photographs <strong>of</strong> the King, announces<br />
the demise <strong>of</strong> the Platonic ideal from <strong>of</strong> beauty, which resided<br />
above all in uniqueness. The age <strong>of</strong> mechanical reproduction<br />
despises uniqueness, which it destroys as certainly and effectively<br />
as mass-produced hamburgers drive homemade sandwiches<br />
from college lunch counters.<br />
To protest against the corporatization <strong>of</strong> campus<br />
35<br />
is thus to tilt at windmills. But we should not be so inno-<br />
cent as to imagine that commerce is devoid <strong>of</strong> aesthetics, or <strong>of</strong><br />
ethics. Although I am mercifully free <strong>of</strong> his unsalubrious sexuality,<br />
I could not but sympathize with Humbert’s poshlust (the<br />
wonderfully evocative Russian word that Nabokov translates<br />
as “attraction to the false”) when I received a written response<br />
to my recriminations from the “food court” manager, a nice lad<br />
who looks young enough to date Lolita. It is, I have come to<br />
think, very beautiful.<br />
Dear David Hawkes, I appreciate the time you spent in conveying<br />
this concern. Feedback to myself is imperative so we can<br />
make sound business decisions to improve our patron’s experience.<br />
In regards your soup question, the price <strong>of</strong> soup in the Food<br />
Court hasn’t be raised in the past 3 years. Whether or not we<br />
went with Campbell’s or the home made the price was going to<br />
be inflated either way to accommodate rising costs in the business.<br />
We introduced the Campbell’s program during the winter<br />
break last year and response from facility and staff was positive.<br />
The Campbell’s program <strong>of</strong>fers consistency, name brand<br />
recognition, and also the fact that we could <strong>of</strong>fer soup through<br />
all meal periods. In the past, we would rely on the board plan<br />
for distributing soup to the Food Court. If they had a busy lunch<br />
or dinner <strong>of</strong>ten the Food Court would have no soup to <strong>of</strong>fer our<br />
dinner customers. With the Campbell’s being prepared fresh on<br />
our floor we would be able to <strong>of</strong>fer soup at anytime to appease<br />
all <strong>of</strong> our customers. As far as pricing we compared our price to<br />
the local McDonald’s and they're <strong>of</strong>fering a 12 ounce Campbell's<br />
soup for $1.69. I’m sure if you checked other local retail operations<br />
you would find our selling price for soup is very competitive<br />
to the local market. Again, we didn’t raise the price for 3 years. In<br />
two weeks we will be running a special promotion for our regular<br />
soup customers. We will be issuing Cards that the cashier will<br />
stamp after every soup purchase. After 5 punches our customer’s<br />
will receive a free Campbell’s soup mug and a re-fill price <strong>of</strong><br />
$1.49 for the entire semester. I hope this answered your questions.<br />
Again, thank you for your concern and your patronage at<br />
the Food Court.<br />
Pr<strong>of</strong>essors <strong>of</strong> literature are in no position to mock the commercial<br />
aesthetic, which emphatically drives home its hegemony<br />
on a daily, nay hourly, basis. Perhaps the advocates <strong>of</strong><br />
canonical art need to learn, like Humbert Humbert, to appreciate<br />
the beauty <strong>of</strong> the banal. Kant claimed that the experience<br />
<strong>of</strong> the sublime sprang from contemplation <strong>of</strong> the uncreated, <strong>of</strong><br />
the natural, which he opposed to the idolatrous adoration <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Biblical “works <strong>of</strong> men’s hands.” He was wrong. In the 21st century,<br />
the sublime is produced by the seamless merger <strong>of</strong> aesthetics<br />
with the market, <strong>of</strong> desire with prostitution, <strong>of</strong> artwork<br />
with product. I’m <strong>of</strong>f to claim my free cup <strong>of</strong> Campbell’s.
EautIFul INdoNEsIa (IN mINIaturE)<br />
DaviD womack<br />
On a rainy day in November, at the Beautiful Indonesia in Miniature<br />
Park, two nearly-naked men from Irian Jaya (the Indonesian<br />
half <strong>of</strong> the island <strong>of</strong> New Guinea) sit on the cold marble<br />
floor in the main pavilion. Their dark faces are streaked with<br />
red and yellow ochre. Crescent-shaped bones hang from their<br />
noses. They sit with their long, banded arms wrapped around<br />
their knees, smoking cigarettes and arguing. In front <strong>of</strong> them<br />
a Balinese dancer stares wide eyed into the middle distance.<br />
Without turning her head she looks from right to left to right.<br />
Her forefingers flutter like hummingbirds, beating quadruple<br />
time to the rhythm <strong>of</strong> the gamelan. These performances are one<br />
<strong>of</strong> the few things in Indonesia that always take place on time,<br />
whether anyone is there to see them or not. As long as they continue,<br />
<strong>culture</strong> is alive and well in Indonesia – or at least that is<br />
the <strong>of</strong>ficial position.<br />
Beautiful Indonesia in Miniature Park, or “Taman Mini” as it<br />
is known in Indonesia’s national language, Bahasa, lies six kilometers<br />
outside <strong>of</strong> the capital city, Jakarta. On a weekday afternoon,<br />
particularly during the rainy season, the 250-acre park is<br />
one <strong>of</strong> the best places in the Jakarta area for a leisurely stroll. On<br />
a sunny weekend, however, the park can be thronged with visitors.<br />
Taman Mini draws an estimated 4.5 million visitors a year,<br />
the vast majority <strong>of</strong> them Indonesian. Visitors come to Taman<br />
Mini from all over the Indonesian archipelago, which stretches<br />
across an expanse <strong>of</strong> ocean slightly larger than the continental<br />
United States. The park features a lake that symbolizes this vast<br />
expanse <strong>of</strong> ocean with islands that represent a few dozen <strong>of</strong> the<br />
archipelago’s 13,677. The islands in the lake are identically flat,<br />
featureless, with low bushes representing mountain ranges,<br />
and are best viewed from above in a creaky gondola that dangles<br />
from a sagging cable. From the gondola, one can also see<br />
most <strong>of</strong> the pavilions that are the park’s main attractions. There<br />
is a pavilion for each <strong>of</strong> Indonesia’s 26 provinces, and one for<br />
East Timor, which has just gained independence after a 23-year<br />
struggle for independence.<br />
The pavilions were built by traditional craftsmen brought in<br />
from the provinces by the government. The Minangkabau pavilion,<br />
representing western Sumatra, has soaring, overlapping<br />
ro<strong>of</strong>s made <strong>of</strong> coconut-fiber thatch. The walls are intricately<br />
carved and painted with symbols. Taman Mini’s guides – teenage<br />
boys who freelance for tips and a chance to practice their<br />
English – are particularly proud <strong>of</strong> the fact that the pavilions<br />
are authentic, or “asli.” They were built with all the rituals and<br />
ceremonies necessary to insure that they are fully endowed as<br />
spiritual, as well as material, entities. The pavilions are not replicas<br />
<strong>of</strong> existing buildings, rather were designed to be exemplary<br />
structures – larger and more intricate than any other traditional<br />
buildings in Indonesia. Some, such as the Javanese pavilion<br />
built in the style <strong>of</strong> the Kraton, are even considered sacred.<br />
The pavilions, and the ceremonies and rituals that take place<br />
within them, are meant to exemplify local tradition purified and<br />
elevated to the national level.<br />
Taman Mini is beginning to show signs <strong>of</strong> wear since its<br />
benefactors, the Suhartos, were ousted in 1998. The concrete<br />
paths have cracked and the paint is beginning to peel <strong>of</strong>f the<br />
concession stand. Although widely known among<br />
Indonesians, Taman Mini generally receives just a few<br />
lines in foreign guidebooks – descriptions that are most <strong>of</strong>ten<br />
apologetic. They imply that Beautiful Indonesia in Miniature is<br />
a place for people who do not have the time or resources to go<br />
to the islands themselves. This is not the view that most Indonesians<br />
have <strong>of</strong> the park and is certainly not the government’s<br />
position. During Suharto’s 30-year rule, Taman Mini was seen<br />
as Indonesia’s most significant cultural symbol. Despite its current<br />
disrepair, the park and the policies it represents continue to<br />
shape Indonesia today.<br />
The idea for Taman Mini came to the dictator’s wife, Tien<br />
Suharto, during a visit to Disneyland on a sunny day in 1971.<br />
Tien was said to have been completely smitten with the Magic<br />
Kingdom. Perhaps this was because her life had the elements<br />
<strong>of</strong> a fairy tale, though with none <strong>of</strong> the easy moral lessons.<br />
Tien, who traced her lineage back to Javanese royalty,<br />
had married below her class. Her husband – who would go on<br />
to rule a nation that included pirates, witches and cannibals –<br />
was from a poor family. A short man with a blunt nose and pockmarked<br />
face, Suharto had risen through the military and had<br />
come to power as the result <strong>of</strong> a coup in which he is rumored<br />
to have had his rivals murdered in their beds. Tien was his muse<br />
and constant companion and is said by some to have been the<br />
brains behind Suharto’s brawn.<br />
The most remarkable thing about Taman Mini is that it<br />
was built at all. Taman Mini cost $25 million – a preposterous<br />
36 above and overleaf: photos <strong>of</strong> Taman Mini courtesy <strong>of</strong> the Indonesian Consulate
amount <strong>of</strong> money in Indonesia in 1971. A group <strong>of</strong> <strong>of</strong>ficials<br />
objected to the project, pointing out that for the same price the<br />
government could build 52 small industries or seven large universities.<br />
Public protests drew large crowds and reached a climax<br />
when the “Save Our People’s Money” movement marched<br />
on Tien’s “Our Hope” foundation. The army opened fire with live<br />
ammunition and at least four people were seriously wounded.<br />
Suharto finished the clash with characteristic subtlety, saying<br />
<strong>of</strong> the dissenters, “Quite frankly, I’ll deal with them. No matter<br />
who they are!” 1<br />
Why would the leader <strong>of</strong> a struggling republic risk public<br />
outrage and financial ruin to build a theme park his wife<br />
dreamed up at Disneyland? Suharto himself addressed the<br />
question at the dedication on 20 April 1975. “Life,” he said,<br />
“will not have a beautiful and deep meaning with material sufficiency<br />
only… One’s life will be calm and complete only when<br />
it is accompanied by a spiritual welfare. The direction and<br />
guidance toward that spiritual welfare is, in fact, already in our<br />
possession; it lies in our beautiful and noble national cultural<br />
inheritance.” 2 This remark gives a clue as to the true function<br />
Taman Mini would come to serve for the government. Beautiful<br />
Indonesia in Miniature Park was not built to be an amusing<br />
diversion. Rather, it would serve as the nation’s spiritual<br />
treasure trove – a locked box containing the nation’s cultural<br />
wealth to be kept close to Indonesia’s heart and its capital.<br />
Suharto’s definition <strong>of</strong> <strong>culture</strong> would be elucidated by the festivities<br />
that followed.<br />
In addition to the foreign dignitaries, the governors <strong>of</strong><br />
Indonesia’s territories were recalled to Jakarta for Taman Mini’s<br />
dedication ceremony. As the representative <strong>of</strong> the <strong>culture</strong>s <strong>of</strong><br />
that region, each <strong>of</strong> the governors were required by Suharto to<br />
dress in a customary costume. Under these orders, the governor<br />
<strong>of</strong> Irian Jaya wore a fur crown and put a bone through his<br />
nose. (This, <strong>of</strong> course, hardly obscured the fact that he was not<br />
a dark-skinned native <strong>of</strong> Irian Jaya, but a light-skinned Javanese.)<br />
The other governors, who were similarly costumed,<br />
were Javanese as well. Though the effect <strong>of</strong> all these pale,<br />
pudgy Javanese bureaucrats dressed up like jungle warriors<br />
must have been comical, it seems safe say that, given the pious<br />
tone <strong>of</strong> the proceedings, no one laughed – except, perhaps, for<br />
Suharto himself. For Suharto, the masquerade was an ideological<br />
victory with far-reaching implications. He had succeeded in<br />
separating the idea <strong>of</strong> <strong>culture</strong> from the people who practiced<br />
it. Culture was now a costume that could be taken on or <strong>of</strong>f,<br />
depending on the occasion.<br />
Suharto would soon drop his mask. Having secured his position<br />
as a champion <strong>of</strong> <strong>culture</strong> in Indonesia, he would seize the<br />
land and resources <strong>of</strong> the outer islands and set about to dilute<br />
and destroy the people whose <strong>culture</strong> he had so recently celebrated.<br />
These policies would cost hundreds <strong>of</strong> thousands<br />
<strong>of</strong> lives and fuel the violent separatist movements that now<br />
threaten to break Indonesia apart. By the time Taman Mini<br />
was completed, the national government had already begun<br />
to claim locally held property. The Forest Development Law<br />
removed control <strong>of</strong> the nation’s forests from the communities<br />
and gave it to the national government. The results were devastating.<br />
In 1966, when Suharto took power, 75 percent <strong>of</strong> Indonesia,<br />
or 144 million hectares, were covered in forest.<br />
37<br />
By the time Suharto was removed from power in 1998,<br />
only 53 million hectares, or 37 percent, <strong>of</strong> the land remained<br />
forested. Indonesia had lost its rain forest at more than twice<br />
the world average. Suharto pushed the government authority<br />
into the most isolated regions <strong>of</strong> Sumatra, Sulawesi, Kalimantan<br />
and Irian Jaya. Huge camps were created in the middle <strong>of</strong><br />
the jungle. Workers were brought in from Java and Madura.<br />
The money went to Jakarta. Tien Suharto even earned the nickname<br />
“Mrs. Ten Percent” because <strong>of</strong> the cut she took on business<br />
deals. When Suharto left <strong>of</strong>fice his successor estimated<br />
his fortune at $45 billion – enough to repay Indonesia’s debts<br />
to the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank. Taman<br />
Mini and the cultural policies it represented had paid for themselves<br />
many times over.<br />
Suharto’s policies brought equal devastation upon the people.<br />
Hundreds <strong>of</strong> thousands <strong>of</strong> people who resisted the authority<br />
<strong>of</strong> the Indonesian government were tortured and killed in<br />
East Timor, Irian Jaya, Aceh, and elsewhere. Recognizing that<br />
<strong>culture</strong>, though <strong>of</strong>ficially entombed at Taman Mini, might still<br />
be an organizing force, Suharto pushed a policy designed to<br />
dilute these populations. The program was called transmigrasi.<br />
Transmigrasi consisted <strong>of</strong> moving people from the densely<br />
populated islands such as Java to the outer islands. As many<br />
as 3.5 million people were lured by the promise <strong>of</strong> free land and<br />
housing but in fact found themselves stranded in isolated communities<br />
consisting <strong>of</strong> tiny, tin-ro<strong>of</strong>ed houses laid down at the<br />
edge <strong>of</strong> the jungle. Like canaries in a coalmine, the immigrants<br />
were used to inform the government <strong>of</strong> local hostility. When the<br />
hostility reached the boiling point, they would let the government<br />
know by dying.<br />
The participants in transmigrasi have been the victims<br />
<strong>of</strong> some <strong>of</strong> the most extreme ethnic violence. On one island<br />
alone, Kalimantan, members <strong>of</strong> the Dyak ethnic group – the<br />
famed “Wild men <strong>of</strong> Borneo” – have slaughtered more than 550<br />
immigrants in numerous attacks. Claiming a revival <strong>of</strong> ancient<br />
headhunting practices, they leave the headless corpses <strong>of</strong> men,<br />
women, and children strewn about the dirt streets. Although<br />
they seem to fancy themselves warriors descending from the<br />
forest primeval, they are several decades too late for that. In<br />
reality, most <strong>of</strong> these killers lived a life that was remarkably<br />
close to their victims – struggling to eke a living from a land that<br />
had been reduced to red dirt and saw grass.<br />
In May <strong>of</strong> last year, the Beautiful Indonesia in Miniature Park<br />
held a mock Dyak wedding. At more or less the same time,<br />
the Dyaks held a mass execution in Kalimantan. Both <strong>of</strong> these<br />
events were seen as a celebration <strong>of</strong> Dyak <strong>culture</strong> by the people<br />
who staged them. Neither has much to do with the hunters and<br />
gatherers who once lived in the world’s second largest rain forest<br />
and developed a complex system <strong>of</strong> rituals and beliefs that<br />
were in harmony with a world that has now almost entirely vanished.<br />
Beautiful Indonesia in Miniature has overtaken beautiful<br />
Indonesia.<br />
1 John Pemberton, On the Subject <strong>of</strong> Java (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994), pp.<br />
157-158.<br />
2 Ibid.
PaINt aNd PaINt NamEs<br />
Daniel Harris<br />
I had painted walls only once in my life and was entirely unprepared<br />
to tackle the six rooms <strong>of</strong> the apartment I recently purchased.<br />
What began as an exciting project <strong>of</strong> renovation,<br />
a fresh start, a new lease on life, ended as a costly disaster.<br />
Tawny Day Lily looked like a drop <strong>of</strong> golden sunshine on<br />
the paint chip, but on the four walls <strong>of</strong> my bedroom it was<br />
a technicolor catastrophe, as was Dark Salmon, a cloying<br />
shade <strong>of</strong> pink, and Candied Yam, a sulfurous yellow that<br />
transformed my room into the girlish lair <strong>of</strong> a cheerleader.<br />
Tangerine Dream looked no better in my hallway, and the<br />
Citrus Blast <strong>of</strong> my pantry, when seen in conjunction with the<br />
Caramelized Orange <strong>of</strong> my kitchen, turned my front rooms<br />
into a fruit stand.<br />
No one had mentioned to me what many consider a rule<br />
<strong>of</strong> thumb in choosing paint: find a color you like and then select<br />
one at least two shades lighter or, better yet, choose another<br />
color altogether, preferably white, or, better still, don’t choose<br />
and let someone more knowledgeable make the decision<br />
for you. When magnified on the wall, a square inch <strong>of</strong> Pumpkin<br />
Patch or Iguana Green becomes several square yards <strong>of</strong><br />
fluorescent orange and radioactive malachite. The difference<br />
between the chips one selects from the “color preview palettes”<br />
on display in hardware stores and what one slaps onto the<br />
plasterboard is so extreme that the inexperienced homeowner<br />
chooses this unequivocally visual product blindly, sight unseen.<br />
As tangibly physical as paint is, we are not actually buying a<br />
bucket <strong>of</strong> latex and pigment but a far more fanciful literary product,<br />
an evocative name and a piece <strong>of</strong> paper no bigger than a<br />
bookmark, a type <strong>of</strong> phantasmal paint that we apply not with<br />
our brushes but with our imaginations, which rise to the bait<br />
<strong>of</strong> such arresting, yet evanescent, two-word haikus as Bright<br />
Laughter, Butterfly Bush, Fleeting Fawn, and Pale Parsnip.<br />
Words, however, are a poor substitute for pigment. Strawberry<br />
Mousse and Pineapple Delight may be great for the taste buds,<br />
but they are hell on the eyes.<br />
The vast selection <strong>of</strong> colors available in paint stores (I counted<br />
over 50 shades <strong>of</strong> pink, among them Pink Popsicle, Marshmallow<br />
Bunny, and Tickled Pink) complicates the homemaker’s<br />
task even further. Although the Inter-Society Color Council<br />
recognizes only 267 colors and, moreover, gives them such<br />
prosaic names as Reddish Orange, Very Light Green, and<br />
Dark Red, Pittsburgh Paint currently <strong>of</strong>fers 1,800-colors and<br />
Benjamin Moore no less than 2,000 – a mere fraction <strong>of</strong> the<br />
14,000 the latter has produced since its inception in 1883. Such<br />
bewildering variety would challenge the taxonomical skills <strong>of</strong><br />
even the most ingenious <strong>of</strong> Linnaeuses who, as it stands, has<br />
no tidy Latinate system to make order out <strong>of</strong> chaos but gives<br />
way to despairing giddiness, lapsing into free association. The<br />
muse <strong>of</strong> non-sequiturs inspires him to dream up such marginally<br />
descriptive epithets as Splish Splash, Pitter Patter, Golfer’s<br />
Tan, Pollination, Salted Shrimp, Old Pickup Truck Blue, Rubber<br />
Duckie, and Fuzzy Navel. The absence <strong>of</strong> established rules also<br />
creates nonsensical redundancies and contradictions;<br />
Surf Spray for Pratt and Lambert is pale yellow, while<br />
California Paint’s Tropical Surf is dark greenish-blue and<br />
Benjamin Moore’s Ocean Spray is white-green, just as<br />
Mission for Pratt is whitish-beige while Mission for California<br />
Paints is blackish-blue.<br />
Before the late 19th century, no primordial paint Adam could<br />
christen a wall color a single name because there were no<br />
stable paint species. Each pr<strong>of</strong>essional house painter mixed<br />
his colors on the spot by eye (not by a predetermined recipe)<br />
and was therefore seldom, if ever, able to reproduce the exact<br />
same shade. In 1867, the first ready-made paint was patented,<br />
and in 1892, Benjamin Moore brought out a revolutionary powdered<br />
paint called Muresco, a kind <strong>of</strong> instant freeze-dried mix<br />
to which one simply added water and stirred. It was an exciting<br />
innovation heralded by interior decorators and contractors,<br />
even if it was available in an admittedly limited palette<br />
(namely, white). Only after World War II, with the rise <strong>of</strong> home<br />
ownership and suburbanization, did the average consumer<br />
succumb to the appeal <strong>of</strong> the do-it-yourself movement and<br />
begin to paint his walls himself, without the help <strong>of</strong> the pr<strong>of</strong>essional<br />
painter. He was thus thrown into an unprecedented<br />
intimate relationship with paint manufacturers and retailers<br />
which, before World War II, had largely dealt with gruff contractors<br />
who knew precisely what they wanted and didn’t need to<br />
be seduced by the rhapsodic poetry <strong>of</strong> paint names. The de-<br />
pr<strong>of</strong>essionalization <strong>of</strong> painting thus gave birth to a whole new<br />
literary genre: the lyrical if infantilized rhetoric with which companies<br />
began to captivate the novice, who insisted that paint<br />
products have enticing names, not just the numeric formulae<br />
printed on each chip.<br />
A spectrum analysis <strong>of</strong> paint names yields a distinct vision <strong>of</strong><br />
the consumer. For one, she is female, as can be seen in the preponderance<br />
<strong>of</strong> such stereotypically girlish colors as Ballet Slipper,<br />
Pink Fairy, Cinderella, Debutante Pink, Pussy Willow, and<br />
Light Chiffon. For another, the divisions between her senses<br />
are at best permeable. She perceives the world synesthetically<br />
through a euphoric haze, with sight collapsing into taste<br />
and touch into smell. She not only sees colors, she hears them<br />
(Melodious Mauve, Green Melody), smells them (Citrus Sachet,<br />
Patchouli), feels them (Dusty Mink, S<strong>of</strong>t Satin), and tastes them<br />
(Tangy Taffy, Pizza Pie). In order to appeal to the consumer,<br />
paint manufacturers create colors that suggest a nearly mystical<br />
state <strong>of</strong> arousal, the sensual tempest stirred up by virtually<br />
all contemporary advertisers who sell products by instilling us<br />
with a false vision <strong>of</strong> the body, one afflicted with an almost neurasthenic<br />
sensitivity. Paint names quiver with an inexplicably<br />
voluptuous agitation, which we are meant to find contagious,<br />
so electric that our senses become unstable, clouded by the distortions<br />
<strong>of</strong> hype.<br />
According to this anatomically incorrect vision <strong>of</strong> a body<br />
that responds to the world far more keenly than we really<br />
do, the primary organ for experiencing colors is not the optical<br />
nerve but the taste bud, which discerns in colors mouthwatering<br />
flavors, especially those that cause cavities: Orange<br />
Marmalade, Spice Cookie, Crème Brûlée, T<strong>of</strong>fee Crunch, and<br />
Belgian Waffle. Paint names are high in sugar, cholesterol,<br />
40 opposite: a random sampling <strong>of</strong> Benjamin Moore’s ‘white’ paint chips
and empty calories, from Almond Cream and Applesauce<br />
Cake to Red Gumball and Lime Meringue. Although we live in<br />
an extremely visual <strong>culture</strong>, the paint-namer is <strong>of</strong>ten unable to<br />
describe hues without reference to food, whose representation<br />
poses far greater challenges to the advertiser, since taste<br />
cannot be conveyed through the available media, whereas<br />
colors lend themselves to television broadcasts and glossy<br />
magazines. Perhaps it is because <strong>of</strong> the very impossibility <strong>of</strong><br />
capturing in words the flavor <strong>of</strong> an apple or, for that matter, <strong>of</strong><br />
a gin and tonic, that the rhetoric <strong>of</strong> taste is far more advanced<br />
than the rhetoric <strong>of</strong> color, and the paint manufacturer is forced<br />
to piggyback on a more mature commercial language developed<br />
by an industry that has had to overcome insurmountable<br />
obstacles to entice the consumer, who cannot yet taste the difference<br />
between a pixel and a Benday Dot, an audio frequency<br />
and a video signal. Perhaps also the ineloquence <strong>of</strong> publicity<br />
departments in the face <strong>of</strong> the color wheel reveals that a visual<br />
<strong>culture</strong> like ours has never really examined the assumptions<br />
that structure its experience <strong>of</strong> the world, or has come to rely<br />
so heavily on images that it has lost the ability to discuss them<br />
and has been reduced simply to evoking them, as if the mere<br />
act <strong>of</strong> their presentation were an adequate substitute for their<br />
description and analysis. Our eyes may have improved as we<br />
abandon words for special effects and computer graphics, but<br />
our tongues have become lazy.<br />
Food names are also a convenient disguise for the very<br />
opposite <strong>of</strong> food: for the inedible, for Cobalt-2-Ethylhexanoate,<br />
Titanium Dioxide, 2- (2-Butoxyethoxy)-ethanol, and, <strong>of</strong> course,<br />
lead, all <strong>of</strong> which cause birth defects, cancer, mental retardation,<br />
sterility, silicosis, and damage to the liver, lungs, and<br />
central nervous system. It is not coincidental that paint<br />
manufacturers – the gourmets <strong>of</strong> scrumptious nomenclature –<br />
advise us to use their products in well-ventilated rooms, keep<br />
them out <strong>of</strong> the reach <strong>of</strong> small children, and seek immediate<br />
medical attention if swallowed, ironic precautions for a trade<br />
that names colors after things that are expressly designed to be<br />
swallowed, even devoured, as well as inhaled like the headiest<br />
<strong>of</strong> perfumes. The transformation <strong>of</strong> paint into an ersatz beverage,<br />
snack, or cologne is a way <strong>of</strong> banishing the specter <strong>of</strong> the<br />
skull and crossbones, since the ultimate test <strong>of</strong> a substance’s<br />
harmlessness is our ability to ingest it. The spurious connection<br />
manufacturers make between the paint can and the dinner<br />
plate provides an abstract, literary antidote to a very concrete<br />
poison, which seems infinitely less virulent when it is likened,<br />
however rhetorically, to a Hot Toddy, a Crisp Won Ton, a Lime<br />
Tart, and a Sweet Honeydew Melon.<br />
Toxicity wears another mask, the imaginary ingredient.<br />
Colors were once identified by the substances from which they<br />
were made: cochineal, a brilliant red pigment produced by<br />
pulverizing the bodies <strong>of</strong> thousands <strong>of</strong> cochineal insects,<br />
(parasites that live on cacti); azure from azurite, a blue copper<br />
ore first powdered and then washed in soap, gum, and lye;<br />
iris green, made from the sap <strong>of</strong> iris flowers thickened with<br />
alum; and saffron, from the golden yellow spice produced by<br />
grinding the dried stigmas <strong>of</strong> crocus flowers. Now, the paint<br />
manufacturer actively conceals the substances from which his<br />
colors are made. In fact, virtually no naturally occurring pigments<br />
are in use today. With only a handful <strong>of</strong> exceptions, col-<br />
42<br />
ors are created in laboratories through the artificial com-<br />
bination <strong>of</strong> inorganic chemicals fused under abnormally high<br />
temperatures. It should come as no surprise that there is no sesame<br />
in Sesame, tarragon in Tarragon, or oregano in Oregano,<br />
just as there is no okra in Pickled Okra, pineapple in Pineapple<br />
Sage, or brandy in Brandied Pears. <strong>And</strong> yet paint companies still<br />
hark back to an age in which names identified a color’s primary<br />
ingredient, as if their product line had not been concocted in<br />
Pyrex flasks full <strong>of</strong> toxic catalytic agents bubbling over Bunsen<br />
burners, but plucked out <strong>of</strong> fields (Sunflower, Yellow Begonia),<br />
harvested from trees (Fresh Peaches, Honey Maple), or fished<br />
out <strong>of</strong> the ocean (Pale Coral, Tropical Seaweed Green). Paint<br />
names are small white lies that suggest the pigment was found,<br />
not made, distilled from the leaves <strong>of</strong> geraniums and the pulp <strong>of</strong><br />
papayas, a lyrical fib that at once allays consumer fears about<br />
toxins and elicits nostalgia for a lost bucolic world.<br />
Whether it is a bundle <strong>of</strong> palm fronds or a palisade <strong>of</strong> granite,<br />
the wall, which we have decorated for at least 9,000 years,<br />
chronicles the history <strong>of</strong> man’s fight against nature. This protective<br />
obstruction was once nature’s enemy, the barrier that<br />
sheltered us from elements we simultaneously feared and<br />
worshiped. It is now nature’s tombstone, a victory monument<br />
that shows how completely we have vanquished our environments,<br />
how we no longer fear them but view them instead as a<br />
source <strong>of</strong> recreation and refreshment, a luxurious spa in which<br />
to soothe frazzled nerves, a Sylvan Whimsey, a Sunlit Glade, a<br />
Sweet Meadow, a Green Pasture. The wall no longer excludes<br />
nature but rather brings the out-<strong>of</strong>-doors inside with us, where<br />
we live our lives amidst a color idyll, a pastoral <strong>of</strong> Prairie Winds,<br />
Summer Rains, Woodland Ferns, Spring Tulips, and Green<br />
Jungles. The wall is not a barricade but an imaginary window<br />
that has eliminated the division between outside and inside<br />
and repotted our gardens right in our kitchens and bedrooms,<br />
or, perhaps more accurately, built our kitchens and bedrooms<br />
smack on top <strong>of</strong> our flowerbeds.<br />
With the rise <strong>of</strong> cities, the wall’s real enemy is not nature<br />
but other human beings who lead secretive lives on the<br />
opposite side, lives that are contiguous with ours but that we<br />
seldom see, that make their presence felt only by means <strong>of</strong><br />
late-night quarrels, the distasteful smells <strong>of</strong> cooking, creaking<br />
box springs, and the constant murmur <strong>of</strong> flushing toilets. Overcrowding<br />
and urbanization have given the wall new meaning.<br />
Ever since the first loose stone was piled on top <strong>of</strong> another,
crude partitions have delineated property and thus served<br />
as architectural extensions <strong>of</strong> our sense <strong>of</strong> identity, a way <strong>of</strong><br />
saying to our enemies “mine,” a deed <strong>of</strong> ownership we sign in<br />
bricks and mortar. As we are herded together by overpopulation<br />
and are forced to abandon the luxury <strong>of</strong> detached dwellings<br />
for small apartments, the architectural ramparts <strong>of</strong> our<br />
identities are besieged by the madding crowd, which would<br />
claim its share <strong>of</strong> the ever-dwindling space available in which to<br />
lead lives that have become more and more solitary the closer<br />
we live to each other. The poetry <strong>of</strong> paint names is based on<br />
a misanthropic aesthetic, one that pretends that our walls are<br />
not communal property, are not shared, that there is nothing<br />
behind them but the green sward, wide open spaces devoid <strong>of</strong><br />
other people, vast horizons <strong>of</strong> Island Dawns, Arizona Sunsets,<br />
Big Skies, Mountain Forests, Pink Mesas, and Burning Sands.<br />
Paint provides us with a psychological barrier from our neighbors,<br />
a way <strong>of</strong> achieving a sense <strong>of</strong> self-containment and allowing<br />
our imaginations to revel in that most pressing desideratum<br />
<strong>of</strong> urban life – space, the empty clearings available for a song on<br />
the color preview palette.<br />
In the Juicy Fruit world in which we live, our sense <strong>of</strong> wonder at<br />
color has diminished to a state <strong>of</strong> bored acceptance, the indifference<br />
<strong>of</strong> the chromatically privileged to their wealth. Color meant<br />
so much more to us when we lived in black and white rather<br />
than a harshly colorized world, when the purple reserved for royalty<br />
was painstakingly made from millions <strong>of</strong> tiny droplets <strong>of</strong> ink<br />
excreted by shellfish, and when blue was produced from lapis<br />
lazuli imported at exorbitant cost from Persia, usually in order<br />
to paint the now oxidized robes <strong>of</strong> the Virgin Mary. In fact, ever<br />
since the Industrial Revolution made colors commonplace, we<br />
not only take color for granted but are somewhat suspicious <strong>of</strong><br />
it, and associate garish clothing in particular with the “tastelessness”<br />
<strong>of</strong> the proletariat. Before pigment was mass-produced in<br />
factories, color was a luxury that only the well-to-do could afford,<br />
whereas peasants and workmen were forced to settle for various<br />
shades <strong>of</strong> brown – a color that is, not surprisingly, almost entirely<br />
absent from the medieval and early Renaissance painter’s palette.<br />
When the common people finally experienced their color<br />
liberation, the class associations <strong>of</strong> the spectrum were reversed,<br />
and upper- and middle-class men in particular frowned upon the<br />
proletariat’s unbridled experimentation with gaudy jackets and<br />
flashy cravats.<br />
When I gasped in horror at the riot <strong>of</strong> colors that I had so<br />
mistakenly created in my rooms, I was in part responding to this<br />
snobbish prejudice against vibrant hues, to my undemocratic<br />
urge to tone down and mute my color scheme, opting for “tasteful”<br />
pastels that never draw attention to themselves, that fade,<br />
quite literally, into the woodwork. My fear <strong>of</strong> making embarrassing<br />
gaffes also stems from the association I make between<br />
bright colors and the marketplace, which, as Ruskin once libelously<br />
said <strong>of</strong> Whistler, dashes the paint pot in our faces, affronting<br />
us with acid-pink awnings and flashing neon signs. We mark<br />
the distinction between the public and private world with stark<br />
color differences, retreating from the kaleidoscope <strong>of</strong> dots and<br />
pixels that assault us on the streets into the cozy banality <strong>of</strong> an<br />
unassuming palette.<br />
But perhaps our preference for unassuming earth<br />
43<br />
tones has an even deeper psychological origin. Our<br />
skittishness before the color excesses <strong>of</strong> consumerism may<br />
suggest a direct, if entirely unconscious, correlation between<br />
taste and camouflage, between our love <strong>of</strong> subdued tones and<br />
our fear <strong>of</strong> predators, our desire to blend into the foliage and<br />
become all but invisible. The display <strong>of</strong> bright colors is a key<br />
part <strong>of</strong> mating rituals, <strong>of</strong> the dalliances <strong>of</strong> birds that unfurl flamboyant<br />
plumage or lizards that inflate iridescent throats. Only<br />
when one is flirting, however, does one risk becoming such<br />
an easy target – and then only – in hopes <strong>of</strong> attracting a very<br />
special type <strong>of</strong> surprise attack, a fatal ambush by Cupid and<br />
his arrows. When I balked before the mess I had made <strong>of</strong> my<br />
walls, was I in some dark, forgotten corner <strong>of</strong> my mind, the<br />
reptilian brain that still resides in the swamps from which we<br />
emerged, reacting to the way I had violated my self-protective<br />
invisibility? Does the evolutionary basis <strong>of</strong> good taste lie<br />
not in self-expression, as we are taught to believe, but in self-<br />
negation, self-effacement, the eminently practical desire <strong>of</strong> the<br />
animal to survive in comfort in a lair that even the most sharpeyed<br />
species, a step or two higher on the food chain, would<br />
be hard-pressed to spot amid the brambles from which it is<br />
deliberately indistinguishable?
tHINGs Fall aPart:<br />
aN INtErvIEw wItH GEorGE scHErEr<br />
Jeffrey kastner<br />
A pr<strong>of</strong>essor in the department <strong>of</strong> civil and environmental engineering<br />
at Princeton University, George Scherer is a materials<br />
scientist and a leading researcher in the field <strong>of</strong> stone conservation.<br />
Educated at the Massachusetts Institute <strong>of</strong> Technology,<br />
Scherer began his career in industry, working for companies<br />
including Corning and DuPont, where he specialized in sol-gel<br />
processing, a low-temperature method for producing ceramics<br />
with consumer applications including scratch-resistant coatings<br />
for eyeglasses. In the late 1980s, Scherer attended a conference<br />
where George Wheeler, a conservator at New York’s Metropolitan<br />
Museum <strong>of</strong> <strong>Art</strong>, discussed the use <strong>of</strong> various treatments,<br />
including sol-gel technology, in the preservation <strong>of</strong> art objects<br />
and architecture made from stone. After arriving at Princeton<br />
in 1996, Scherer began a research program into the effects <strong>of</strong><br />
various environmental factors on stone artworks and monuments<br />
and potential ways to counteract them. Speaking on the<br />
phone with Cabinet editor Jeffrey Kastner, Scherer discussed<br />
the threats posed to stone by water, salt, wind, and pollution; the<br />
utilization <strong>of</strong> predictive modeling in forecasting their impact on<br />
various types <strong>of</strong> stone; and the potential application <strong>of</strong> such models<br />
in speculating about the long-term fate <strong>of</strong> objects ranging<br />
from marble sculpture to the face <strong>of</strong> Mount Rushmore.<br />
What are the main environmental threats to stone?<br />
Water is basically the problem. The conservator at the<br />
Cloisters says that 90% <strong>of</strong> art conservation is controlling the flow<br />
<strong>of</strong> water, and that’s right. Many times you can do a lot by just fixing<br />
the ro<strong>of</strong> and the downspouts and that kind <strong>of</strong> thing. One main<br />
mechanism <strong>of</strong> deterioration is freeze-thaw damage and another<br />
is salt crystallization. You can get salt into materials from a variety<br />
<strong>of</strong> directions – sometimes it’s in the groundwater, sometimes you<br />
can leach it out <strong>of</strong> the mortar, and sometimes it forms directly by<br />
chemical reaction with air pollution. <strong>And</strong> once those salt crystals<br />
start to grow, they can cause a lot <strong>of</strong> damage.<br />
Are most treatments designed primarily to protect stone from<br />
harmful environmental effects or to stop deterioration that’s<br />
already started? Are these two very different kinds <strong>of</strong> processes?<br />
They are different kinds <strong>of</strong> processes, and we may try to do one<br />
or the other or both. For instance, if you have an object that’s<br />
going to remain outdoors and it’s beginning to deteriorate, you<br />
would like to stop whatever’s doing the harm and restore some<br />
<strong>of</strong> its strength. Sometimes you can stop the problem and sometimes<br />
you can’t. Suppose I have a sculpture out in the middle <strong>of</strong> a<br />
plaza – there’s nothing I can do to stop rain from hitting it, so it’s<br />
going to get wet and it may not even be possible to prevent water<br />
from getting into it. You could imagine putting a water-repellent<br />
coating on the top surface, but if it’s standing out in the open,<br />
there’s a good chance that water will rise up from the ground by<br />
capillary action, the way it rises into a sponge. <strong>And</strong> if you can’t<br />
stop water from getting into it you can’t stop frost damage. So<br />
maybe the only thing you can do is to try to restore some strength<br />
to the stone and so you’re just treating the symptom and<br />
44<br />
not the cause. There are other cases where you can treat<br />
the cause. So if you have small object sitting on a pedestal, you<br />
can take it inside and put a water-repellent coating on all <strong>of</strong> the<br />
surfaces so that water can’t get into it from any direction. <strong>And</strong><br />
then you can eliminate the cause <strong>of</strong> the problem.<br />
Are there treatments that do both things?<br />
There are treatments that do both and treatments that only do<br />
one. For instance, putting a water-repellent coating on the material<br />
doesn’t restore any integrity to the internal structure. On the<br />
other hand, there are things you can soak into the stone, because<br />
most stones are surprisingly porous and will soak up material<br />
that will provide, say, water repellency and at the same time act<br />
like a glue to restore strength to the material.<br />
We’ve been talking a lot about water repellency, but<br />
generally speaking that’s something that conservators are wary<br />
<strong>of</strong>. You can put a coating on a wall <strong>of</strong> a building you’re trying to<br />
conserve, but you can’t necessarily stop water from getting in<br />
through a leaky ro<strong>of</strong> or rising up from the foundation. <strong>And</strong> if you<br />
let water get into a wall that has a sealed surface, then the water<br />
can’t get back out, and a freezing event can destroy the whole<br />
surface.<br />
So you have to be careful what you’re trapping inside?<br />
Exactly. The tendency is to use breathable coatings at the least, if<br />
not to avoid water repellency altogether, because it’s dangerous<br />
to trap moisture inside.<br />
One main area <strong>of</strong> your current research deals with salt damage,<br />
with a process that works to reduce the destructive tendencies<br />
<strong>of</strong> salt crystals.<br />
Yes. What I particularly like about that is that we’re attacking the<br />
mechanism and not just dealing with the consequence. Most <strong>of</strong><br />
the things that people do to defend against salt have to do with<br />
restoring strength or controlling the flow <strong>of</strong> water, but what<br />
we’re trying to do is to deal with cases where you can’t prevent<br />
the water from getting in. For instance, you have a cathedral<br />
that’s too immense to treat and you may not be able to prevent<br />
the water from getting in, but this treatment would allow the<br />
crystals to come and go without doing any harm.<br />
You know, the Sphinx is being damaged and there are<br />
reports by Egyptian experts who claim that the damage is mostly<br />
being done by salt, and that it has to do with the rise and fall <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Nile water table. When the water rises, it brings salty water up<br />
into the Sphinx and then when it dries out, the salts precipitate<br />
and do harm. <strong>And</strong> this is a case where you can’t get underneath<br />
the object and stop the water from rising up. Now it’s also possible<br />
that there’s an important <strong>issue</strong> <strong>of</strong> thermal shock, because the<br />
temperature changes quite a lot. <strong>And</strong> there was a recent paper<br />
that said you could go out in the morning and hear the Sphinx<br />
popping. It claimed that that was because the salts were precipitating;<br />
but you could argue that maybe it was the temperature<br />
going up.<br />
Another important <strong>issue</strong>, <strong>of</strong> course, is acid rain. Limestone,<br />
the material the Sphinx is made from, is relatively soluble in acid<br />
and so is marble, whereas sandstones are not. Just the natural<br />
acidity <strong>of</strong> rainwater will dissolve marble and limestone away at<br />
a rate such that medieval marble sculpture would be showing<br />
serious distress. As the acid runs down it converts the calcium<br />
carbonate into a soluble salt that washes <strong>of</strong>f. Natural rainwater
in the most pristine environment is slightly acidic because <strong>of</strong> the<br />
CO2 that’s naturally in the air – a pH <strong>of</strong> 7 is neutral and you bring it<br />
down to 5.6 with the natural CO2 concentration. Incidentally, the<br />
“greenhouse effect,” the increase in CO2 in the air, has almost no<br />
impact on that, because you could double the amount <strong>of</strong> CO2 in<br />
the air and it would make very little change in the acidity. What<br />
really changes the acidity is other kinds <strong>of</strong> air pollution – so if<br />
you’re in New York City, the pH <strong>of</strong> the water could be down to 4<br />
because you’ve got sulfates and nitrates and other things from<br />
burning fossil fuels. <strong>And</strong> those things bring down the water pH so<br />
much that they grossly accelerate the dissolution.<br />
How important is geography?<br />
A marble sculpture sitting in a pristine environment will decay<br />
slowly, and the same sculpture sitting in New York might decay<br />
40 times faster – that’s the difference between a pH <strong>of</strong> 4 and <strong>of</strong><br />
5.6. So if you have a medieval sculpture sitting in a little village in<br />
Italy where it’s quite clean, it would show distress. A sculpture in<br />
Rome would have been fine up until about 1850, but in the 150<br />
years since it might have lost all the features <strong>of</strong> its face. You can<br />
find dramatic photographs that show a sculpture photographed<br />
in the 19th century and it looks perfectly okay – it might be a little<br />
dirty, but all its features are there – and 60 or 100 years later it has<br />
no face.<br />
So the Sphinx might also be showing the effects <strong>of</strong> the Cairo<br />
metropolitan pollution?<br />
Yes. You’d also want to find out which way the wind was blowing.<br />
Prevailing winds carrying pollution are an <strong>issue</strong>. What about<br />
wind erosion in general?<br />
I think that’s a pretty minor effect. From what I’ve read about this,<br />
the sand grains aren’t easily picked <strong>of</strong>f the ground by the wind.<br />
Typically the grains that are relatively heavy don’t get picked up<br />
more than about a meter – and the Sphinx, you’ll recall, is sunk in<br />
the ground, in a pit. In fact, that pit is large enough that the sand<br />
grains that come across fall into the pit and don’t hit the sculpture.<br />
But in the past, you know, it was buried in the sand and in<br />
that case it was being scoured by the sand that was actually able<br />
to come right up to the surface and hit it. <strong>And</strong> at various times<br />
over these thousands <strong>of</strong> years, the levels <strong>of</strong> the dunes varied. So<br />
apparently there’s a considerable amount <strong>of</strong> damage that was<br />
done by erosion in past centuries, when it was buried, and the<br />
damage would only occur right at the line where the tops <strong>of</strong> the<br />
sand dunes were.<br />
So there are a lot <strong>of</strong> different things we need to be thinking<br />
about – wind, geography, the relation <strong>of</strong> geography to pollution<br />
patterns.<br />
In the city, the sheltering <strong>of</strong> neighboring buildings and the direction<br />
<strong>of</strong> the wind can also have a big effect. <strong>And</strong> it’s not unusual to<br />
find that one wall or one corner <strong>of</strong> a building is deteriorating much<br />
faster than another, because it gets more wet, or whatever.<br />
Are there models that can predict the effects <strong>of</strong> these various<br />
conditions on different objects? Could you take the David,<br />
for instance, and put it in Florence and turn the time<br />
45<br />
machine to 100 or 200 years from now and get a sense
<strong>of</strong> what might be happening to it based on these kinds <strong>of</strong> variables?<br />
In some cases there are, and the easiest one is acid dissolution.<br />
Because you can measure how fast a marble or a limestone dissolves<br />
in acid. <strong>And</strong> if you know that it will take <strong>of</strong>f a millimeter in<br />
50 years, then you can extrapolate how long it will be before the<br />
nose is gone. For that kind <strong>of</strong> thing, you would need to know the<br />
level <strong>of</strong> pollution and the pH <strong>of</strong> the rainwater and how much rain<br />
falls in a year in that location.<br />
But is the decay regular enough so you can say a millimeter<br />
is coming <strong>of</strong>f the surface <strong>of</strong> the whole thing? Or is it conceivable<br />
that a millimeter lost in a certain place could then weaken<br />
some feature and cause it to fall <strong>of</strong>f?<br />
It’s a very good point. It wouldn’t lose surface uniformly all over –<br />
the rain for instance would probably hit it from one direction or<br />
another. Moreover, as the water runs down the cliff, the acid in<br />
the water is consumed by reaction with stone, so it becomes<br />
more dilute, and the resulting damage is not uniform over the<br />
surface.<br />
Could we play this game with Mt. Rushmore? It’s not necessarily<br />
the case that the decay would be consistent over a large<br />
feature-rich environment like that.<br />
I don’t know <strong>of</strong>fhand what kind <strong>of</strong> stone it is, but in a place like<br />
that, I would guess that air pollution isn’t a big problem. Freezethaw<br />
damage certainly should be. You could imagine that there<br />
might be a weak layer at the base <strong>of</strong> the nose – you don’t have<br />
to wear away the nose from the tip back, you could just snap it<br />
<strong>of</strong>f. So the heterogeneity <strong>of</strong> the cliff is an <strong>issue</strong>. If there’s a weak<br />
layer somewhere, then that’s where the damage will happen and<br />
everything in front <strong>of</strong> it could come <strong>of</strong>f.<br />
What about vegetation?<br />
Things like lichen dissolve the stone. The way they get a foothold<br />
is that they exude acids and they can chew away at the surface<br />
and then send their roots down. There are some pretty dramatic<br />
photos <strong>of</strong> roots embedded in various kinds <strong>of</strong> stones – they’re<br />
capable <strong>of</strong> chewing up anything.<br />
Everything from bacteria to algae to mosses and higher<br />
plants are capable <strong>of</strong> invading stone. The little guys will dissolve<br />
away the surface and get a foothold, but the rate at which they<br />
do damage is probably not so great. But as the higher plants<br />
move in, they’re capable <strong>of</strong> sending their roots down and really<br />
doing macroscopic damage. You’ve seen seedlings growing up<br />
through asphalt – they can sink their roots in and their roots swell<br />
and they can generate enormous pressures.<br />
Like when the tree in front <strong>of</strong> your house flips your sidewalk<br />
up?<br />
Exactly. So you could easily imagine that happening on<br />
Mt. Rushmore. You can use biocides to prevent plants from invading.<br />
I don’t know if they actually send people out to climb around<br />
and pull out saplings, but that could be a major cause <strong>of</strong> deterioration<br />
– if a plant opens a crack then the water gets in. Or it could<br />
work the other way around, where you have a fairly nice surface<br />
<strong>of</strong> stone that soaks up moisture and then in a sudden freeze,<br />
you get cracking from the freezing and that opens up an<br />
46<br />
opportunity for plants to get in.<br />
Is there a way to use models to forecast the long-term future<br />
<strong>of</strong> a large-scale formation like Mt. Rushmore? Presumably the<br />
weakening <strong>of</strong> the wrong area could lead to a catastrophic case<br />
<strong>of</strong> decay that can’t be forecast because you can’t know where<br />
it’s going to get weak.<br />
Honestly, I doubt you could very accurately. You can do a<br />
predication like that under certain particular circumstances that<br />
you’ve touched on already – if the material’s homogeneous and it<br />
decays away at a uniform predictable rate and it doesn’t have any<br />
veins in it. But in the case <strong>of</strong> a mountain, that’s not likely to be the<br />
case. There are going to be faults in it and there are going to be<br />
places where moisture or plants or roots can get in and then you<br />
can have chunks coming <strong>of</strong>f at a time. I mean you could have a<br />
whole ear or a whole nose fall <strong>of</strong>f. In principle, you should be able<br />
to look around at the structure <strong>of</strong> the cliff and figure out where the<br />
danger spots are – if you can find porous layers or pockets where<br />
water could get trapped. If you were to show me a vein that was<br />
different from the bordering material, I could say, “This looks like<br />
a place we should divert water away from,” but I wouldn’t be in a<br />
position to say, “It’s going to fail in 50 years.” I would be surprised<br />
if you could really project forward 500 or 1,000 years.
tHE sIx GraNdFatHErs, PaHa saPa, IN tHE<br />
YEar 502,002 c.E.<br />
mattHew BuckingHam<br />
The image overleaf shows what geologists believe the Six Grandfathers<br />
will look like in the year 502,002 C.E. Located just south<br />
<strong>of</strong> the geographic center <strong>of</strong> the continental United States in the<br />
Paha Sapa, or Black Hills, this mountain has also been called<br />
Slaughterhouse Peak, Cougar Mountain, and is now referred to<br />
as Mount Rushmore. Much older than the Alps, Himalayas, and<br />
Pyrenees, the Paha Sapa and Six Grandfathers were formed<br />
when subterranean pressure raised the earth’s crust into a huge<br />
elliptical dome 65 million years ago at the end <strong>of</strong> the Cretaceous<br />
period. Today the 6,000-sq mile granite outcropping is visited<br />
by two million tourists each year, who go there to gaze up at the<br />
massive portraits <strong>of</strong> four American presidents – Washington,<br />
Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln – carved into the Six Grandfathers<br />
between 1926 and 1941 by the sculptor Gutzon Borglum.<br />
The first descendants <strong>of</strong> Europe to enter the Paha Sapa<br />
were ponies – progeny <strong>of</strong> the sixteen horses Hernán Cortéz<br />
brought with him from Spain to the “New World.” The Taos<br />
Indians introduced them to the Kiowa in the 1600s. In the 18th<br />
century, European westward expansion displaced the Sioux<br />
from their native woodlands, who then, in turn, displaced the<br />
Kiowa, acquiring their horses as well as the Paha Sapa.<br />
Napoleon Bonaparte never saw the Louisiana Territory<br />
that France had claimed under the “doctrine <strong>of</strong> discovery.” In<br />
1803 US President Thomas Jefferson was prepared to pay the<br />
French $10 million for New Orleans and the Florida peninsula,<br />
but sensed that financially troubled France might be willing<br />
to bargain. In the end Jefferson bought all the land from the<br />
Mississippi River to the Rocky Mountains and from the Gulf<br />
Coast to Canada for $15 million – about three cents an acre –<br />
doubling the size <strong>of</strong> the US. One year later, while exploring and<br />
mapping the vast territory, Lewis and Clark began bestowing<br />
symbolic citizenship on Native Americans by wrapping newborn<br />
Indians in the American flag.<br />
Deemed “unfit for civilization,” new maps labeled the Paha<br />
Sapa the “Great American Desert,” and the US Government<br />
designated it as a “Permanent Indian Country.” Americans<br />
like the Astor family in New York quickly replaced French and<br />
English fur trading companies doing business with indigenous<br />
people across the Louisiana Territory, earning up to half a million<br />
dollars annually. In the summer <strong>of</strong> 1845, US Army Colonel S. W.<br />
Kearny arrived at the Laramie fork <strong>of</strong> the Platte River and gave the<br />
Sioux a flag made up <strong>of</strong> a series <strong>of</strong> diagonal lines, nine stars and<br />
two hands clasped in friendship on a blue background. This was,<br />
he told the Indians, the flag <strong>of</strong> the Sioux Nation.<br />
To protect trespassing whites and ease tensions between<br />
warring Native nations, the United States negotiated the first<br />
Treaty <strong>of</strong> Fort Laramie in 1851. Native signatories agreed to live<br />
on designated lands, including the Paha Sapa, which the treaty<br />
promised to them forever. When the South seceded from the<br />
Union, two pieces <strong>of</strong> legislation previously blocked by southern<br />
Congressmen were passed: the Homestead Act and the Pacific<br />
Railroad Act. The first granted 160 acres <strong>of</strong> land to any European-American<br />
who claimed it. The second transferred 170 million<br />
acres <strong>of</strong> public land to the transcontinental railroad companies,<br />
who resold it to finance construction <strong>of</strong> their rail lines and
insure development <strong>of</strong> towns along their routes. They also used<br />
their influence over eastern newspapers to gain public support<br />
for westward expansion and the “inevitable” Indian wars to follow.<br />
General Phil Sheridan, who commanded the US Army in the<br />
west, enthusiastically observed that the new railroads would<br />
“bring the Indian problem to a final solution.”<br />
When gold was discovered in the Colorado and Montana<br />
territories in 1864, white prospectors invading indigenous hunting<br />
grounds triggered a series <strong>of</strong> bloody conflicts. Quelling<br />
native revolts was financially prohibitive. The monthly expense<br />
for maintaining the US Army on the Plains was two million dollars<br />
– $150,000 for each Native American killed. Humanitarians<br />
back east, who had not faced conflict with Native Americans for<br />
nearly 100 years, were outraged by the bloodshed in the west.<br />
The Interior Department, charged with managing Indian affairs,<br />
reasoned that it would be easier, less expensive, and more palatable<br />
to exterminate a <strong>culture</strong> than a people. The department<br />
strategized the reservation system and <strong>of</strong>fered the Fort Laramie<br />
Treaty <strong>of</strong> 1868, which again guaranteed Sioux land rights to<br />
the Black Hills forever. The treaty yielded to all Sioux demands,<br />
marking the only time in its history that the United States negotiated<br />
peace on enemy terms.<br />
But the economic depression following the Civil War<br />
revived American fantasies <strong>of</strong> finding gold in the west. Under<br />
the pretense <strong>of</strong> surveying the Black Hills for the US Army, George<br />
Armstrong Custer violated the Treaty <strong>of</strong> 1868 when he led an<br />
expedition into the Paha Sapa in search <strong>of</strong> gold. Custer, who<br />
graduated last in his class at West Point but made general at<br />
age 23, brought newspaper reporters, a photographer, a botanist,<br />
a geologist, and several pr<strong>of</strong>essional miners with him. Halfway<br />
through the trip Custer dispatched a scout with a telegram<br />
declaring he had “found gold in the roots <strong>of</strong> the grass.” Later,<br />
Custer’s geologist denied any knowledge <strong>of</strong> gold in the Paha<br />
Sapa.<br />
President Ulysses Grant ordered the Sioux borders closed<br />
to prospecting and sent a second expedition to the Black Hills<br />
to assess its real estate value. Many soldiers guarding the Hills<br />
deserted to become prospectors themselves. Some <strong>of</strong>ficers<br />
urged miners to stake claims on their land before throwing<br />
them out. After receiving cautious confirmation <strong>of</strong> gold in the<br />
Black Hills from the second expedition, Grant secretly ordered<br />
the army not to stop prospectors from entering the Black Hills.<br />
Bounty hunters began collecting as much as $300 per Native<br />
American killed.<br />
Nervous for the safety <strong>of</strong> whites settling in the Black Hills,<br />
Grant and the Interior Department invented a provocation to<br />
justify declaring war on the Indians. In December 1875, the<br />
Government ordered the Sioux tribes that had camped for the<br />
winter in the Yellowstone and Powder River Valleys to abandon<br />
their hunting grounds and return to the reservation – an impossible<br />
order to carry out in the dead <strong>of</strong> winter. In the spring the<br />
US Army assembled to attack the violators, but the Sioux and<br />
Cheyenne were preparing as well. During the annual Sun Dance,<br />
Sitting Bull had a vision <strong>of</strong> US soldiers riding their horses upside<br />
down into his camp and falling to the ground, dead. In the vision<br />
the corpses had no ears “because white men never listen.”<br />
Nine days before the nation’s 100th birthday, Crazy Horse and<br />
others defeated Custer and the 7th Cavalry in the battle<br />
48<br />
<strong>of</strong> Little Big Horn. The only survivors were a few army<br />
horses. One, named Comanche, who was too injured to be <strong>of</strong><br />
use to tribal warriors, was nursed back to health by the US military<br />
and later exhibited and mythologized as the “sole survivor<br />
<strong>of</strong> Little Big Horn.” The resounding defeat and its timing fueled<br />
US anti-Indian sentiment even more. Grant <strong>of</strong>fered the Sioux<br />
the option <strong>of</strong> selling the Black Hills or starving to death. One<br />
tenth <strong>of</strong> the Sioux population signed the 1877 agreement to<br />
sell. Congress approved the act even though signatures from<br />
three-fourths <strong>of</strong> the tribe were required for legal ratification. The<br />
Sioux were moved out <strong>of</strong> the Black Hills and <strong>of</strong>f <strong>of</strong> their hunting<br />
grounds onto permanent reservations. Over the next twelve<br />
years these Sioux lands were divided and radically reduced. The<br />
long period <strong>of</strong> armed conflict ended in 1890 with the massacre<br />
<strong>of</strong> more than 146 Sioux at Wounded Knee on the Pine Ridge Reservation.<br />
Around 1900, a mining interest in New York City hired a<br />
young lawyer named Charles Rushmore to travel to the Black<br />
Hills to check land titles on its mines. One day, noticing a mountain<br />
peak in the distance, the lawyer asked if it had a name. His<br />
guide jokingly replied that it was called Mount Rushmore. The<br />
name stuck.<br />
In 1923, the poet and South Dakota state historian, Doane<br />
Robinson, came up with an idea to preserve what he perceived<br />
to be the waning spirit <strong>of</strong> the American West. His idea, which<br />
he hoped would also increase tourist revenues, was to commission<br />
a sculptor to transform a few <strong>of</strong> “The Needles” – tall,<br />
narrow, granite rock formations in the Black Hills – into<br />
memorials <strong>of</strong> major figures from the grand narrative <strong>of</strong> the American<br />
West. Enormous head-to-toe portraits <strong>of</strong> Custer, Lewis and<br />
Clark, Red Cloud, and others would stand along a new highway<br />
designed to lure automobile tourists away from Yellowstone<br />
National Park. To do the work, Robinson invited one <strong>of</strong> America’s<br />
most famous sculptors at the time, Gutzon Borglum, the son<br />
<strong>of</strong> Danish Mormon immigrants who, a generation before, had<br />
made the ten-week trek along the Mormon trail through indigenous<br />
lands to Brigham Young’s “New Jerusalem,” Salt Lake City.<br />
When Doane Robinson contacted Borglum, he was<br />
embroiled in a struggle for control over a similar carving in Stone<br />
Mountain, Georgia, a massive bas-relief monument to the Confederacy<br />
depicting its heroes Lee and Jackson marching across<br />
the mountain followed by their troops. Shortly after Stone Mountain<br />
was initiated, it was used as the site <strong>of</strong> a ceremony to revive<br />
the Ku Klux Klan in the 20th century. Many <strong>of</strong> the people funding<br />
and supervising the Stone Mountain carving were members<br />
<strong>of</strong> the re-born Klan. Borglum himself joined the Klan in order to<br />
exert more influence over the monument, ultimately becoming<br />
involved at the highest levels <strong>of</strong> the organization, working<br />
behind the scenes in an attempt to elect a KKK member to the<br />
White House. Internecine fighting among Klan leadership over<br />
presidential politics and the funds for Stone Mountain resulted<br />
in Borglum’s firing.<br />
In South Dakota, Borglum found “The Needles” unsuitable<br />
for carving, and chose instead the Six Grandfathers. Naturalists<br />
attacked the plan, saying it desecrated the Black Hills’<br />
“natural beauty.” Doane Robinson defended it, stating “God only<br />
makes a Michelangelo or a Gutzon Borglum once in a thousand<br />
years.”<br />
Borglum convinced Robinson that the project should be<br />
less regional and more nationally patriotic. He proposed to
You should have a poster attached to this page. If you do not, there has been a<br />
mistake <strong>of</strong> some sort. Please contact your nearest Cabinet Office.
make a “Shrine <strong>of</strong> Democracy” that would include two to four<br />
presidential portraits, an entablature inscribed with a terse 500word<br />
history <strong>of</strong> the United States, and a hall <strong>of</strong> records where<br />
the founding documents <strong>of</strong> American democracy would be<br />
preserved and sacralized. When plans for the monument were<br />
made public, newspaper reporters began phoning Charles<br />
Rushmore in New York to find out what he had done to deserve<br />
having a mountain named after him. Embarrassed about the<br />
truth, he made a $5,000 donation to the monument.<br />
As at Stone Mountain, money and politics slowed<br />
Borglum’s progress. When President Coolidge announced he<br />
would spend the summer <strong>of</strong> 1927 in South Dakota, the Mount<br />
Rushmore Committee leapt at the chance to garner his support.<br />
Hanging Squaw Creek was renamed Grace Coolidge Creek<br />
after the President’s wife. It was also stocked with trout confined<br />
by hidden nets. After finding the fishing a little too easy,<br />
Coolidge gave it up for the summer, saying that he was either<br />
“the best fisherman alive or the luckiest.”<br />
Borglum worked on Mount Rushmore for fifteen years.<br />
One million dollars was spent, 84% <strong>of</strong> which was federal money.<br />
Despite telling Congress that the monument would have no<br />
meaning without the Hall <strong>of</strong> Records, funds were never appropriated<br />
to finish it. Borglum also intended to carve the presidential<br />
portraits to the waist, but when he died in 1941 only the<br />
faces were near completion. The US government restricted further<br />
spending on the memorial, allocating just enough money<br />
for Borglum’s son, Lincoln, to finish the hair and faces on the<br />
four heads. Even then the likenesses were not actually “complete.”<br />
Gutzon Borglum’s design intentionally left three extra<br />
inches <strong>of</strong> granite on the surface <strong>of</strong> the sculpture so that nature,<br />
in the form <strong>of</strong> wind and water erosion, would finish carving<br />
Mount Rushmore for him over the next 20,000 years.<br />
After World War II the Paha Sapa continued to attract<br />
symbolic readings and was proposed as a home for the United<br />
Nations. Promoters claimed the area was equidistant from<br />
important national capitals and that the sparsely populated<br />
landscape might inspire moral and spiritual reflection the way<br />
similar landscapes had fostered Christianity, Buddhism, and<br />
Islam. Another massive sculpture to honor Churchill, Stalin, and<br />
Franklin Roosevelt was even proposed.<br />
Although the UN made its home elsewhere, Doane<br />
Robinson’s vision <strong>of</strong> tourism in the Black Hills was fulfilled. By<br />
the end <strong>of</strong> the century, white-owned businesses in the area<br />
were earning $100 million annually. Sixty miles east <strong>of</strong> Mount<br />
Rushmore, the Pine Ridge Reservation <strong>of</strong> the Oglala Sioux<br />
remains one <strong>of</strong> the poorest regions in the US, with an average<br />
annual unemployment rate <strong>of</strong> 80%. In the 1950s, President<br />
Eisenhower’s Urban Relocation Policy attempted to terminate<br />
rural reservation life altogether, forcing Native Americans into<br />
cities. An unintended result <strong>of</strong> this program was that many<br />
Natives <strong>of</strong> the next generation, disillusioned with city life,<br />
returned to the reservations where elders and native tradition<br />
inspired new forms <strong>of</strong> political resistance modeled on black<br />
activist and feminist movements. In 1970 and again in 1971,<br />
members <strong>of</strong> the American Indian Movement (AIM) reoccupied<br />
Mount Rushmore for a total <strong>of</strong> thirteen weeks, demanding that<br />
the US honor the treaty <strong>of</strong> 1868 and also return lands seized<br />
from Pine Ridge during World War II.<br />
50<br />
In 1980, after decades <strong>of</strong> filing claims, the US<br />
Supreme Court ruled in favor <strong>of</strong> the Sioux Nation, acknowledging<br />
that the Black Hills had been appropriated illegally by the US<br />
government when it broke the treaty <strong>of</strong> 1868. But the court<br />
also declared that the passage <strong>of</strong> time made the return <strong>of</strong> Sioux<br />
lands impossible and ordered a $120 million reparation payment.<br />
The Sioux refused the money and in 1982 the Committee<br />
for the Return <strong>of</strong> the Black Hills was formed, consisting <strong>of</strong><br />
one representative from each Sioux tribe. The committee got<br />
the support <strong>of</strong> New Jersey Senator Bill Bradley (Dem.), who<br />
sponsored their legislation in Congress. Representatives <strong>of</strong><br />
South Dakota led the fight against the bill to return 1.3 <strong>of</strong> the<br />
7.5 million acres <strong>of</strong> land the Supreme Court said belonged to<br />
the Sioux. The bill was defeated in 1987. In 1990 further legislation<br />
over the Black Hills claim was defeated on Capitol Hill.<br />
South Dakota Senator Tom Daschle (Dem.) established the<br />
Open Hills Association in his home state, an organization dedicated<br />
to fighting future attempts by the Sioux to regain the<br />
Paha Sapa. Daschle also began using Mount Rushmore to raise<br />
campaign money, charging “guests” $5,000 dollars each for a<br />
helicopter ride to the top <strong>of</strong> Washington’s head – an area designated<br />
<strong>of</strong>f-limits by the National Park Service.<br />
The 1980 reparation payment, being held in trust by the US<br />
government, has now grown, with interest, to about $570 million.<br />
80% <strong>of</strong> Sioux tribal members recently polled affirmed that<br />
the Black Hills are not for sale and said they support drafting<br />
another bill to ask Congress for the return <strong>of</strong> the Paha Sapa to<br />
the Sioux Nation.<br />
Bibliography<br />
Lincoln Borglum, Mount Rushmore (Las Vegas: KC Publications, 1977).<br />
James Calhoun, With Custer in ‘74: James Calhoun’s Diary <strong>of</strong> the Black Hills Expedition, ed.<br />
Lawrence A. Frost (Provo: Brigham Young University Press, 1979).<br />
Ward Churchill, From a Native Son: Selected Essays in Indigenism, 1985-1995 (Boston:<br />
South End Press, 1996).<br />
Robert J. Dean, Living Granite: the Story <strong>of</strong> Borglum and the Mount Rushmore Memorial<br />
(New York: Viking Press, 1949).<br />
Gilbert Fite, Mount Rushmore (Norman: University <strong>of</strong> Oklahoma Press, 1952).<br />
Tim Giago, “Crazy Horse Mountain and Mt. Rushmore Disgrace Black Hills,” Indian Country<br />
Today, 18 May 1998, vol. 17, no. 46.<br />
Matthew Glass, “‘Alexanders All’: Symbols <strong>of</strong> Conquest and Resistance at Mount Rush-<br />
more,” in David Chidester and Edward T. Linenthal, eds., American Sacred Space (Bloom-<br />
ington: Indiana University Press, 1995).<br />
Jesse Larner, “Icon <strong>of</strong> Patriotism: Human Beings Are Lost Without a Collective Memory,”<br />
Indian Country Today, 11 May 1998, vol. 17, no. 45.<br />
Edward Lazarus, Black Hills/White Justice: The Sioux Nation Versus the United States,<br />
1775 to the Present (New York: Harper Collins, 1991).<br />
Avis Little Eagle, “Don’t Sell the Black Hills,” Indian Country Today, 29 June 1998, vol. 17,<br />
no. 52.<br />
Avis Little Eagle, “Black Hills Land Claim Reaches Half a Billion: Mum’s the Word on Sioux<br />
Claim,” Indian Country Today, 4 May 1998, vol. 17, no. 44.<br />
Howard Shaff & Audrey Karl Shaff, Six Wars at a Time: The Life and Times <strong>of</strong> Gutzon<br />
Borglum, Sculptor <strong>of</strong> Mount Rushmore (Freeman, South Dakota: Pine Hill Press, 1985).<br />
Judith Nies, Native American History (New York: Ballantine, 1996).<br />
Rex Alan Smith, The Carving <strong>of</strong> Mount Rushmore (New York: Abbeville Press, 1985).<br />
June Zeitner, Borglum’s Unfinished Dream (Aberdeen: North Plains Press, 1976).
INtErPrEtatIoNs oF tHE NatIoNal<br />
Park sErvIcE<br />
sHaron Hayes<br />
A few years ago, I traveled to upstate New York to satisfy a<br />
long-standing desire to visit Eleanor Roosevelt’s historic home,<br />
Val-Kill. The site is run by the National Park Service, an agency<br />
<strong>of</strong> the US Department <strong>of</strong> the Interior, as is Franklin Delano<br />
Roosevelt’s presidential home and the Vanderbilt Mansion, all<br />
within a half hour’s drive <strong>of</strong> each other near Hyde Park, New<br />
York. When I bought an admission ticket, the woman behind the<br />
ticket window instructed me to join a small group in the waiting<br />
area to wait for an “interpreter” to lead us through the home.<br />
Amazed by the seemingly self-reflective assignation, I returned<br />
to New York City eagerly reporting to friends that the enlightened<br />
National Park Service now calls its tour guides “historical<br />
interpreters.”<br />
The NPS currently administers 387 sites, approximately<br />
120 <strong>of</strong> which are <strong>of</strong>ficially recognized National Historic Sites.<br />
Originally established in 1916 to manage a growing number <strong>of</strong><br />
federally owned national parks, monuments, and reservations,<br />
the Historic Sites Act <strong>of</strong> 1935 added to the NPS the responsibility<br />
<strong>of</strong> “‘preserv[ing] for public use historic sites, buildings, and<br />
objects <strong>of</strong> national significance for the inspiration and benefit <strong>of</strong><br />
the people <strong>of</strong> the United States.’” 1 Influenced by the growth <strong>of</strong><br />
the museum industry in general as well as by larger social and<br />
cultural trends, the NPS experienced particularly rapid expansion<br />
between the years 1963 and 1986, during which 72 historic<br />
sites were added. 2 While the agency was certainly influenced<br />
by cultural trends toward social history that challenged the<br />
practice <strong>of</strong> history as a narrative <strong>of</strong> influential figures as well<br />
as by constructionist trends <strong>of</strong> the 1960s and 70s that called<br />
attention to the subjectivity inherent in the writing <strong>of</strong> history, its<br />
use <strong>of</strong> the term “interpretation” precedes such influence and is<br />
grounded in a distinct genealogy.<br />
There is an air <strong>of</strong> romanticism that permeates literature<br />
written by the NPS as well as by its external boosters detailing<br />
the historic beginnings <strong>of</strong> the national park system and the later<br />
creation <strong>of</strong> its custodian, the NPS. In most <strong>of</strong> these accounts<br />
there is a floating constellation <strong>of</strong> “founding fathers,” whose<br />
individual encounters with a splendid and beautiful landscape<br />
supposedly elucidate the moment when “the national park<br />
idea” 3 came to fruition. Similar publications attempt the same<br />
with regard to the development <strong>of</strong> “interpretation” as an educational<br />
tool within the NPS. While the word “interpretation” was<br />
referred to frequently in the early literature <strong>of</strong> the NPS, it was not<br />
<strong>of</strong>ficially taken up until 1941, when the Branch <strong>of</strong> Research and<br />
Education was renamed the Branch <strong>of</strong> Interpretation. C. Frank<br />
Brockman, a career interpreter at Mount Rainier National Park,<br />
traces the NPS use <strong>of</strong> the term “interpretation” to John Muir, a<br />
naturalist studying the regions <strong>of</strong> Yosemite Valley and Sierra<br />
Nevada. Brockman quotes Muir: “I’ll interpret the rocks, learn<br />
the language <strong>of</strong> the flood, storm and the avalanche. I’ll acquaint<br />
myself with the glaciers and wild gardens, and get as near the<br />
heart <strong>of</strong> the world as I can.” 4 Though written in the 1870s, 40<br />
Connie Gephart (one <strong>of</strong> the designers’ moms) ready to interpret at the Augustus<br />
Saint-Gaudens National Historic Site.
years before the establishment <strong>of</strong> the NPS, this heavily circulated<br />
quote establishes the preeminence <strong>of</strong> “interpretation” as a<br />
tool <strong>of</strong> translation and illumination. Muir stands in not as a park<br />
visitor, but as Brockman’s original interpreter. Within this construction,<br />
the interpreter is an expert visitor, someone who has<br />
had the time and the training to see harder, farther, and deeper,<br />
and to understand what the average person cannot. Even as late<br />
as 1976, NPS Director Gary Everhardt promoted a similar definition<br />
<strong>of</strong> interpretation as translation: “...millions <strong>of</strong> park visitors<br />
over the years have needed help to translate that which is perceived<br />
into that which relates personally to them as individuals<br />
and to bring into focus the truths that lie beyond what the eye<br />
sees. The guiding hand is the park interpreter.” 5 “Interpretation”<br />
acts not as an admission <strong>of</strong> the subjective construction <strong>of</strong> historical<br />
narrative but as a tool <strong>of</strong> translation, which, if done well,<br />
is barely noticed, perceived merely as a conduit <strong>of</strong> information.<br />
From its inception, interpretation has played an additional<br />
role in the promotion <strong>of</strong> individual parks and the park system<br />
as a whole. Early NPS administrators generally believed that<br />
the more the public understood about the natural and historical<br />
wonders they encountered, the more frequently they<br />
would return to the site. The foundational role <strong>of</strong> the park visitor<br />
is clearly established in the early relationship <strong>of</strong> educational<br />
promotion to the promotion <strong>of</strong> park tourism. The engagement<br />
<strong>of</strong> the visitor was seen as essential to the perpetuation <strong>of</strong> the<br />
NPS and its fulfillment <strong>of</strong> its national objective: preservation.<br />
As Freeman Tilden points out in his 1957 examination <strong>of</strong> interpretation<br />
in the NPS, “Through interpretation, understanding;<br />
through understanding, appreciation; through appreciation,<br />
protection.” 6 The NPS’s current “working definition” <strong>of</strong> interpretation<br />
reiterates the centrality <strong>of</strong> the visitor: “Interpretation is<br />
a communication tool which facilitates a connection between<br />
the interests <strong>of</strong> the visitors and the meanings <strong>of</strong> the park.” 7<br />
In the context <strong>of</strong> the historic sites, interpretation becomes even<br />
more necessary and central to the visitor’s experience. At many<br />
NPS National Historic sites, a visitor is not allowed to view the<br />
site except on a guided or interpreted tour. Often these narratives<br />
have all the markings <strong>of</strong> a complicated understanding <strong>of</strong><br />
historical narrative. Visitors to the Edgar Allan Poe National<br />
Historic Site are actually given a tour <strong>of</strong> a completely empty<br />
house. As there is no documentation <strong>of</strong> what the Philadelphia<br />
home looked like when Poe, his wife, Virgina, and her mother,<br />
Maria Clemm, inhabited it, the NPS cleared away the house’s<br />
decorative elements including furniture, wallpaper, moldings,<br />
etc., when it acquired the house in 1978. The tour is composed<br />
<strong>of</strong> a series <strong>of</strong> acknowledged speculations <strong>of</strong> what might have<br />
been there, as well as a history <strong>of</strong> the site’s occupancy and interpretation<br />
prior to the NPS’s ownership. Similarly, on the tour <strong>of</strong><br />
Eleanor Roosevelt’s home, the interpreter spoke in great detail<br />
about the process <strong>of</strong> re-constructing the house: She identified<br />
which pieces <strong>of</strong> furniture were “real” and which were replicas,<br />
she explained how the rooms were reconstructed from detailed<br />
photographs taken at Eleanor’s death. These acknowledgements<br />
do not erase the lingering presence <strong>of</strong> an idea <strong>of</strong> “objective<br />
historical” truth. The assumption, sometimes iterated, sometimes<br />
not, is that if they learn how Poe and his wife furnished<br />
their home, if they acquire the original Eleanor Roos-<br />
52<br />
evelt furniture, then these sites can become “historically<br />
accurate.” Similarly, although the NPS <strong>of</strong>ficially encourages multiple<br />
meanings <strong>of</strong> a site, when you go to several tours <strong>of</strong> Eleanor<br />
Roosevelt’s house, you realize that the interpretations function<br />
much like an oral history; they are re-tellings <strong>of</strong> the same story<br />
using slightly different language and slightly different emphasis,<br />
but maintaining the wholeness <strong>of</strong> the narrative, projecting the<br />
assertion that no matter who tells the story, the conclusions are<br />
the same. Interpretation, in this context, effectively validates<br />
the mimetic, objectivist history that each site is grounded upon,<br />
obscuring the fact that the interpretation is an interpretation <strong>of</strong><br />
an interpretation.<br />
Like the NPS itself, individual interpreters stand in a precarious<br />
position: charged with the monumental task <strong>of</strong> exciting<br />
people to stewardship while negotiating the front lines <strong>of</strong> such<br />
public interaction at sites imbued with emotional and symbolic<br />
significance. In a recent interview, Corky Mayo, the current<br />
Chief <strong>of</strong> Interpretation <strong>of</strong> the NPS, said: “There are a lot <strong>of</strong> hard<br />
decisions that are made when you have 20 minutes to explore<br />
a topic.” While the NPS policy allows for their interpreters to<br />
broadly expand the narrative <strong>of</strong> the site, he acknowledged that<br />
most interpreters take a safer road than the agency itself. This<br />
deferral is probably as individual as the interpreter him/herself.<br />
On my second tour <strong>of</strong> Eleanor Roosevelt’s home, someone<br />
asked if Roosevelt was a lesbian. In an improvised defense, the<br />
clearly uncomfortable interpreter answered, “We don’t know.<br />
We weren’t there.” Although the response directly contradicts<br />
the objective <strong>of</strong> historical preservation, her denial was, <strong>of</strong><br />
course, not surprising. Referring back to the NPS definition <strong>of</strong><br />
interpretation: “a communication tool which facilitates a connection<br />
between the interests <strong>of</strong> the visitors and the meanings<br />
<strong>of</strong> the park,” it might be that this denial failed. But it is, perhaps,<br />
exactly in such a failure that interpretation, as a revelation <strong>of</strong> the<br />
subjective construction <strong>of</strong> historical narrative, succeeds. <strong>And</strong><br />
in the vast national park system with its 4,000 interpreters, this<br />
insistent failure <strong>of</strong> interpretation – its inability to function either<br />
as a wholly effective tool <strong>of</strong> education or propaganda – is what<br />
makes a visit so interesting.<br />
1 Barry Mackintosh, The National Park Service (New York: Chelsea House Publishers,<br />
1988), p. 42.<br />
2 Ibid, p. 43.<br />
3 Barry Mackintosh, The National Parks: Shaping the System (Washington, D.C.: Division <strong>of</strong><br />
Publications and the Employees Development Division, National Park Service, 1991), p. 10.<br />
4 C. Frank Brockman, “Park Naturalists and the Evolution <strong>of</strong> National Park Service<br />
Interpretation Through World War II” in The Journal <strong>of</strong> Forest History (vol. 22, No. 1,<br />
January 1978), p. 26.<br />
5 Gary Everhardt “Foreword to the Third Edition” in Freeman Tilden, Interpreting Our<br />
Heritage (Chapel Hill: University <strong>of</strong> North Carolina Press, 1977), p. xi.<br />
6 Freeman Tilden, op. cit., p. 38. The altruism <strong>of</strong> the NPS’s protective mandate is a<br />
frequently asserted myth, which is, <strong>of</strong> course, more complicated then is narrated. The NPS<br />
is, after all, an agency <strong>of</strong> the government. As FDR writes in a letter to Congress supporting<br />
the passage <strong>of</strong> the Historic Sites Act <strong>of</strong> 1935, “The preservation <strong>of</strong> historic sites for the pub-<br />
lic benefit, together with their proper interpretation, tends to enhance the respect and love<br />
<strong>of</strong> the citizen for the institutions <strong>of</strong> his country, as well as strengthen his resolution to defend<br />
unselfishly the hallowed traditions and high ideals <strong>of</strong> America.”<br />
7 Interview with Corky Mayo, NPS Chief <strong>of</strong> Interpretation, 8 January 2002.
sootHE oPErator: muzak aNd modErN<br />
souNd art<br />
susette min<br />
In his 1967 address “The Eco-Logic <strong>of</strong> Muzak,” for Muzak’s Scientific<br />
Board <strong>of</strong> Advisers, Dr. James Keenan, an industrial psychologist<br />
from Stanford University, spoke <strong>of</strong> Muzak as being<br />
“synomorphic with the modern world and interrelated with all<br />
matters <strong>of</strong> time and place: Muzak helps human communities<br />
because it is a nonverbal symbolism for the common stuff <strong>of</strong><br />
everyday living in the global village.” 1 Keenan characterizes<br />
Muzak not merely as background music, but as a “language”<br />
that builds utopias through sweet and soothing harmonies.<br />
Better known as a sonic backdrop (rather than an intrusion)<br />
for everyday activities within public spaces, Muzak creates<br />
a mellow-yellow environment that brightens up one’s days,<br />
recharges one’s energies, alleviates stress, and calms frayed<br />
nerves. 2 Indeed on 29 July 1945, after a B-24 bomber crashed<br />
into the Empire State Building’s 79th floor, the canned music<br />
became known as an effective tranquillizer that pacified anxious<br />
people stuck in the glass-encased observatory nine floors<br />
above. Today Muzak functions, as Pr<strong>of</strong>essor Gary Gumpert aptly<br />
puts it in a 1990 documentary on background music, as “just a<br />
kind <strong>of</strong> amniotic fluid that surrounds us; and it never startles us,<br />
it is never too loud, it is never too silent; it’s always there.” 3 For<br />
the socially inept, Muzak works as a prophylaxis to fill in awkward<br />
pauses during a conversation and, at its most functional,<br />
it serves to mask dissonant noises from street construction or<br />
building renovations. For most people, however, Muzak is synonymous<br />
with harmless background music that samples tunes<br />
from the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s, or it is seen as just another<br />
vehicle for broadcasting songs already in circulation. This latter<br />
development goes back to 1984, when Muzak began <strong>of</strong>fering<br />
foreground music or, in layman’s terms, programs <strong>of</strong> current<br />
hits by original artists.<br />
On the surface, Muzak as an “artfully contrived regimen<br />
<strong>of</strong> unobtrusive harmonies and pitches; metronomic repetition;<br />
melodic segments that overlap into a tonal wash” seems<br />
annoying at worst. 4 Yet Muzak produces a place where bodies<br />
listen and circulate within commodified walls through metaphorical<br />
acoustic wallpaper. It operates as anesthetic or what<br />
Joseph Lanza calls an “audioanalgesia”: a process that dulls<br />
the ability to listen critically. 5 In other words, Muzak produces<br />
a programmed environment that enables one to relax in order<br />
to work more efficiently, and to browse more intently in order to<br />
consume. Muzak sonically rambles with a purpose.<br />
In fact, Muzak is scientific to its very core. Masterminds<br />
like Frederick Winslow Taylor, author <strong>of</strong> Principles <strong>of</strong> Scientific<br />
Management (1911) – and not Ludwig van Beethoven – are<br />
Muzak’s central influences. The Taylor system determined,<br />
through time and motion studies, the most efficient methods<br />
by which to organize modern industrial work. The correlation<br />
between music and the psychological and physiological<br />
responses it evoked was <strong>of</strong> great interest to industrialists, managers,<br />
and engineers. Before Muzak’s <strong>of</strong>ficial naming in 1922 by<br />
Brigadier General George Squier, Thomas Edison had already<br />
conducted phonographic mood tests in factories in 1915 to<br />
determine the extent to which music masked disruptive noise<br />
and raised morale. But it was Squier’s refined implementation
<strong>of</strong> high-frequency radio signals through low-frequency power<br />
lines and his pioneering vision <strong>of</strong> “centralized transmissions<br />
within a rationalized system <strong>of</strong> stimulus codes” that revolutionized<br />
the mechanization <strong>of</strong> music as well as the world <strong>of</strong> telecommunications.<br />
After discovering that he could send radio music<br />
over power-lines, Squier formed a company called Wired Radio<br />
through which he began to sell canned music to different consumer<br />
businesses. Squier eventually changed the name <strong>of</strong> his<br />
company from Wired Radio to Muzak by combining the words<br />
“music” and “Kodak”, a popular company headed by George<br />
Eastman, which, by the 1920s, was known worldwide for its<br />
jingle, “You press the button, we do the rest.” 6<br />
The structural elements (beats per minute, play frequencies,<br />
etc.) that make up Muzak’s compositions and tracks are<br />
studied, then meticulously selected and calculated. Developed<br />
in the 1960s, Muzak’s “Stimulus Code” is based on an hourly<br />
cycle <strong>of</strong> gradually changing intensity that climaxes every fifteen<br />
minutes while purporting to reenergize human activity. Within<br />
each <strong>of</strong> these segments, tunes are ordered from the least to the<br />
most stimulating. In the late 1940s, Dr. Harold Burris-Meyer and<br />
Richard L. Cardinell’s experiments in music composition (elimination<br />
<strong>of</strong> loud brasses and vocals and emphasis on strings and<br />
woodwinds) had revealed a direct increase in production efficiency.<br />
Muzak executive Don O’Neill implemented their experiments<br />
and made the Stimulus Progression the core <strong>of</strong> Muzak’s<br />
innovation and success. Over the years, the Stimulus Progression<br />
has been honed and improved technically by engineers<br />
such as Ben Selvin and in studies conducted by Lever Brothers,<br />
Fairfield University’s language laboratory, as well as by the<br />
US Army Engineering labs. The Stimulus Code, with its values<br />
<strong>of</strong> rhythm, tempo, instrumentalization, moods, and ensemble<br />
size, combined with strategies <strong>of</strong> sequencing, timing, and volume<br />
(vocal impact), culminates in the Stimulus Progression’s<br />
Ascending Curve. The Curve works with and counters the<br />
Fatigue Cycle in order to stimulate and reinvigorate workers to<br />
be more efficient and focused. 7<br />
In the late 19th century, fatigue had replaced boredom<br />
in hindering surplus production. That is, fatigue, as a central<br />
nervous and psychological phenomenon, became, according to<br />
historian Anson Rabinbach, “the most apparent and distinctive<br />
sign <strong>of</strong> the external limits <strong>of</strong> body and mind, the most reliable<br />
indicator <strong>of</strong> the need to conserve and restrict the waste and misuse<br />
<strong>of</strong> the body’s unique capital – its labor power.” 8 The brusque<br />
tempo <strong>of</strong> the city, the routinized labor, and the constant running<br />
<strong>of</strong> the factory’s machines linked the experience <strong>of</strong> fatigue with<br />
the demands <strong>of</strong> industrial society. <strong>Studies</strong> and experiments on<br />
fatigue and its inverse, energy conservation and conversion, figured<br />
the worker’s body “as a productive force and as a political<br />
instrument whose energies could be subjected to scientifically<br />
designed systems <strong>of</strong> organization.” 9<br />
The Stimulus Progression’s Ascending Curve creates a<br />
sense <strong>of</strong> forward movement to counteract the worker’s Fatigue<br />
Cycle by acting against the cycle’s efficiency curve. The finale<br />
at the end <strong>of</strong> a cycle is a more upbeat tune that coincides with<br />
the cycle’s peak, followed by fifteen minutes <strong>of</strong> silence, which<br />
gives the listener a break that prevents Muzak from becoming<br />
opposite: Muzak box from the 1950s. Photo Vincent Mazeau. Courtesy the Mazeau<br />
Muzak Collection
a distraction. Stimulus Progression is a system that provides<br />
people with a psychological “lift,” an unconscious sense <strong>of</strong><br />
forward movement achieved through programming sound in<br />
fifteen-minute blocks.<br />
From another perspective, there is a large and growing<br />
movement <strong>of</strong> different factions that have passionately advocated<br />
for the eradication <strong>of</strong> Muzak or the boycott <strong>of</strong> places <strong>of</strong><br />
business that utilize Muzak. These movements have centered<br />
on the perceived intrusion <strong>of</strong> Muzak into public space and<br />
on its canned-<strong>culture</strong> assault on individualism and creativity.<br />
There have been many attempts to eliminate Muzak, whether<br />
through legislation, high pr<strong>of</strong>ile campaigns, or attempted buyouts<br />
such as heavy-metalist Ted Nugent’s $10 million bid to<br />
purchase the company in order to destroy it. Last year in the<br />
British House <strong>of</strong> Parliament, Salisbury MP Robert Key brought<br />
forth his Ten-Minute Rule bill that would outlaw Muzak in<br />
almost all “public” places. The measure lost despite the efforts<br />
by high-pr<strong>of</strong>ile organizations such as Pipedown, whose “Campaign<br />
for Freedom against Piped Music” is supported by wellknown<br />
figures such as author Stephen Fry, actor Tom Conti,<br />
and conductor Sir Simon Rattle.<br />
Also in this category are the composers <strong>of</strong> ambient music<br />
who share a similar aversion to Muzak and who seem to have<br />
the most at stake in distinguishing themselves from its effects.<br />
Although at times the aural distinction between Muzak and<br />
ambient music may be tenuous at best, the difference seems<br />
to lie in the latter’s attention to the acoustic structure <strong>of</strong> an<br />
environment and an appropriation <strong>of</strong> it through composition<br />
and style. Brian Eno, who first coined the term ambient music,<br />
sums it up best in the liner notes from his record Music for<br />
Airports/Ambient 1 (1978). Brian Eno argues that whereas<br />
Muzak serves as lightweight background music, ambient<br />
music focuses precisely on the spatiality <strong>of</strong> what makes up a<br />
“background” – its idiosyncratic atmosphere and acoustic surroundings.<br />
Eno writes, “…Muzak’s intention is to ‘brighten’ the<br />
environment by adding stimulus to it (this supposedly alleviating<br />
the tedium <strong>of</strong> routine tasks and leveling out the natural<br />
ups and downs <strong>of</strong> the body rhythms)…. [In contrast] ambient<br />
music is intended to induce calm and a space to think.” Ambient<br />
music’s use <strong>of</strong> repetitious rhythmic patterns, attention to<br />
the timbre-based qualities <strong>of</strong> a human voice rather than the<br />
actual lyrics, and the visualization <strong>of</strong> the vertical or architectural<br />
color <strong>of</strong> sound, tend toward the maintenance <strong>of</strong> a singular<br />
and even balance <strong>of</strong> tone and noise that is aimed to better<br />
suit the encompassing spatial dimensions <strong>of</strong> an environment.<br />
Ambient music invites one to pay attention to the noise and<br />
sounds surrounding our daily lives, whereas Muzak standardizes<br />
it in order to control space.<br />
Essentially, Muzak is a system designed to eliminate<br />
wasteful energy. However, it has taken up multiple guises in<br />
today’s global, postmodern era. The moving target <strong>of</strong> Muzak<br />
has shifted from the realm <strong>of</strong> production to the realm <strong>of</strong> consumption<br />
as it colors the landscape <strong>of</strong> commodities. Today the<br />
music may be varied and even hip and eclectic, yet its effects<br />
<strong>of</strong> uniformity and intensification <strong>of</strong> consumer consumption<br />
are sinister. The mode <strong>of</strong> address has diversified in its <strong>of</strong>fering<br />
<strong>of</strong> tunes that cross the intersections <strong>of</strong> race, class, sex, and<br />
gender. On one hand, Muzak gives the illusion <strong>of</strong> a<br />
56<br />
democratic space, an unlimited choice <strong>of</strong> songs rang-<br />
ing from urban beats to country currents to Fiesta Mexicana<br />
to jukebox gold. On the other hand, it effaces the listener, and<br />
turns the body into a site <strong>of</strong> experimentation and mass production:<br />
a passive yet industrious automaton.<br />
Muzak as the bad object operates almost like a colonial<br />
tool, producing a sonic landscape laden with metaphorical<br />
maneuvers <strong>of</strong> invasion, dispossession, and surveillance<br />
through mechanized sound. It has the potential to seep not<br />
only through walls, but to become part <strong>of</strong> the foundational<br />
structure <strong>of</strong> a building. In their recent move to update their corporate<br />
image, Muzak’s <strong>of</strong>ficials now present themselves not as<br />
a group <strong>of</strong> scientists but as “audio architects,” interior designers<br />
who specialize in “audio imaging” the spa, restaurant, or<br />
boutique near you. Due to falling revenue and increased competition,<br />
Muzak has been forced to update its corporate image<br />
with the help <strong>of</strong> the multi-disciplinary design firm Pentagram.<br />
Vice President <strong>of</strong> Marketing for Muzak, Kenny Kahn, hails the<br />
change as follows in an article focusing on its corporate makeover:<br />
“…we have a new way <strong>of</strong> talking about the company. The<br />
product has a face… Pentagram gave us a visual foundation<br />
that lets us actively and creatively show people what music<br />
can do for them. Design has not only been great for Muzak’s<br />
business; design has given Muzak its soul.” 10<br />
Muzak’s threat to create panoptic spaces that produce<br />
automatons is barely, if at all, perceived. As Georg Simmel<br />
wrote back in 1903 about the resilience <strong>of</strong> the human body<br />
under the strain <strong>of</strong> modernity, our ears adjust to the constant<br />
hum <strong>of</strong> disruptions and urban noise, and we continue to just<br />
go with the flow. Even Joseph Lanza, who looks critically at<br />
Muzak, somewhat redeems it at the conclusion <strong>of</strong> his book as<br />
he writes, “Elevator music (besides just being good music) is<br />
essentially a distillation <strong>of</strong> the happiness that modern technology<br />
has promised. A world without elevator music would be<br />
much grimmer than its detractors (and those who take it for<br />
granted) could ever realize.” 11<br />
Yet the contemporary art <strong>of</strong> Annette Weisser, Ingo Vetter,<br />
and David Schafer makes Muzak strange, disrupting its<br />
smooth operations and our passive reception. More importantly,<br />
their art challenges us to consider how man-made elements<br />
<strong>of</strong> place – from the sound coming out <strong>of</strong> the walls to the<br />
lights on the ceilings – alter our perceptions, motivations, and<br />
formations <strong>of</strong> subjectivity. In RESITE, German artists Weisser<br />
and Vetter propose to build a sound system within the sound<br />
system already installed in the central square <strong>of</strong> Zeewolde, a<br />
town located in Holland. 12 By overlapping ambient music composed<br />
<strong>of</strong> sounds they collect around the square with a system<br />
already playing Muzak, Weisser and Vetter highlight the specific<br />
qualities <strong>of</strong> an environment instead <strong>of</strong> muffling it with<br />
Muzak in order to, in the words <strong>of</strong> Brian Eno, “accommodate<br />
many levels <strong>of</strong> listening without enforcing one in particular.” 13<br />
Through more confrontational means, Los Angelesbased<br />
artist David Schafer tweaks Muzak’s role as “soothe<br />
operator” by fiddling with its Stimulus Progression in the CDs<br />
x10R.1 (two second gap) and x10R.2 (variable gap). 14 They<br />
are works <strong>of</strong> art that can be heard over a stereo or, more effectively,<br />
through a Walkman. Ironically, it was the Walkman’s<br />
emergence in 1979 that momentarily disrupted the seamless<br />
stream <strong>of</strong> Muzak piping out <strong>of</strong> <strong>of</strong>fice public-address systems,<br />
ins<strong>of</strong>ar as it allowed for the creation <strong>of</strong> individual private sonic
spheres within the public sphere. Schafer’s purposely cacophonous<br />
CDs provoke an intense feeling <strong>of</strong> being out <strong>of</strong> place and<br />
out <strong>of</strong> sorts.<br />
Schafer’s “Times Ten Resequenced with Variable Gap”<br />
(X10R.2) presents a medley <strong>of</strong> well-known tunes by Muzak<br />
composers and arrangers: Les Baxter, Bert Kaempfert, <strong>And</strong>re<br />
Kostelanetz, Paul Mauriat, and Hugo Winterhalter. 15 By studying<br />
the physiological and psychological effects and applications<br />
<strong>of</strong> Muzak, Schafer’s CD turns Muzak inside out, revealing<br />
its abject intentions and effects. In his selection <strong>of</strong> Muzak’s<br />
greatest hits based on their varying instrumentation and<br />
moods, Schafer’s CD medley begins with a chorus <strong>of</strong> haunting<br />
voices followed by a variation <strong>of</strong> overlapping melodies that<br />
become excessive, disorienting, almost nauseating. At different<br />
moments within the duration <strong>of</strong> its play (58.41 minutes to<br />
be exact), one can discern fleeting instances <strong>of</strong> recognizable<br />
TV and film tunes, from The Godfather theme to Frances Lai’s<br />
score for A Man and a Woman. Catchy, saccharine tunes (better<br />
known as “champagne music”) crescendo into an orchestral<br />
ensemble <strong>of</strong> violins, horns, and harps with brief breaks<br />
<strong>of</strong> applause that explode the monaural sound <strong>of</strong> Muzak. In<br />
contrast to the sense <strong>of</strong> distended time that Muzak <strong>of</strong>fers, the<br />
noise in Schafer’s CD is obtrusive and chaotic, condensing<br />
time to produce a claustrophobic space. <strong>Visual</strong>ly, I imagine the<br />
effect would resemble something like the shattering <strong>of</strong> a vase<br />
with shards <strong>of</strong> glass exploding everywhere or a stroboscopic<br />
flickering <strong>of</strong> pea-green, burnt-sienna, and pungent-yellow<br />
colors. In other words, listening to x10R.2 is far from a pleasant<br />
experience, but it is a fascinating one.<br />
In the spirit <strong>of</strong> the Situationists and John Cage, Schafer’s<br />
tactics undermine the soothing tunes <strong>of</strong> Muzak. At the same<br />
time, Schafer, an astute operator himself, knows both how<br />
to manipulate and recede into the background. Listening<br />
to Schafer’s CD will not train one to be like Mucho Mass, the<br />
character in Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying <strong>of</strong> Lot 49 who discerns<br />
Muzak’s string compositions and rhythmic ebb and flow.<br />
Rather, in contrast to the low level <strong>of</strong> attention that Muzak<br />
thrives on, Schafer’s CD forces one to pay attention in<br />
57 a kind <strong>of</strong> drunken stupor. The experience <strong>of</strong> listening<br />
to Schafer’s CDs is not pretty, but it pokes a hole in Muzak’s<br />
seductively orchestrated operations, as it simultaneously revitalizes<br />
the ritual use <strong>of</strong> our perception.<br />
Sample tracks <strong>of</strong> Schafer’s work can be heard under “<strong>issue</strong> 7” on Cabinet’s website at<br />
<br />
1 Quoted in Joseph Lanza, Elevator Music: A Surreal History <strong>of</strong> Muzak, Easy-Listening, and<br />
Other Moodsong (New York: Picador, 1994), p. 150.<br />
2 See Lanza, Elevator Music, especially the bibliography, pp.225-266; Jacques Attali,<br />
Noise: The Political Economy <strong>of</strong> Music, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University <strong>of</strong><br />
Minnesota Press, 1985); Bill Gifford’s special <strong>issue</strong> on Muzak in the online magazine<br />
Feed at .<br />
3 Lanza, p. 5.<br />
4 Ibid., p. 3.<br />
5 Ibid, p. 11.<br />
6 David Lindsay, “The Muzak Man,” American Heritage <strong>of</strong> Invention and Technology<br />
vol. 14, no. 2 (Fall 1998), pp. 52-57. Also see his House <strong>of</strong> Invention: The Secret Life <strong>of</strong><br />
Everyday Products (New York: The Lyons Press, 2000).<br />
7 Lanza, pp. 48-49.<br />
8 Anson Rabinbach, The Human Motor: Energy, Fatigue, and the Origins <strong>of</strong> Modernity<br />
(New York: Basic Books, 1990), p. 6.<br />
9 Rabinbach, p. 2.<br />
10 Kenny Kahn, “Muzak on Key,” The Journal <strong>of</strong> Business and Design, vol. 7, no.1, available<br />
at .<br />
11 Lanza, p. 233.<br />
12 Their proposal can be found on .<br />
13 From Brian Eno’s liner notes to Music for Airports/Ambient 1.<br />
14 David Schafer’s x10R.1 (two second gap) and x10R.2 (variable gap) were released as a<br />
double CD in early 2002 on the Transparency label. See .<br />
15 For some, the Muzak composers and arrangers selected by Schafer may seem “out-<br />
dated” ins<strong>of</strong>ar as Muzak has adopted in its recent compilation <strong>of</strong> tunes s<strong>of</strong>t hits produced in<br />
the 1980s and 1990s. Bill Gifford writes, “As Muzak evolves, narrowing the gap between<br />
itself and popular music, it has become pop’s Doppelgänger. On the new Muzak, a Steely<br />
Dan tune still sounds like a Steely Dan tune; Bonnie Raitt like Bonnie Raitt, more or less. But<br />
not quite…” See the special <strong>issue</strong> on Muzak in Feed magazine.<br />
above: Muzak wire from the 1950s. Photo Vincent Mazeau. Courtesy the Mazeau<br />
Muzak Collection
Irds oF NortH amErIca sING HIP-HoP<br />
aNd somEtImEs PausE For rEFlEctIoN<br />
amy Jean porter
HuNGrY For God<br />
gregory wHiteHeaD<br />
When I read the report in the Telegraph that a number <strong>of</strong> rare<br />
illuminated manuscripts, including the splendid Winchester<br />
Bible, had disappeared without a trace from the famed Spence<br />
Collection <strong>of</strong> the British Library, I thought immediately <strong>of</strong> my old<br />
acquaintances, Sybil Townsend and Rachel Thompson, who<br />
belong to a special breed <strong>of</strong> bibliophile, their desire for possession<br />
<strong>of</strong> unique and precious texts taken to an extreme. Bluntly<br />
put: They eat books.<br />
I had first contacted Townsend and Thompson in 1985,<br />
while in the process <strong>of</strong> researching a radio essay, Dead Letters.<br />
They agreed to speak to me on strict condition that I<br />
would do nothing with the taped material. I recall their envious<br />
glance when I told them about my interview with Dr. Mary<br />
Dilthey, the distinguished curator in charge <strong>of</strong> the Spence,<br />
comprised mostly <strong>of</strong> illuminated manuscripts, many theological<br />
in nature, chance survivors <strong>of</strong> the fires and invasions that<br />
had ravaged the sanctuaries <strong>of</strong> their fabricators. An elderly<br />
artisan <strong>of</strong> the Old School, Dr. Dilthey had been engaged in<br />
a long, demoralizing struggle against the collection’s infestation<br />
by various species <strong>of</strong> beetles: Anobium domesticum,<br />
A. eruditus, A. Paniceum, A. pertinax, A. punctatum, and A.<br />
striatum; Acarus cheyletus and A. eruditus; Dermestes lardarius;<br />
Aecophora pseudospretella; Sitodrepa paniceum; Attagenus<br />
pellio; Lepisma saccharina; Ptinus fur; Antherenus varius;<br />
Lyctus brunneus; Catorama mexicana; and Rhizopertha dominica,<br />
indifferent to anything but fuel and reproduction.<br />
I still carry the handmade bookmark she gave me as a<br />
keepsake, inscribed with an aphorism by Michel Eyquem de<br />
Montaigne: “Man cannot make a worm, yet he will make gods<br />
by the dozen.”<br />
I had not communicated with Townsend and Thompson –<br />
who shun e-mail and use only public telephones – since 1993<br />
or so, and had no idea how to find them. Fortunately, we share<br />
a common friend in London, who encouraged me to fly over<br />
immediately. He knew how to contact them, and would arrange<br />
a meeting. At Kennedy, security was still tight in the wake <strong>of</strong><br />
the errant shoe bomber, and the late flight was half empty. I<br />
used the two vacant seats in my row to sort through the various<br />
letters and copious notes in my bibliovoria file, paying particularly<br />
close attention to the passages I had copied from Wade<br />
O. Crumpston’s Hungry for God, the definitive account <strong>of</strong> an<br />
obscure medieval heretical sect named the Khunrathians, after<br />
their leader, Johannes Khunrath, whose beliefs centered around<br />
the ritualized practice <strong>of</strong> eating the Word:<br />
“The records left by those who would, in the end, become<br />
his tormentors, indicate that Khunrath was a master <strong>of</strong> impersonation,<br />
fluent in the tightly regulated idioms <strong>of</strong> the varied<br />
monastic orders. In the Khunrathian universe, the ability to<br />
inhabit the face and voice <strong>of</strong> monks across multiple communities<br />
clearly played a critical role in restoring unity to the Word<br />
<strong>of</strong> God. Migration into the collective spirit <strong>of</strong> the Word, accomplished<br />
by becoming one with a sociologically closed community,<br />
subsequently projected into the direct textual intermingling<br />
Khunrath secured through the selective ingestion <strong>of</strong><br />
the discipline’s most sacred texts. Such signature tra-<br />
62<br />
versal <strong>of</strong> voice and text became even more dramatic
during his eleven years in the Middle East, where Khunrath<br />
would pursue a radical union <strong>of</strong> the Word, via a broad array<br />
<strong>of</strong> hermetic intestinal gestures, on a field where theology had<br />
failed, and blood had been spilled.” (p. 58)<br />
Further on... “While it is difficult to ascertain how many disciples<br />
continued to pursue the neo-Khunrathian ethic <strong>of</strong> Word<br />
incarnation in the years following his public evisceration in a<br />
bean field outside <strong>of</strong> Cordoba, we do know that the practice <strong>of</strong><br />
bibliovoria sacra took root in several <strong>of</strong> the monastic orders that<br />
had formerly been his targets, and that brothers would meet in<br />
the scriptorium on nights prescribed by the Khunrathian calendar,<br />
to engage in lengthy rituals <strong>of</strong> song and feast, marked<br />
by ecstatic glossolalic outbursts, followed by a final collective<br />
inhalation <strong>of</strong> the designated manuscript, consumed in a frenzy<br />
<strong>of</strong> breath and mandication – Word into mouth; God into flesh.”<br />
(p. 139)<br />
I had also made a photocopy <strong>of</strong> the woodcut image<br />
from the frontispiece, the only known portrait <strong>of</strong> Johannes<br />
Khunrath: a bible ablaze in his belly, eyes closed, mouth open,<br />
hands reached out to the sky.<br />
On arrival at Heathrow early the next morning, I took the<br />
express tube to Paddington, and then on through Highgate to<br />
East Finchley, where Walter Sculley, my Townsend/Thompson<br />
lead, had generously <strong>of</strong>fered to put me up in the empty flat<br />
above his shop. Sculley is an American dealer in celebrity body<br />
parts who relocated his business to London in the late 1980s<br />
because, by his own account, “Brits don’t ask so many questions,<br />
and in my business, you can’t put a price tag on privacy.”<br />
The last time I visited, he had just taken delivery on a highly speculative<br />
investment in the remains <strong>of</strong> an individual once touted<br />
as the next Che Guevara, a Peruvian guerillero named Gonzalas<br />
Rodrigos. After watching him unpack the shrink-wrapped parcel<br />
for long-term storage in the freezer, I understood the high<br />
premium Sculley placed upon discretion.<br />
Emma, Sculley’s cheerful Oxford-educated assistant, met<br />
me at ground level, and led me down to the shop, suffused by<br />
its distinctive blend <strong>of</strong> pungent odors: formaldehyde, c<strong>of</strong>fee,<br />
incense and several others I dared not try to classify. No matter<br />
how many times I visit, the sheer volume and variety <strong>of</strong> materials<br />
lining the walls <strong>of</strong> the shop never cease to astonish me:<br />
stacks <strong>of</strong> boxes split open with a protruding tibia here, a jagged<br />
spinal column there; a shelf <strong>of</strong> single shoes placed directly<br />
above a neat sequence <strong>of</strong> skeletal feet; the display case full <strong>of</strong><br />
mysterious orbs and globs eerily suspended in viscous fluids;<br />
an entire wooden panel adorned with a series <strong>of</strong> 100 fingers,<br />
“named and framed” – Churchill, Chaplin, Mary Queen <strong>of</strong> Scots;<br />
a signed photograph <strong>of</strong> Ronald Reagan and Marilyn Monroe,<br />
adorned with a laminated latex glove beneath his image,<br />
and a laminated lock <strong>of</strong> hair beneath hers; and the long “Wall<br />
<strong>of</strong> Fame”, where Sculley keeps track <strong>of</strong> who is hot and who is<br />
history, cross-referenced with a long dark corridor <strong>of</strong> steel trays<br />
and boxes.<br />
Sculley was aware I was returning to New York the very<br />
next day, and came straight to the point, “They’ll meet you at<br />
the Royal Thumb & Thimble in an hour”, and then joined Emma<br />
in the wet room, from which I could hear the thin whine <strong>of</strong><br />
a high speed drill. After dropping my overnight bag upstairs,<br />
and taking a quick shower, I set out on foot through a light<br />
drizzle to find out what had become <strong>of</strong> my old friends. The Royal
Thumb & Thimble was Sculley’s favorite London pub, a brisk<br />
half hour walk from the shop, in the general direction <strong>of</strong> Kentish<br />
Town. First attracted by the name (fingers <strong>of</strong> fallen aristocrats<br />
were perennial top sellers), Sculley favored the RT&T because it<br />
played neither music nor television.<br />
When I arrived, the two veteran bookeaters had already<br />
established themselves at a corner table in a small side room.<br />
I ordered a pint <strong>of</strong> Murphy’s, and sat down between them.<br />
“Lovely to see you again, Gregory, but you may as well know<br />
straight away, nary a nibble <strong>of</strong> the Spence in this corner”, said<br />
Sybil. I glanced at Rachel, who confirmed, “Not a single leaf.”<br />
But surely they knew something? “Of course we do, luvvie, birds<br />
<strong>of</strong> a feather, and all. Relax and enjoy your pint – he’ll be here in<br />
a few minutes”.<br />
I found it hard to conceal my disappointment when the<br />
Spence bibliovore turned out to be Michael Monihan, a minor<br />
Canadian performance artist who created a little splash in<br />
the art world a few years back by eating a leatherbound copy<br />
<strong>of</strong> La Divina Commedia in the Piazza San Marco during an<br />
unsanctioned performance at the Venice Biennale. Michael<br />
had gained considerable weight since then, his face puffy, his<br />
eyes dim and deeply set, like two glass marbles at the bottom<br />
<strong>of</strong> a frog pond. “It’s out <strong>of</strong> control”, he said. “I can’t get enough.<br />
Some other body. Taking root. You eat Word, thinking – total<br />
control. Then it starts to eat you back.” At this, Rachel said,<br />
“We warned you, though, Mikie, didn’t we, dearie?” Leaning<br />
towards me, Sybil added, “He wouldn’t listen to us, even after<br />
we told him we had to swear <strong>of</strong>f the sacra years ago, nothing<br />
these days but the odd tidbit <strong>of</strong> Hardy or Lawrence, much better<br />
for the hormones, you see.”<br />
Rachel picked up the thread, “But Mikie, poor sod, got<br />
hooked, didn’t he then?” Then Monihan said, “If I don’t get my<br />
forty-odd pages <strong>of</strong> quality Word per diem, I’m not worth a lick.”<br />
At this, he reached into his leather portfolio and removed a beautifully<br />
illuminated page <strong>of</strong> text (I only caught a brief glimpse, but<br />
it appeared to be taken from a Carolingian sacramentary), tore<br />
<strong>of</strong>f a long strip, rolled it up into a tight roll, returned the rest <strong>of</strong> the<br />
page to the portfolio, and began to chew.<br />
I signaled the bartender to draw me another Murphy’s<br />
while Monihan continued, in a walkie-talkie staccato, “Eat<br />
more, need more .... chew ‘round the clock .... tired all the time<br />
.... no mobility ..... target the high density ..... British Library ....<br />
Spence.... best score in town.... Winchester .... primo pulp....<br />
have to feed ... The Beast.” He took a long pull from Sybil’s<br />
bitters, the boost from the fresh ingestion <strong>of</strong> text kicking in,<br />
his reptilian eyes burned in their sockets like the headlamps <strong>of</strong><br />
two spelunkers trapped in a narrow passage. “I am so close,<br />
Whitehead, so very close, understand? Soon, there will come<br />
a threshold, a crossing, an index, very soon, there will be a final<br />
page, Kabbalah, Muhammad, Job, I don’t give a bloody fig, and<br />
then the man known as Monihan will be no more, for he shall<br />
become One with ——.” He did not bother to finish the sentence,<br />
but instead took a final quaff from Sybil’s diminished pint, stood<br />
up, belched loudly, swept his scarf around his thick neck, and<br />
was gone.<br />
I asked whether Mary Dilthey was still the curator <strong>of</strong><br />
The Spence, and if so, how a gas bag like Michael Monihan<br />
could ever manage to slither past her vigilant gaze.<br />
64<br />
Rachel, who was now digging into a heaping portion
<strong>of</strong> shepard’s pie, chuckled, and said “You always fancied grand<br />
dame Dilthey, didn’t you, luv? Mikie has her pretty well hooked,<br />
convinced her that bibliovoria was the only way to kill the<br />
bugs, that her own body <strong>of</strong>fered a more secure environment<br />
for her beloved manuscripts than the infested stacks at the<br />
Spence. So old mother Mary grants Mikie the Bibles, the Judaica<br />
and the Korans, while she tucks into all the rest. Addiction is<br />
a terrible thing!”<br />
Whether from the image <strong>of</strong> Mary Dilthey eating book<br />
with Michael Monihan, or from contemplating what manner<br />
<strong>of</strong> colonoscopy would now be necessary to enjoy the riches <strong>of</strong><br />
the Spence, or from the smell <strong>of</strong> Rachel’s pie, a wave <strong>of</strong> nausea<br />
was beginning to build deep in my soul, so I paid our tab, bid<br />
farewell to the two bibliovores, and returned to Sculley’s flat.<br />
When I awoke from a fitful sleep, London was dark, but a light<br />
still burned in the basement. I took the back staircase down to<br />
see what the old bone trader was up to. I found him at a small<br />
table in the archive room, surrounded by cardboard boxes full<br />
<strong>of</strong> what appeared, from a distance, to be bird nests. He asked<br />
me how my meeting had gone at the Thumb, and I recounted<br />
the entire degenerative tale, from the idealistic universalism<br />
<strong>of</strong> the heretic Khunrath to the cynical gluttony <strong>of</strong> the junkie,<br />
Monihan. After I had finished, Sculley walked across the room<br />
and removed a bottle <strong>of</strong> Wild Turkey and two silver cups from a<br />
small cabinet, and returned to the table.<br />
“I don’t care whether it’s hunger for the Universal God or<br />
some corpse-sucking maggot”, he said, as he poured the bourbon,<br />
“it all comes down to the same tin <strong>of</strong> beans.” I took a big<br />
swallow <strong>of</strong> Turkey, waiting for Sculley to continue. “God lives<br />
forever, so the trick is, you have to find a way to get closer to the<br />
action. The three religions you’re talking about, the true believer<br />
can do just that. Since the flesh is the Word, all you have to do is<br />
eat a few chunks <strong>of</strong> holy writ and you’re in. Jackpot. There’s just<br />
one little problemo.”<br />
Sculley reached down and placed one <strong>of</strong> the cardboard boxes<br />
on the table. “You know what’s in this box?” I stared down at<br />
the bird nests, which I could now see were tangled clumps <strong>of</strong><br />
hair, but all I could think <strong>of</strong> was Sybil’s shepard’s pie. “Taliban<br />
beards,” he said, “bought ‘em by the pound from a dope dealer<br />
in Kandahar. Figure the Mullah might be in there somewhere,<br />
maybe even Big Binny himself. Speculative buy, but you never<br />
know, I get DNA confirmation some day, and we’re talking a<br />
major bingo, put ‘em together with a Dubyah eyelash, and you<br />
have a moonshot.”<br />
Sculley noted I had drained my cup and poured me<br />
another. He also selected one <strong>of</strong> the beards (removing a single<br />
hair for his inventory database), cut about a twelve inch square<br />
<strong>of</strong> white muslin from a bolt under the table, placed the beard in<br />
the center <strong>of</strong> the square, tucked up the corners into what looked<br />
like a large beggar’s purse, then tied <strong>of</strong>f the top with a length <strong>of</strong><br />
thin black ribbon, saying: “So there’s the moral for your story.”<br />
Though I had a vague sense <strong>of</strong> where Sculley was heading, my<br />
tongue felt like an old gym sock, so I drained the cup in one big<br />
swallow and stared back at him, blankly.<br />
“The world is full <strong>of</strong> people who want to eat God, live<br />
forever”, he said. “I know, because many <strong>of</strong> them are my clients,<br />
and the rest are my inventory. I had one client, he spent<br />
65<br />
ten years collecting authenticated slivers <strong>of</strong> the old<br />
cross, paid a fortune, black market, mostly, bribes to the Vatican,<br />
you name it, very delicate business. By the end, he must<br />
have had at least ten inches <strong>of</strong> Holy wood. So what does he do?”<br />
I had a fairly good idea, but gestured for him to continue. “He<br />
pops open a bottle <strong>of</strong> 1962 Lafite one night, and proceeds to<br />
eat his whole collection at one sitting.” He paused for a moment<br />
to return the Wild Turkey and cups to the cabinet, then said<br />
“For the next couple <strong>of</strong> days, he struts around, high on the Holy<br />
Ghost, spouting all kinds <strong>of</strong> Pentecostal gobbledygook, in fact,<br />
he’s so high on the Almighty, he fails to notice he’s leaking<br />
major blood from the other end. The wood chips must have torn<br />
his intestines to shreds, maybe they carried some kind <strong>of</strong> bug,<br />
all I know is, by the end <strong>of</strong> the week, the man’s half dead.”<br />
Sculley placed his box full <strong>of</strong> facial hair back under the<br />
table, took out a clean handkerchief from the pocket <strong>of</strong> his<br />
smock, mopped up a few dribbles <strong>of</strong> bourbon, then dabbed at<br />
a smear <strong>of</strong> nameless gunk on the arm <strong>of</strong> his chair. “When he<br />
wakes up in the hospital post-op, he discovers he’s wearing a<br />
bag, and I’m not talking about a Gucci money belt. Finds out<br />
the cross went up in smoke, medical refuse, incinerated with<br />
the rest <strong>of</strong> the op-slop. Next day, he goes into a coma and never<br />
comes back.”<br />
The dealer continued to jab at the gummy glob, that<br />
released a sour aroma from the effort. “Sooner or later, Old<br />
Wormy needs to be fed, and when it comes to theology, Old<br />
Wormy is not a fussy eater.” Inferring from my stupor that I<br />
was unlikely to say anything for the rest <strong>of</strong> the evening, Sculley<br />
picked up the Talib purse, tossed it into my lap, turned <strong>of</strong>f the<br />
lights in the main shop, and left me alone in his eerie storehouse<br />
<strong>of</strong> memories and dreams.<br />
Note: Wade Crumston’s Hungry for God (Sparrows Press, 1981) is lamentably out <strong>of</strong> print.<br />
The editors <strong>of</strong> Cabinet are studying the feasability <strong>of</strong> an <strong>of</strong>fprint republication <strong>of</strong> extended<br />
excerpts. Whitehead’s interview with Walter Sculley was published in the first <strong>issue</strong> <strong>of</strong><br />
Cabinet, and information about his movie, The Bone Trade, directed by John Dryden, is<br />
available at www.bonetrade.com. Dead Letters is available as a staalplaat CD, or by contact-<br />
ing Gregory Whitehead directly: gregor@berkshire.net.
Not Your NamE, mINE<br />
paul scHmelzer<br />
A few years back, I had lunch with an 8-year-old named Spencer<br />
and his father, Ron. We were at an outdoor restaurant in Madison,<br />
Wisconsin, and one <strong>of</strong> that town’s favorite sons, jazz musician<br />
Ben Sidran, sat at a nearby table. Ron urged Spencer – who<br />
has Asberger’s Syndrome, a milder variant <strong>of</strong> autism – to get an<br />
autograph, and Sidran, accustomed to such requests, gladly<br />
obliged. But when he handed the autograph back to the boy,<br />
Spencer retorted, “Not your name, mine!” The musician scribbled<br />
out his own name and rewrote the boy’s.<br />
Six months ago, inspired by this inadvertent deconstruction<br />
<strong>of</strong> celebrity, I began writing to artists, writers, actors, and<br />
political figures asking them to sign my autograph. A simple<br />
enough premise, intended to both examine celebrity – what<br />
does it mean that Yoko Ono signed the name <strong>of</strong> a complete<br />
unknown? <strong>And</strong> what is the value <strong>of</strong> that signature? – and celebrate<br />
those who have shaped my beliefs. I’ve considered<br />
what these responses might mean to me – it’s Zen-like, this<br />
repetition; it’s egotistical; it’s a way <strong>of</strong> stealing energy from<br />
those I respect; it fits into an art historical context alongside<br />
explorations by Richard Prince, Bruce Conner, Alan Berliner,<br />
and others. But in the end, as much as I wanted the project to<br />
critique one aspect <strong>of</strong> the “society <strong>of</strong> the spectacle,” I’m always<br />
left with the selfish glow <strong>of</strong> excitement: someone famous<br />
signed my name.<br />
More than 50 celebrities have so far contributed to the<br />
project, and another 40 either didn’t understand it and signed<br />
their own names (damn you, James Brown!), or left the autograph<br />
business to their handlers, who mailed out preprinted<br />
8x10s. (A rare response: Mikhail Baryshnikov, who took the<br />
time to write, “Not interested. Thank you” – a full four syllables<br />
longer than my name.)<br />
Here is a sampling <strong>of</strong> those who’ve participated.<br />
1. Edward O. Wilson, 2. Frank Gehry, 3. Ben Sidran, 4. Billy Bragg,<br />
5. Jenny Holzer, 6. Bonnie Blair, 7. Yoko Ono, 8. Annie Sprinkle,<br />
9. Kim Gordon, 10. Laurie <strong>And</strong>erson, 11. Spalding Gray, 12. Maya Lin,<br />
13. Doris (GrannyD) Haddock 14. Pat Buchanan, 15. David Sedaris,<br />
16. Henry Louis Gates, 17. Fats Domino, 18. Sen. Paul Wellstone,<br />
19. Naomi Klein, 20. Merce Cunningham, 21. Winona LaDuke.<br />
66<br />
1.<br />
2.<br />
3.<br />
4.<br />
5.<br />
6.<br />
7.
8.<br />
9.<br />
10.<br />
11.<br />
12.<br />
13.<br />
14.<br />
15.<br />
16.<br />
17.<br />
18.<br />
19.<br />
20.<br />
21.
failure
lackness. GOD gave the Earth<br />
o that living things could flourish<br />
ted a man and called him Adam.<br />
ons for doing this was to prove to<br />
goodness would always triumph<br />
s populated by angels, and those<br />
not good enough in GOD’s eyes<br />
hell forever. These were known<br />
s’. When the Devil noticed what<br />
to do, he saw to it that humans<br />
good ended up in hell. These lost<br />
emned to Eternal Damnation in<br />
h was a horrible place burning<br />
placed in a beautiful and verdant<br />
D had made especially for him,<br />
n was like paradise, in fact it was<br />
dise (although most <strong>of</strong> the Earth<br />
he time). It was also known as the<br />
hly Delights. Adam ran around<br />
uit and vegetables, and playing<br />
ls, in a state <strong>of</strong> innocence. But<br />
as not an animal and had the<br />
, he became bored and wanted<br />
to. So GOD removed one <strong>of</strong><br />
le he was asleep and from it he<br />
woman. Eve was just like Adam<br />
particular physical features. Their<br />
uctive) organs were what differ-<br />
in fact made them opposites,<br />
nd Eve didn’t realise this because<br />
what these organs were for.<br />
Adam and Eve were very happy<br />
<strong>of</strong> their time discovering what<br />
, eating fruit and stroking the<br />
who were their friends. But they<br />
eary <strong>of</strong> their perpetual state <strong>of</strong><br />
bliss. They became dissatisfied<br />
and wondered why they should<br />
s will.<br />
tree in the garden that GOD had<br />
ot to touch. It was called the Tree<br />
and on no account were they to<br />
ve was most curious to know what<br />
tree would taste like and one day<br />
seductive serpent persuaded her<br />
never notice just one fruit. The<br />
d apples. Adam was horrified, but<br />
im to pick just one, and have a<br />
into the apple.<br />
nt the sky turned black, and a<br />
hunder roared, lightning flashed<br />
wled, terrifying Adam and Eve,<br />
xperienced bad weather and had<br />
as happening to them. Cowering<br />
ice <strong>of</strong> GOD told them that they<br />
the forces <strong>of</strong> evil and picked<br />
ruit from the Tree <strong>of</strong> Knowledge.<br />
innocence for ever and would<br />
yearning for what they had lost.<br />
ith him to make the storm stop,<br />
were sorry and would never dis-<br />
but he said his decision was irrev-<br />
would have to live with their mis-<br />
said that they had committed the<br />
d that this is what they would<br />
s for – the event would henceforth<br />
e Fall. Since Eden wasn’t enough<br />
had determined that unless they<br />
ed for the rest <strong>of</strong> their lives, the<br />
im in Heaven but would be con-<br />
es <strong>of</strong> Hell. This put the ‘Fear <strong>of</strong><br />
terrible catastrophe, GOD ban-<br />
Eden for ever. Distraught and<br />
and Eve were now at the mercy<br />
hich was <strong>of</strong>ten bad when before<br />
n lovely. Significantly, they <strong>of</strong>ten<br />
uilty, which was a new and con-<br />
Furthermore, they had realised<br />
were different, and became both<br />
epelled by each other. They were<br />
their nakedness and covered their<br />
leaves. In short, they discovered<br />
nd they had sexual intercourse<br />
Eve giving birth to a child. Thus<br />
began to multiply, and everyone<br />
om Adam and Eve.<br />
d to eat, and so they learned how<br />
cultivating the land and killing<br />
eveloped an instinct for survival,<br />
d to kill each other. Hunted by<br />
imals became shy and developed<br />
hiding and running away. Being<br />
red the hierarchy <strong>of</strong> the animals,<br />
gh unlike Adam and Eve they<br />
nocence. None <strong>of</strong> this would have<br />
am and Eve had not tasted the<br />
, but in fact, it was all part <strong>of</strong><br />
lan. His plan ensured that they<br />
difference between good and evil<br />
otivated to have faith in him.<br />
d carried on reproducing, farm-<br />
d building, spreading out over<br />
f the Earth until they were rela-<br />
ed. They developed cities, indus-<br />
gri<strong>culture</strong> and entertainment. To<br />
they constructed laws, moral val-<br />
territories. They had even begun<br />
be and explain the place Earth on<br />
, to try to work out how they got<br />
would happen to them after they<br />
that they had a Creator, who<br />
man and was called GOD.<br />
<strong>of</strong> the Earth had become blasé<br />
xistence <strong>of</strong> GOD, since it seemed<br />
do no wrong in his eyes. Sex was<br />
vourite pastimes, and they had<br />
ate all the time, not necessarily<br />
se <strong>of</strong> producing children. They<br />
ther and were becoming obsessed<br />
ssessions and power. They treated<br />
, and they no longer saw them-<br />
o each other and to the animals.<br />
ole they knew the difference<br />
d evil. Those who had seen GOD<br />
whole book in her name. Certainly she was the<br />
daughter <strong>of</strong> a prophet or some similarly well<br />
known man. Cain and Abel were the sons <strong>of</strong> Isaac.<br />
They had an argument which resulted in the acci-<br />
dental murder <strong>of</strong> Abel by Cain, who threw a rock<br />
at his head. Cain was forever scarred by this event,<br />
and the Mark <strong>of</strong> Cain, whether real or metaphor-<br />
ical, came to be symbolic.<br />
T he Prodigal Son left the family home because<br />
his father divided up his land between his<br />
three sons, and he wasn’t happy with his lot. He<br />
went <strong>of</strong>f to seek his fortune in the world, which<br />
nearly broke his father’s heart. In his absence, the<br />
other stay-at-home brothers squabbled over the<br />
third share <strong>of</strong> land, and became greedy, idle and<br />
lazy. Although they had at first seemed to care<br />
more about their father, because they had stayed at<br />
home, the farm went to rack and ruin. Meanwhile<br />
the Prodigal Son did not fare any better than he<br />
would have done if he had stayed at home and<br />
worked his plot <strong>of</strong> land. So he returned to claim it<br />
back. His father forgave him for leaving. This is<br />
known as the ‘Return <strong>of</strong> the Prodigal Son’.<br />
There was also a king who was asked to adju-<br />
dicate over a maternity dispute. Two mothers were<br />
claiming the same baby. He declared that the only<br />
way to settle the problem was to cut the baby in<br />
half, wisely realising that the real mother would<br />
rather give the baby up, than let it die. When she<br />
did so, he restored her child to her, since her care<br />
for the child’s life had proved to be greater than<br />
her desire to keep it for herself.<br />
D aniel was an important leader, who was<br />
unfortunately thrown into a lion’s den. He<br />
managed to avoid being eaten by talking to the<br />
lion calmly. Jonah was also persuasive – he ended<br />
up in the belly <strong>of</strong> a whale after being swallowed,<br />
but persuaded the whale to open its mouth and let<br />
him walk free.<br />
M oses is the most famous person in<br />
the Old Testament, followed by Abraham,<br />
Noah, Elijah (who was once fed by ravens when he<br />
was starving), Solomon, and David. They were all<br />
leaders <strong>of</strong> tribes, mostly in Egypt and Israel, and<br />
<strong>of</strong>ten direct descendants <strong>of</strong> each other.<br />
Moses achieved numerous and incredibly<br />
important things for his people, helped by GOD.<br />
He began life as an abandoned child, and was<br />
found floating in a basket, stuck in some bulrush-<br />
es on the river Nile. He grew up to be precocious-<br />
ly intelligent and wise, and became a prophet and<br />
a religious leader <strong>of</strong> his tribe. He could see that<br />
things were going seriously wrong with the<br />
human race and this worried him gravely.<br />
Moses, like other prophets, was prone to see-<br />
ing strange things which were made to appear to<br />
him by GOD. The spontaneous combustion <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Burning Bush is a dramatic example. These<br />
visions made him all the more faithful to GOD,<br />
since they were so incredible. So when GOD asked<br />
him to climb to the top <strong>of</strong> a mountain in the<br />
desert, he didn’t hesitate. He fasted while he was<br />
up there (the idea <strong>of</strong> fasting was to become<br />
closer to GOD by ignoring the demands <strong>of</strong> your<br />
mortal body).<br />
G od revealed to Moses ten rules for his people<br />
to live by, and instructed him to have these<br />
Commandments engraved on stone tablets so that<br />
everyone could read them. They were: Thou shalt<br />
not kill, thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not covet<br />
thy neighbour’s possessions, thou shalt not commit<br />
adultery, thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in<br />
vain, thou shalt not worship graven images, thou<br />
shalt love thy neighbour as thy would thyself, thou<br />
shalt honour thy father and mother, and there<br />
were two more.<br />
These formed the basis for the establishment<br />
<strong>of</strong> a group <strong>of</strong> followers called the Chosen Few.<br />
Many joined them because they felt that things<br />
were going from bad to worse, and they wanted<br />
something to believe in. They were afraid <strong>of</strong><br />
dying and going to Hell and the promise <strong>of</strong><br />
Heaven comforted them. The fear <strong>of</strong> GOD’s<br />
wrath was the lynchpin <strong>of</strong> the belief system.<br />
GOD was known to be good, and only to be feared<br />
if his Commandments were disobeyed. He told<br />
them to Moses to make it easy for people to<br />
follow his guidance, giving them the incentive <strong>of</strong><br />
life in Heaven.<br />
At this point the people began to fall into two<br />
camps – those that followed Moses and the other<br />
prophets, and those that decided that if this GOD<br />
were invisible to them, he probably didn’t exist.<br />
Therefore they chose their own deities and made<br />
statues and pictures to represent them. Since the<br />
Bible is about a particular GOD and how to carry<br />
out his wishes, obviously it does not specify any<br />
other GOD who is worthy <strong>of</strong> worship. One <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Ten Commandments forbids the worship <strong>of</strong><br />
graven images, and this is how the Jews came to<br />
have no representations <strong>of</strong> GOD. The Words <strong>of</strong><br />
GOD were enough to represent him.<br />
T he story <strong>of</strong> the Writing on the Wall – during<br />
a feast in a temple, some anonymous auto-<br />
matic writing appears on the wall, which strikes<br />
terror into the hearts <strong>of</strong> those that see it.<br />
G od told his people not to make <strong>of</strong>ferings to<br />
him, only to pray and to make sacrifices <strong>of</strong><br />
animals. There is lots <strong>of</strong> sacrifice in the Bible, usu-<br />
ally involving lambs, rams, and calves. GOD even<br />
asked Abraham to sacrifice his own son, Isaac, to<br />
prove his faith. Abraham knew that GOD would<br />
not ask this without good reason, so he complied<br />
with the request, prepared an altar, and had his<br />
son placed on it, ready for the sacrificial sword.<br />
While the knife was poised above his son’s heart,<br />
Abraham had a vision <strong>of</strong> GOD, and before his very<br />
eyes his son was turned into a lamb, and he killed<br />
the lamb instead. Abraham had passed the ulti-<br />
mate test <strong>of</strong> faith – to love GOD more than his<br />
own flesh and blood.<br />
Sinners against GOD’s word in thought (very<br />
important) or deed, began to make him very<br />
W hen some tribes were starving in the desert,<br />
GOD showed his mercy by providing them<br />
with food. Overnight fine flakes fell from the sky,<br />
which were like bread when eaten in quantity. At<br />
dawn a heavy dew was deposited and this was<br />
sweet to taste like honey. Flocks <strong>of</strong> quails were all<br />
around. The people ate the quails, the honeydew<br />
and the flakes, which were called manna – this is<br />
known as the story <strong>of</strong> the Manna and Quails.<br />
A great famine was prevented by Joseph, the<br />
son <strong>of</strong> Jacob, a Canaanite, (who was the son <strong>of</strong><br />
Esau) and the head <strong>of</strong> a tribe. (Jacob had an event-<br />
ful life – he was sleeping in a field one night, rest-<br />
ing his head on a stone, and dreamt he saw a lad-<br />
der reaching up to a cloud. In addition, at some<br />
point in his life he had to wrestle with some<br />
angels). Joseph was one <strong>of</strong> twelve sons, <strong>of</strong> whom<br />
the youngest was called Benjamin. But Joseph was<br />
the favourite. His father had given him a beautiful<br />
‘Coat <strong>of</strong> Many Colours’, which made his brothers<br />
very jealous. They were also irritated by the fan-<br />
tastic dreams he had. So they resolved to get rid <strong>of</strong><br />
him, and somehow they did. Joseph ended up<br />
working as a baker in the kitchen <strong>of</strong> a rich man<br />
called Potiphar. Word got around that he could<br />
interpret dreams, and eventually he became<br />
Potiphar’s right hand man. All Joseph’s dream<br />
interpretations proved correct, and by paying<br />
attention to them Potiphar managed to amass con-<br />
siderable wealth. Unfortunately, Joseph caught<br />
Potiphar’s wife’s eye and she tried to seduce him.<br />
Potiphar found out and thought that it was Joseph<br />
who had been the seducer. He had him thrown<br />
into a dungeon.<br />
Even from prison Joseph’s interpretative tal-<br />
ents stood him in good stead. He interpreted his<br />
fellow prisoner’s dreams, and when Pharaoh got<br />
word <strong>of</strong> his talents, he summoned him to his<br />
palace. He had a dream which really worried him<br />
in which seven thin cows ate seven fat cows, but<br />
did not derive any nourishment from them. Joseph<br />
predicted seven years <strong>of</strong> bumper harvest followed<br />
by seven years <strong>of</strong> famine. He advised the king to<br />
stockpile food in the good years and then ration in<br />
the bad years. Sure enough, the predictions were<br />
correct, the people followed Joseph’s advice, and<br />
no one starved. His position as the Pharaoh’s advi-<br />
sor was secured.<br />
However Joseph’s good-for-nothing brothers<br />
in Canaan were not so lucky. They had not heeded<br />
the warning and were going hungry. In the end<br />
they went to Egypt to throw themselves at the<br />
mercy <strong>of</strong> the Pharaoh. They were received by<br />
Joseph, and didn’t realise he was their long lost<br />
brother, although he recognised them. He had a<br />
dream in which he saw eleven stars bowing down<br />
to his star, and had interpreted this to mean that<br />
the brothers did feel remorse for their sins. Before<br />
he gave them food, Joseph decided to play a trick<br />
on them, to see if they had an ounce <strong>of</strong> goodness in<br />
their hearts.<br />
He planted a silver cup or something in the<br />
bag <strong>of</strong> the youngest, Benjamin, whom he loved<br />
the most. Then he accused all ten <strong>of</strong> them <strong>of</strong> steal-<br />
ing the cup, and it was found. The brothers tried<br />
to clear his name, and insisted that they be pun-<br />
ished instead <strong>of</strong> him – feeling retrospective guilt<br />
for what they had done to their other brother.<br />
They said it would break their father’s heart to<br />
lose two sons. So Joseph, satisfied, pardoned them,<br />
and revealed his true identity. They were incredu-<br />
lous until he showed them his multi-coloured coat.<br />
D avid the Giant killer was the son <strong>of</strong> someone<br />
famous and the father <strong>of</strong> Solomon or the<br />
other way around. He was to become king <strong>of</strong> his<br />
people, who lived in Israel and were amongst<br />
GOD’s Chosen Few. When his people were being<br />
terrorised by a giant. David fought the giant and<br />
killed him with his slingshot, earning himself the<br />
name ‘giant-killer’.<br />
A nother tale <strong>of</strong> how weakness can overcome<br />
strength is that <strong>of</strong> Samson the strong man.<br />
He succumbed to the charms <strong>of</strong> a woman named<br />
Delilah who was fascinated by his fabled strength.<br />
In an unguarded moment he revealed to her that<br />
his strength was only preserved if his long hair<br />
was left uncut. One night when he was asleep she<br />
cut <strong>of</strong>f his hair. Samson was awoken by the shouts<br />
that the temple was collapsing. He could have held<br />
up the main supporting beam and saved the tem-<br />
ple, but his strength had been taken from him by<br />
Delilah. His faith had lapsed, momentarily, but<br />
fatally. The temple collapsed and crushed those<br />
that were in it to death.<br />
G od’s general opinion <strong>of</strong> human kind had not<br />
changed. The cities <strong>of</strong> Sodom and Gomorrah<br />
gave him most cause for despair. These were sinful<br />
places, full <strong>of</strong> fun palaces, dens <strong>of</strong> iniquity and<br />
vice. Anyone with any moral fibre was bound to<br />
leave, as did Lot. But Lot’s wife wanted to stay, and<br />
was so difficult to persuade, that once he did get<br />
her on to the road out <strong>of</strong> town, Lot made her<br />
promise not to look back, thinking that she would<br />
be too tempted to return. Temptation did indeed<br />
get the better <strong>of</strong> her, and she was turned into a<br />
Pillar <strong>of</strong> Salt. Those that remained had the idea<br />
<strong>of</strong> building a tower to reach Heaven, where they<br />
were convinced even greater delights than the sins<br />
<strong>of</strong> the flesh awaited them. The Tower <strong>of</strong> Babel<br />
was a magnificent folly, with steps spiralling up<br />
the exterior and lots <strong>of</strong> windows. It was the high-<br />
est building in the world, and it really tried GOD’s<br />
patience. He didn’t destroy it, but he gave all the<br />
different races in the city different languages, so<br />
that communication and thus the building project,<br />
was impossible. The cacophony <strong>of</strong> voices coming<br />
from the tower came to be known as ‘babble’. The<br />
tower never reached heaven.<br />
I t wasn’t just Lot who was looking for a better<br />
place to live. Noah had been told by GOD to<br />
build a boat, and he obeyed, for he could see that<br />
the people <strong>of</strong> Sodom and Gomorrah were on a<br />
slippery slope. He started construction <strong>of</strong> the huge<br />
vessel, assisted by Mrs Noah, his sons Shem, Ham<br />
unleashing a rainstorm <strong>of</strong> unprecedented scale.<br />
For forty days and nights it rained in torrents and<br />
the land was flooded as far as the eye could see.<br />
The water level continued to rise until all living<br />
and breathing things were drowned. Noah, mean-<br />
while, on GOD’s instruction, had loaded a breed-<br />
ing pair <strong>of</strong> every species <strong>of</strong> creature on to the Ark,<br />
two by two, and he and his family were floating<br />
safely on the floodwaters. They drifted around for<br />
ages, until one day Noah sent a Dove to find out if<br />
there was any dry land. The dove returned carry-<br />
ing an olive branch in its beak, which was a sign <strong>of</strong><br />
hope. Eventually the Ark came to rest on the top<br />
<strong>of</strong> what had been Mount Ararat. The Ark was<br />
unloaded, and the animals went forth to increase<br />
and multiply.<br />
This is how GOD started again – Noah’s sons<br />
and their wives became the ancestors <strong>of</strong> a new<br />
people. They were very grateful to GOD for spar-<br />
ing them, and their faith in him increased. As the<br />
waters receded, the Ark was left high and dry, and<br />
fertile land uncovered, so that Noah and his<br />
descendants could grow plenty <strong>of</strong> food. There is an<br />
unfortunate postscript to this story – Noah abused<br />
one <strong>of</strong> his granddaughters, and was found out. He<br />
was confronted by the rest <strong>of</strong> the family and had<br />
to repent. After this new beginning, GOD took a<br />
firmer hand in the destiny <strong>of</strong> his people. He want-<br />
ed them to establish a homeland and centre for his<br />
worship. He promised his ‘Chosen Few’ lands <strong>of</strong><br />
their own, which they called the Promised Land.<br />
They were nomadic tribespeople, living in the<br />
desert in Egypt. The Promised Land turned out to<br />
be Jerusalem in Israel, but first they had to get<br />
there, and fight Egypt for it. Moses and Abraham,<br />
King David, and Solomon were all leaders at vari-<br />
ous times. Several generations later they reached<br />
their goal, and became known as the Israelites.<br />
A historic episode took place – that <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Parting <strong>of</strong> the Waves, also known as the Red<br />
Sea Crossing. The Chosen Few were travelling in<br />
the desert and had run out <strong>of</strong> food. Their route lay<br />
through the wilderness, and their morale was very<br />
low. Egyptian troops were closing in on them and<br />
they were cornered. GOD told Moses to hold his<br />
staff al<strong>of</strong>t and the waters <strong>of</strong> the Red Sea would<br />
part, opening the way to safety. Moses did this and<br />
the sea rose up, forming a towering canyon with<br />
walls <strong>of</strong> water, and the sea bed was dry. They<br />
began the long crossing, but were pursued by the<br />
Egyptians. When the Egyptians reached the mid-<br />
dle <strong>of</strong> the sea bed, GOD turned it to mud, so that<br />
their progress was slowed and they couldn’t catch<br />
up with Moses and his people. Once the Chosen<br />
Few were safely on the other side, in Jordan, GOD<br />
allowed the waters to close over the Egyptians and<br />
every single one <strong>of</strong> them was drowned.<br />
T he founding <strong>of</strong> Jerusalem, or Zion, City <strong>of</strong><br />
GOD, is described at great length in the parts<br />
<strong>of</strong> the Old Testament that are devoted to econom-<br />
ics, laying down <strong>of</strong> laws, the division <strong>of</strong> land, and<br />
establishment <strong>of</strong> a political hierarchy. Battles were<br />
frequent, the Battle <strong>of</strong> Jericho being particularly<br />
famous. Joshua signalled the attack with trumpets<br />
made from ram’s horns, and the Walls <strong>of</strong> Jericho<br />
were pulled down. Further stories are told in<br />
Deuteronomy, Judges, Leviticus (named after<br />
Levi), and Ecclesiastes. Philistines, Pharisees,<br />
scribes, and money-lenders all played their part<br />
in the life <strong>of</strong> the city. David was a major player, he<br />
was at this point a king, and his son was called<br />
Solomon (who had a wife called Bathsheba).<br />
Solomon was known for his wisdom (the Wisdom<br />
<strong>of</strong> Solomon), and there is a whole book devoted to<br />
a long lament about Jerusalem and the journey to<br />
the promised land, called the Song <strong>of</strong> Solomon, or<br />
Song <strong>of</strong> Songs. It tells <strong>of</strong> sitting by the river <strong>of</strong><br />
Babylon and weeping for the memory <strong>of</strong> Zion.<br />
Babylon, which was destroyed by GOD, was a city<br />
dedicated to pleasure, and it had one <strong>of</strong> the seven<br />
wonders <strong>of</strong> the world, the Hanging Gardens. It<br />
came to represent the unattainable, or what could<br />
only be attained by those who were good.<br />
Jersualem was the holiest place for the Israelites,<br />
but they weren’t permitted to build temples or<br />
worship there, as the rulers did not recognise their<br />
new religion.<br />
Rituals and rules were established, and<br />
sacred places and objects began to emerge. Some<br />
men wore a small box tied to their foreheads,<br />
called a phylactery. It would have contained a bit<br />
<strong>of</strong> scroll. A bunch <strong>of</strong> marjoram might be used as a<br />
brush and dipped in blood, to daub the front door<br />
<strong>of</strong> a house for some reason. Soil was <strong>of</strong>ten sealed in<br />
some kind <strong>of</strong> vessel, as were scrolls.<br />
T he best sacred vessel by far is the Ark <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Covenant. The Convenant is the dead sea<br />
scrolls, or some other part <strong>of</strong> the first writing<br />
down <strong>of</strong> the Old Testament. GOD required Moses<br />
to have this made at the same time as he dictated<br />
the Ten Commandments. It was a portable chest<br />
with shoulder rests, and had a golden angel on<br />
each <strong>of</strong> the four corners. The Ark was carried<br />
around by Moses and wherever it came to rest was<br />
a most sacred and holy spot. It was like a portable<br />
temple, and it ended up (in the Old Testament at<br />
least) in the temple in Jerusalem.<br />
T he end <strong>of</strong> the Old Testament has the<br />
Israelites waiting for the birth <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Messiah, the son <strong>of</strong> GOD, who will be sent to save<br />
them from themselves.<br />
T he story begins with Joseph, a carpenter who<br />
lived on the shores <strong>of</strong> Lake Galilee. He had a<br />
wife, Mary, but they were childless. In fact Mary<br />
was a Virgin. One day an angel called Gabriel<br />
appeared to Mary, and he had wings like drifted<br />
snow and fiery eyes. He may actually have<br />
appeared to her as a dove. Gabriel told that she was<br />
with child, her (this event is usually referred to as<br />
the Annunciation), and that the child was very<br />
special, because he was the Son <strong>of</strong> GOD, a mani-<br />
festation <strong>of</strong> GOD on Earth. He was to be called<br />
Jesus when it was born and he had been sent to<br />
Earth by GOD to take away the sins <strong>of</strong> the Earth.<br />
were full, however one inkeeper, seeing Mary’s<br />
condition, <strong>of</strong>fered them his stable in Bethlehem,<br />
and that is where Jesus was born. Mary wrapped<br />
the baby in swaddling clothes and laid him in<br />
a manger.<br />
T he shepherds and the kings arrived at the sta-<br />
ble just after Jesus had been born. He was sit-<br />
ting in Mary’s lap, and she was dressed in blue.<br />
Joseph and the ox and ass that lived in the stable<br />
were staring at the child in adoration. The new-<br />
born child had a powerful and precocious influ-<br />
ence over all who set eyes on him. The shepherds<br />
and kings prostrated themselves before him, and<br />
laid their gifts at his feet. The shepherds brought<br />
lambs as gifts. Lambs are very important symbols<br />
in the Bible. Soon the glad tidings <strong>of</strong> great joy<br />
spread, and crowds <strong>of</strong> people came to the stable in<br />
Bethlehem to worship Jesus. Cherubim and<br />
seraphim (small childlike angels) hovered above<br />
the stable.<br />
J esus grew up a carpenter like his father. He was<br />
always a special child and as soon as he was old<br />
enough he began travelling around, making<br />
friends and telling stories. It was clear that he had<br />
extraordinary powers <strong>of</strong> perception, and these<br />
soon made him famous in Galilee. He gathered a<br />
band <strong>of</strong> loyal followers who became known even-<br />
tually as the Apostles, the Disciples, or simply,<br />
‘The Twelve’.<br />
J esus was always trying to make good honest<br />
people feel the power <strong>of</strong> GOD, and to have<br />
more faith and believe in themselves: ‘you are the<br />
light <strong>of</strong> the world/salt <strong>of</strong> the Earth’, ‘don’t hide<br />
your light under a bushel’ and ‘if your slate is<br />
clean, then you can throw stones’, were some <strong>of</strong><br />
his favourite sayings. But what really got people<br />
excited and increased his following was his ability<br />
to achieve the impossible. All his life he per-<br />
formed what became known as Miracles. The<br />
most mundane <strong>of</strong> these occurred at a wedding at<br />
Cana, when there was no wine, so Jesus had them<br />
fill several barrels with water, which flowed out as<br />
wine, this is referred to as the ‘Water into Wine’<br />
miracle. More dramatic was the Feeding <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Five Thousand – an occasion where his followers<br />
had gathered to hear him preach, but there was<br />
nothing to feed them with except one loaf and one<br />
fish. Jesus bade people to look in their baskets and<br />
lo! there was fish and bread for everyone (also<br />
known as Loaves and Fishes). Along the same lines<br />
he told a farmer, whose crops had failed, to sow his<br />
barren field with pebbles instead <strong>of</strong> corn, and have<br />
faith in GOD. Sure enough the stones grew into<br />
fat ears <strong>of</strong> corn which thrived.<br />
Medical miracles were even more amazing –<br />
people were constantly coming to be healed <strong>of</strong><br />
their ailments by Jesus. (The miracles only worked<br />
if people had true faith). A man who had never<br />
walked got up from his bed and walked unaided. A<br />
blind man regained his sight. Most impressive was<br />
the Resurrection <strong>of</strong> Lazarus, who was actually<br />
dead and in his tomb until Jesus arrived, when he<br />
rose form the dead and breathed again. But surely<br />
the best miracle was the Walking on Water. When<br />
they were out fishing one day, to prove to a doubt-<br />
ing disciple that GOD was really acting through<br />
him, Jesus stepped out <strong>of</strong> the boat and simply<br />
walked on the surface <strong>of</strong> the sea.<br />
The miracles were really tests <strong>of</strong> faith, and<br />
Jesus himself had to prove his own loyalty to his<br />
Father. Naturally his tests <strong>of</strong> faith were harder to<br />
endure. His forty days in the desert with the Devil<br />
were the worst ordeal (apart from the final days<br />
<strong>of</strong> his life). The Devil took him flying over the<br />
desert and showed him some truly fabulous<br />
things. He tempted him with riches and power<br />
beyond all imagining, and doubtless in more sub-<br />
tle and devious ways. But Jesus resisted every-<br />
thing, content to walk around in his simple robe<br />
and sandals and get food where he found it.<br />
T he disciples were Matthew, Mark, Luke, John<br />
‘the Baptist’, Peter ‘the Rock’, Paul, Simon,<br />
James, and three others. Because some <strong>of</strong> them<br />
were fishermen by trade, and they went around<br />
converting people to the faith preached by Jesus,<br />
they were known as ‘fishers <strong>of</strong> men’. The fish is<br />
thus an important Biblical symbol, and actually<br />
symbolises Christianity itself. Ritual total immer-<br />
sion in water was the method used to welcome<br />
people into the faith. This was called baptism. The<br />
disciple called John did most <strong>of</strong> this baptising, for<br />
which he was known as John the Baptist.<br />
B aptism was usually done in a river – John was<br />
<strong>of</strong>ten to be found up to his waist surrounded<br />
by waiting crowds performing a mass baptism. He<br />
had long hair and a beard, like Jesus. Because <strong>of</strong><br />
John’s active role, Herod thought he was a threat<br />
and had him thrown into jail. Herod had a mis-<br />
tress called Salome, with whom he was so besotted<br />
that she could ask anything <strong>of</strong> him. Her famous<br />
‘Dance <strong>of</strong> the Seven Veils’ only fanned the flames<br />
<strong>of</strong> his desire for her. Salome provoked Herod’s<br />
jealousy by trying to seduce John in his prison cell.<br />
She was fascinated by his piety, and saw it as a<br />
challenge. He, <strong>of</strong> course, resisted all her advances<br />
but Herod was so jealous that when Salome, angry<br />
that John had spurned her, asked Herod for his<br />
head on a plate, he acquiesced. When Salome<br />
received the head she kissed its lips and declared<br />
that she had possessed John at last.<br />
Just as John was seen as dangerous by Herod,<br />
so Jesus was attracting the attention <strong>of</strong> both<br />
Herod and Pontius Pilate <strong>of</strong> Jerusalem, for being<br />
called the King <strong>of</strong> the Jews. His power over the<br />
rabble was increasing, and it was beginning to<br />
look as though it might lead to riots. Herod inter-<br />
rogated Jesus and asked him how he dared to call<br />
himself the King <strong>of</strong> the Jews, but Jesus said, ‘it is<br />
you who call me that’. Herod thought this very<br />
insolent, and said that he would leave it to Pilate<br />
to deal with. It is implied that he was a little<br />
afraid <strong>of</strong>, or in awe <strong>of</strong> Jesus.<br />
n Jerusalem Jesus had two enemies among the<br />
arrest him. Judas eventually agree<br />
grudge against Jesus), but at leas<br />
take the money.<br />
J esus knew that his time on E<br />
over. He summoned his Discip<br />
Supper. They all bathed each oth<br />
brought a bottle <strong>of</strong> expensive<br />
anointed Jesus’ feet using her h<br />
Judas, feeling guilty, objected ang<br />
Mary (who was a prostitute) wa<br />
doing this for Him. Jesus told him<br />
only throw stones if his own slat<br />
hint that he knew what was go<br />
Judas said that the money spent o<br />
could have gone to the poor and<br />
even angrier. He told the Disciples<br />
sufferings <strong>of</strong> the poor, they should<br />
for the good things in life. He urg<br />
argue but to make the most <strong>of</strong> t<br />
what little time he had left.<br />
Jesus passed round some bre<br />
wine, which he wanted everyone<br />
with him. He asked that they<br />
when they eat and drink, saying<br />
will represent his Body and the<br />
This ritual became known as the<br />
disciples were incredulous when J<br />
going to leave them. Jesus became<br />
them, for they were all a bit drun<br />
that not only was he to die in nex<br />
also that very night, one <strong>of</strong> the tw<br />
ever having known him, and anoth<br />
him. Peter, he said, would deny h<br />
before the cock crows, and Judas w<br />
with a kiss.<br />
J esus wanted them all to stay a<br />
with him in the garden <strong>of</strong> G<br />
one by one the wine got the bette<br />
and he was alone in his final hours<br />
knew that this was GOD’s will<br />
Pilate’s soldiers accompanied by C<br />
arrest him and Judas marked h<br />
treacherous kiss on the ear. W<br />
awoke it was too late and they to<br />
<strong>of</strong>f for questioning. Peter eventua<br />
he knew Jesus and just as he repe<br />
third time, the cock crowed and h<br />
he had done.<br />
Jesus was taken to see Pilate,<br />
him about his motives and <strong>of</strong>fered<br />
he renounced his GOD. Pilate w<br />
by such a charismatic man an<br />
inclined to let him go, even try<br />
responsibility back to Herod, who<br />
Galilee, where Jesus was born. B<br />
Caiaphas and his supporters, Pila<br />
ed that only the emperor Caesar<br />
gious ruler, and that Jesus must th<br />
demned to death. The fickle crow<br />
for blood and when Pilate <strong>of</strong>fered<br />
prisoner, they demanded that it<br />
robber, rather than Jesus. Pilate ga<br />
Jesus to be crucified. He called for<br />
and publicly washed his hands <strong>of</strong><br />
O n a Friday Jesus was taken to<br />
was made to wear a purple ro<br />
<strong>of</strong> thorns and to carry the cross o<br />
route to the Mount <strong>of</strong> Olives was<br />
ple and several times he collapse<br />
tion. The disciples, Mary Magdal<br />
ents were gathered there and a ma<br />
<strong>of</strong> Arimathea. They endured the<br />
and two thieves being nailed to<br />
had a nail driven through each<br />
through both feet. There was a sig<br />
cross above him with four letters<br />
spelt ‘King <strong>of</strong> the Jews’.<br />
J esus’s time on the cross is<br />
Crucifixion, or the Passion (in<br />
pain). Jesus asked for water and on<br />
gave him a sponge soaked in vine<br />
never complained or cried out, bu<br />
why he had forsaken him. A sol<br />
side with the point <strong>of</strong> his lance a<br />
to the ground. Eventually Jesu<br />
ghost’. As he breathed his last, he s<br />
give them, for the know not wha<br />
thee I commend my spirit.’ <strong>And</strong> h<br />
body and ascended to Heaven – th<br />
as the Ascension.<br />
T he next day, Saturday, his frie<br />
body down and the two Mary<br />
in a linen shroud for his burial in<br />
boulder was rolled in front <strong>of</strong> the e<br />
Sunday, the disciples went to visi<br />
discovered that the stone had be<br />
and the body was gone. Only the sh<br />
At first they thought the tomb h<br />
but then Jesus appeared to them<br />
that he had gone Heaven, wher<br />
forevermore on GOD the Father’<br />
am the Resurrection and the<br />
Although his mortal body was no<br />
(or Holy Ghost) had merged to be<br />
and was with them on Earth. This<br />
the Father, the Son, and the Holy<br />
known as the Trinity, or Three in<br />
Three. The disciples, he said, mu<br />
work on Earth and found the Ch<br />
Peter was given this task and was<br />
on which the Church was foun<br />
return to Earth is known as the R<br />
O nce the Church was founde<br />
were kept busy writing th<br />
preaching in the name <strong>of</strong> the Lor<br />
ties are documented in Paul’s and<br />
the Ephesians and the Corinthian<br />
T he final word in the New Te<br />
John, in the book which<br />
Revelations made to him about<br />
world after Jesus. This is not writ<br />
Baptist, but by a hermit who live
70<br />
BlaCK BOX<br />
Tom VanderbilT<br />
In 1997, a Garuda Airlines Airbus 300-B4 crashed into a highland<br />
jungle slope near Medan, North Sumatra, killing 224 people. As<br />
Indonesian police and military teams, aided by aviation investigators<br />
from other countries, combed through the dense Sumatran<br />
canopy for the missing flight data recorder, it was reported<br />
that clairvoyants from a neighboring village had been called in<br />
to assist on the search.<br />
The story seems drawn from the portfolio <strong>of</strong> J. G. Ballard:<br />
The sophisticated electronic device submerged in the primeval<br />
Indonesian murk, the search teams straining for the ping <strong>of</strong> the<br />
homing beacon as local seers delved into their own visions to<br />
locate the signal, Western rationalism run headlong into Eastern<br />
mysticism, nature already crawling over and reclaiming the<br />
aluminum-and-plastic debris field <strong>of</strong> this “flight into terrain.”<br />
<strong>And</strong> yet the opposition between the black box recorder —<br />
or, more correctly, flight data recorder (FDR), and its accompanying<br />
instrument, the cockpit voice recorder (CVR) — and the<br />
Sumatran clairvoyants may be more <strong>of</strong> form than function, for<br />
indeed there is a kind <strong>of</strong> mystical quality to the black box, this<br />
device that, rather than looking ahead in a clairvoyant sense,<br />
is able to look back on the past, presenting through its myriad<br />
recorded variables a lineage <strong>of</strong> how history was, and how it<br />
might have been. If the mystics suggest Tiresias, the blind<br />
prophet <strong>of</strong> Greek mythology able to see forward, then the black<br />
box is akin to the character “Er,” that figure introduced in Plato’s<br />
Republic who is able to report from beyond the dead.<br />
<strong>And</strong> so to a <strong>culture</strong> already fecund with survivor stories<br />
—whether survivors <strong>of</strong> political brutality, broken homes, or<br />
the manufactured reality contests <strong>of</strong> Hollywood — is added the<br />
ultimate sole survivor: this humble “black box,” which in fact is<br />
usually painted Day-Glo orange for obvious reasons <strong>of</strong> visual<br />
reconnaissance (but is <strong>of</strong>ten charred black upon retrieval).<br />
Air disasters, despite their relative rarity (compared to deaths<br />
caused by smoking, industrial accidents, or car crashes), have<br />
become a collective vessel for anxiety, a testing <strong>of</strong> our larger<br />
faith in the promise that technology, so quickly made obsolete,<br />
may someday make death itself obsolete. Thus after<br />
each crash we look eagerly, and more than a bit accusatorily,<br />
toward another bit <strong>of</strong> technology, the black box, whose survival<br />
reaffirms our faith in technology even as its message may<br />
ultimately undermine it — although, admittedly, many crashes<br />
are attributed to “human error.”<br />
While true black box data is in fact incomprehensible to<br />
most <strong>of</strong> us, the transcripts <strong>of</strong> the CVR have entered the lexicon,<br />
collected in Malcolm McPherson’s The Black Box: All-New<br />
Cockpit Voice Recorder Accounts <strong>of</strong> In-Flight Accidents,<br />
deployed in the <strong>of</strong>f-Broadway play Charlie Victor Romeo, and<br />
even used as the narrative inspiration for the hypertext work<br />
<strong>of</strong> Alistair Gentry (100 Black Boxes). They are predictably chilling<br />
exchanges, with an <strong>of</strong>t-recurring theme being the lack <strong>of</strong><br />
cognizance by pilots as to what is actually taking place — they<br />
previous page: Emma Kay, The Bible from Memory, 1997 (detail). This image<br />
previously appeared in Cabinet <strong>issue</strong> 5 but suffered from numerous typographi-<br />
cal errors introduced at the printer. We apologize to Emma Kay, whose work we<br />
admire greatly.
are missing what is called “situational awareness,” dependent<br />
only upon data that may in fact not be telling the truth. Yet<br />
even the survival <strong>of</strong> black box data may not help establish the<br />
truth. In the case <strong>of</strong> EgyptAir flight 990, which dropped mysteriously<br />
into the Atlantic Ocean half an hour after departing<br />
from JFK, the CVR and FDR seemed to tell the following story:<br />
After the captain and copilot had excused themselves from<br />
the cabin (for different reasons), a cruise co-pilot left alone<br />
in the cockpit soon uttered the words “Tawakkalt ala Allah,”<br />
disengaged the autopilot, pulled up on the throttle and put the<br />
airplane’s “elevators” into a steep descent position. The plane<br />
plummeted — so rapidly that EgyptAir’s computers back at<br />
JFK decided the data was incorrect — and as the crew rushed<br />
back to the cockpit they were unable to correct the situation<br />
as the co-pilot uttered the same words again. As The Atlantic<br />
reported, the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB)<br />
interpreted the voice and data record as showing a “controlled<br />
descent,” i.e., intentional. There it might have ended, save<br />
for the Egyptian government’s insistence the NTSB was misinterpreting<br />
the data — not only that <strong>of</strong> Boeing’s engineers,<br />
but <strong>of</strong> the pilot. The pilot’s utterance did not mean, as the<br />
NTSB had it, “I rely on God,” but rather, “I put my fate in God’s<br />
hands”; or, more grandiloquently, “I depend in my daily affairs<br />
on the omnipotent Allah alone.” Rather than a preface to suicide,<br />
he was praying in response to some failure condition<br />
not revealed by the black box recorder (a bomb, a missile, or<br />
the weather were all given as reasons). The black box, its data<br />
supposedly telling a value-free, neutral story, had thus entered<br />
the age <strong>of</strong> postmodernism as decried by Alan Sokal: Its truth<br />
was deemed relative, open to multiple interpretations.<br />
For all <strong>of</strong> its cultural notoriety, the black box recorder as a thing<br />
has received little attention, becoming an object lesson <strong>of</strong> the<br />
larger phenomenon <strong>of</strong> the Black Box itself, i.e.: “An abstraction<br />
<strong>of</strong> a device or system in which only its externally visible<br />
behavior is considered and not its implementation or ‘inner<br />
workings.’” The black box has come to have a host <strong>of</strong> associative<br />
meanings, mostly seemingly pejorative: for example,<br />
in his final article, architecture critic Reyner Banham chided<br />
architecture as a discipline for being a “black box”— oblique,<br />
secretive, mystifying for the sake <strong>of</strong> its own self-propagating<br />
grandeur. Area 51, or “Dreamland,” that mysterious <strong>of</strong>f-themap<br />
quadrant in Nevada, is <strong>of</strong>ten called “The Black Box,” and<br />
indeed its signature export, the Stealth bomber, is perhaps the<br />
ultimate black box, for not only are the Stealth bomber’s inner<br />
workings carefully concealed beneath its inky exterior, but its<br />
“external behavior” is also impossible to consider, on radar at<br />
least. Transparency, along with technology, was one <strong>of</strong> the<br />
key projects <strong>of</strong> utopian modernism, and nothing flies in the face<br />
<strong>of</strong> that more flagrantly than the black box, which now reads as<br />
a symbol <strong>of</strong> the covert void: “Right now Echelon is a black box,”<br />
said the director <strong>of</strong> the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU),<br />
speaking <strong>of</strong> the National Security Agency’s global eavesdropping<br />
system, “and we really don’t know what is inside it.”<br />
As an object, however, the black box recorder should not<br />
be overlooked, for it might be the purest representation <strong>of</strong> the<br />
function <strong>of</strong> design in one form. As multiple observers have<br />
noted (e.g., Christopher Alexander in Notes on a Synthesis <strong>of</strong><br />
Form, and Henry Petroski in To Engineer is Human: The Role <strong>of</strong><br />
Failure in Successful Design), failure is one <strong>of</strong> the most essential<br />
factors in the best design: Only by what has not worked<br />
do we learn to create what does work. Rarely is a product<br />
ever final. Its form merely represents a transient compromise<br />
between human need and technological ability, and the best<br />
designers are those able to extrapolate failure out <strong>of</strong> a seemingly<br />
successful status quo. <strong>And</strong> thus it should come as no<br />
surprise that, at the dawn <strong>of</strong> the jet age in the early 1950s,<br />
the de Havilland company’s “Comet,” the world’s first plane<br />
powered by jet propulsion rather than propellers, suffered a<br />
number <strong>of</strong> well-publicized crashes. There were stress tests,<br />
there were wind tunnels, there was test data — but once a<br />
plane had crashed, it was not easy to discern why from the<br />
wreckage alone (in those cases where the wreckage was<br />
retrievable). With the physical body damaged beyond recognition<br />
and without witnesses present, who was to account<br />
for the cause <strong>of</strong> death? The airplane needed a mechanism for<br />
providing an autoautopsy.<br />
Enter David Warren, a researcher at Australia’s Aeronautical<br />
Research Laboratories. An electronics buff whose father<br />
had, ironically, died in one <strong>of</strong> Australia’s seminal airline disasters<br />
(the 1934 crash <strong>of</strong> the Miss Hobart), Warren was working<br />
on the investigation <strong>of</strong> the first Comet crash in 1953 when he<br />
proposed that cockpits be outfitted with a device that could<br />
record up to four hours <strong>of</strong> speech as well as a variety <strong>of</strong> inputs<br />
from flight instruments. In 1954, he circulated a paper, “A<br />
Device for Assisting Investigation into Aircraft Accidents,” but<br />
it was not until he fashioned a working prototype — called the<br />
“ARL Flight Memory Unit”— that it began to receive some interest.<br />
Many doubted the necessity or practicality <strong>of</strong> the device,<br />
however. The pilot’s union even hinted at sinister motives: the<br />
device would be “a spy flying alongside.... No plane would take<br />
<strong>of</strong>f in Australia with Big Brother listening.” As Australia then<br />
boasted the world’s best airline safety record, it was slow to<br />
take on the project, which gained faster ground in England.<br />
In 1958, the British firm <strong>of</strong> S. Duvall & Son released its “Red<br />
Egg” recorder, which quickly became a market leader globally.<br />
After a series <strong>of</strong> airline accidents in the 1960s, it was Australia,<br />
strangely enough, that then became the first country to require<br />
mandatory flight data and cockpit voice recorders.<br />
Today the FDR market is dominated by companies like L- 3<br />
Communications, which generates about $2 billion a year in<br />
revenue selling FDRs. “We are the Sears Roebuck [<strong>of</strong> the FDR<br />
industry], with a catalog <strong>of</strong> all kinds <strong>of</strong> these high-tech boxes,”<br />
its CEO has said. Given that the ultimate role <strong>of</strong> the black box<br />
is to improve the design <strong>of</strong> airplanes, there have been any<br />
number <strong>of</strong> improvements to the black box itself, which has<br />
seen its recording mechanism go from engraving on a wire to<br />
loopable magnetic tapes to solid-state “flash” memory. While<br />
the first recorders measured only a handful <strong>of</strong> instrument readings,<br />
the latest generation <strong>of</strong> recorders have capacities for measuring<br />
some 700 readings. Today’s recorders feature remote<br />
sensing beacons that are activated when submerged in water,<br />
and one company has even developed what it calls DFIRS, or<br />
Deployable Flight Incident Recorder Set, which can be ejected<br />
from a plummeting plane and safely parachuted to Earth. Early<br />
on, the various black boxes were kept in the cockpit, but contemporary<br />
models are stored in the rear, <strong>of</strong>ten somewhere
near the back galley — as one manufacturer explained it, “the<br />
whole front portion <strong>of</strong> the airplane provides a crush zone, which<br />
assists in the deceleration <strong>of</strong> tail components, including the<br />
recorders, and enhances the likelihood that the crash-protected<br />
memory <strong>of</strong> the recorder will survive.”<br />
There are some 20,000 planes that depart on any given day<br />
in the United States alone, the vast majority <strong>of</strong> which proceed<br />
without incident. Black boxes play no small part in this achievement,<br />
having helped to provide the electronic fingerprints necessary<br />
in understanding such phenomena as wind shear, wing<br />
ice, or electrical failures. The design <strong>of</strong> airplanes has proceeded<br />
in response to the data laid out by black boxes, and the Federal<br />
Aviation Association (FAA), understandably, is intent on requiring<br />
carriers to outfit planes with the latest black boxes: the older<br />
the black box, the greater the chance it will fail to record some<br />
variable in the ever more complex workings <strong>of</strong> a jumbo jet. Failure<br />
is an aberration in commercial aviation, yet as the statistical<br />
pr<strong>of</strong>ile grows more encouraging, so too does the imperative to<br />
learn the reasons for a crash which, according to the numbers,<br />
should not be happening. No wonder the black box recorder is<br />
far more rugged than the airplane itself —a thin aluminum shell<br />
so fragile that pilots in an emergency landing must dump fuel<br />
to prevent undue stress upon the gossamer frame. Black boxes<br />
are subjected to any number <strong>of</strong> tests, the “static crush,” the<br />
“pierce test,” the “crash impact test,” the “fire test,” each with<br />
their own otherworldly sets <strong>of</strong> pressures and temperatures. The<br />
forces <strong>of</strong> one or all <strong>of</strong> these tests were presumably exceeded in<br />
the World Trade Center attacks, as the black boxes are said to<br />
have been destroyed. This represents a “failure” by black boxes,<br />
but as such it was part <strong>of</strong> a larger failure — by airport screeners,<br />
by flight school directors, by rental agencies—who had not envisioned<br />
the entire scenario <strong>of</strong> catastrophe. September 11 was a<br />
kind <strong>of</strong> social black box recorder for America: From the failure<br />
we will presumably never allow a commercial airline to again<br />
be used as a weapon, nor will we underestimate the threat <strong>of</strong><br />
terrorism within our borders.<br />
Since the onset <strong>of</strong> the industrial age, the idea <strong>of</strong> providing<br />
machines with diagnostic systems has been alluring: Charles<br />
Babbage envisioned putting black boxes <strong>of</strong> sorts on railway<br />
cars, while the Wright Brothers installed a device for measuring<br />
propeller revolutions. Now, everything from NASCAR race<br />
cars to the space shuttle are equipped with black boxes, Detroit<br />
is investigating black boxes for its own products, and a company<br />
called DRS Flight Safety and Communications Corp. is<br />
making a push into black boxes for shipping. As the company<br />
president explained, “deployable recorder technology can be<br />
used on any platform from which data survival and recovery<br />
are essential.” All around us, failure is being read, divined from<br />
the bones <strong>of</strong> the technological dead — design thus marches on.<br />
No product is ever perfect, but failure pushes us toward perfection,<br />
and every form is a compromise between the failure<br />
<strong>of</strong> yesterday and the promise <strong>of</strong> tomorrow. The human body<br />
itself is in this threshold zone: In societies not marked by<br />
endemic war or poverty, one can assume to live longer than<br />
one’s forebears, but not perhaps as long as one’s successors.<br />
The form keeps evolving. The human body, with its myriad sensors<br />
and indicators, its inner workings kept carefully<br />
72 concealed and rarely considered, may be the ultimate<br />
black box. The lesson, for either man or machine, is clear: None<br />
<strong>of</strong> us outlive our data.<br />
In the interest <strong>of</strong> national security, we urge readers not to go to http://www.l-3ar.<br />
com/html/f1000_1.html and look at images <strong>of</strong> black boxes on L-3 Communica-<br />
tions’ site.
Crash COvers<br />
Jeffrey KasTner<br />
On an early August day in 1937, a plane trying to make a<br />
landing in what was then known as the Panama Canal Zone<br />
hit heavy weather and crashed in the waters <strong>of</strong> the Mosquito<br />
Gulf. Among the items on board later fished out <strong>of</strong> the<br />
southern Caribbean was some 43 pounds <strong>of</strong> mail, which was<br />
taken to a bakery in the nearby coastal town <strong>of</strong> Cristobal<br />
to dry out and then returned to the local post <strong>of</strong>fice. Before<br />
sending it <strong>of</strong>f again to its intended recipients, local postal<br />
authorities stamped each item with a simple four-line<br />
message explaining its detour: “Recovered from / Plane N.C.<br />
15065 / Aug. 3, 1937 / Cristobal, C.Z.”<br />
Since the first fixed-wing aircraft on an <strong>of</strong>ficial mail-<br />
carrying flight successfully traveled the five miles between<br />
Allahabad and Naini Junction in India on 18 February 1911,<br />
millions <strong>of</strong> airplanes have safely and reliably carried billions<br />
<strong>of</strong> items around the globe via airmail. However, for the collector<br />
<strong>of</strong> “wreck mail” (a branch <strong>of</strong> philately dealing in memorabilia<br />
from various misadventures that have interrupted<br />
scheduled mail service, whether by land, by sea or, in this<br />
case, by air) this rule is less interesting than the rare exceptions<br />
to it. Kendall Sanford, a Geneva-based philatelist,<br />
has amassed a large number <strong>of</strong> what are commonly referred<br />
to as airmail crash covers — envelopes that bear damage, incidental<br />
markings, or <strong>of</strong>ficial cachets resulting from or related to<br />
air accidents — specifically those involving either Pan American<br />
or Imperial Airways, Britain’s first overseas international<br />
carrier. The examples on the following pages — including a<br />
letter from an <strong>of</strong>fice <strong>of</strong> the Ford Motor Company in Buenos<br />
Aires to another in Edgewater, New Jersey, recovered from the<br />
Cristobal disaster — come from his collection.<br />
Few activities in our everyday life represent as much <strong>of</strong> a<br />
leap <strong>of</strong> faith as the act <strong>of</strong> putting something in the mail. We readily<br />
consign materials constituting the full range <strong>of</strong> our relationships<br />
and obligations — from birthday cards to bill payments —<br />
to the maw <strong>of</strong> a mechanism we only vaguely understand; we<br />
buy into, without reservation, the idea that everything will<br />
turn out fine in the end. <strong>And</strong> it is remarkable how <strong>of</strong>ten it does.<br />
Important pieces <strong>of</strong> correspondence almost always get where<br />
they’re going; private information exchanged between people<br />
typically stays private; items <strong>of</strong> value consistently reach their<br />
destinations unmolested. No doubt it is this sense <strong>of</strong> inevitability<br />
about the mail, the generally high degree <strong>of</strong> assurance that<br />
usually accompanies its use — as well as our changing relationship<br />
to it in an increasingly digital age — that makes its rare failures<br />
all the more poignant. <strong>And</strong> it is this intersection between<br />
the rare and the poignant that makes such philatelic artifacts,<br />
indeed all such “souvenirs,” so prized.<br />
As Susan Stewart, the author <strong>of</strong> On Longing, has<br />
observed, the souvenir “distinguishes experiences. We do not<br />
need or desire souvenirs <strong>of</strong> events that are repeatable,” she<br />
writes. “Rather we need and desire souvenirs <strong>of</strong> events that are<br />
reportable, events whose materiality has escaped us, events<br />
that thereby exist only through the invention <strong>of</strong> narrative.” Our<br />
experience <strong>of</strong> mail tends to be point-to-point: we know<br />
73 origin and terminus, but what lies between remains a<br />
mystery. Crash covers expose the shape <strong>of</strong> the network, open<br />
a window on a usually clandestine system, and invite the introduction<br />
<strong>of</strong> narrative. <strong>And</strong> there surely is something <strong>of</strong> both<br />
triumph and calamity in them — only by being found did they<br />
come to be celebrated; only by being lost did they come to be<br />
desired. Their status as objects is based on a delicate calibration<br />
<strong>of</strong> success and failure, and on the uncanny way they carry<br />
the evidence for both in their very materiality — fulfillment and<br />
flaw written together like a postscript on a faded piece <strong>of</strong> stationery.<br />
Cabinet wishes to thank Kendall Sanford for his assistance with this article. For more<br />
information, see his website at <br />
Overleaf: Kosher Butcher: Crash <strong>of</strong> Imperial Airways “Corsair,” near Faradje,<br />
Belgian Congo, 15 March 1939. En route from South Africa to Juba, Sudan, the<br />
plane lost its way due to bad weather and heavy fog. As it descended through the<br />
clouds, the captain landed on a straight stretch <strong>of</strong> water. It turned out to be a nar-<br />
row river, the Dangu, and the aircraft hit a submerged rock which ripped open its<br />
hull. The cover shown here was addressed to Paris, France, where an explanatory<br />
cachet was applied.<br />
Yankee Clipper: Crash <strong>of</strong> the Pan American World Airways “Yankee Clipper,”<br />
Lisbon, 22 February 1943. The flying boat “Yankee Clipper” crash-landed in the<br />
Tagus River at Lisbon. Ninety-three bags <strong>of</strong> mail were salvaged in water-soaked<br />
condition. Shown is a cover to Nice, France, which was not yet occupied. The cov-<br />
er was censored by the Portuguese and the Americans, and thus has censor tape<br />
on both the left and right sides.<br />
Ford: Crash <strong>of</strong> Panagra Sikorsky Flying Boat, Mosquito Gulf, Panama, 3 August<br />
1937. See Jeffrey Kastner’s text for further details.<br />
Red Cross and note below: Crash <strong>of</strong> the Pan American World Airways “China<br />
Clipper,” Port <strong>of</strong> Spain, Trinidad, 8 January 1945. The flying boat was en route<br />
from Miami to Leopoldville, Belgian Congo. On landing at Port-<strong>of</strong>-Spain, Trinidad,<br />
it encountered a severe storm and crashed. One hundred and thirteen pounds <strong>of</strong><br />
mail were recovered, dried out, and returned to Miami for redistribution, where<br />
the letters received a rubber stamp cachet “REC’D IN DAMAGED CONDITION/<br />
CONTENTS APPARENTLY OK/Miami, Fla.” The cover shown here is from the Inter-<br />
national Committee <strong>of</strong> the Red Cross in Washington, DC, and is addressed to a<br />
delegate in the Belgian Congo. As this was still wartime, it bears US and Belgian<br />
Congo censor tapes. On arrival in the Belgian Congo, someone added the hand-<br />
written explanatory note in French.
“shades Of Tarzan!”:<br />
fOrd On The amazOn<br />
elizabeTh esch<br />
Though it is widely acknowledged to be the most American <strong>of</strong><br />
American companies, it is more accurate to describe the Ford<br />
Motor Company as having been built by the whole world’s<br />
labor, land, and natural resources. By the end <strong>of</strong> the 1920s, Ford<br />
was operating factories on every continent, in over 20 countries,<br />
and was selling more cars, trucks, and tractors than any<br />
other manufacturer. In the US, the 100,000 workers in the mammoth<br />
River Rouge Plant in Detroit came from over 70 countries.<br />
Determined to “vertically integrate”— that is, to own and thus<br />
to control all the raw materials that went into making a car —<br />
Ford purchased ships, railroads, ports, forests, plantations,<br />
coal mines, iron mines, sand pits, and farms across the US and<br />
around the globe.<br />
As represented by Diego Rivera in his 1932 Detroit<br />
Industry frescoes in Detroit, Ford’s strategy linked nature to<br />
industry through human toil and creativity. Among the most<br />
beautiful images in Rivera’s frescoes is a Brazilian rubber<br />
tapper. Separated by a smooth ocean from the Rouge Plant,<br />
then the largest auto factory in the world, the rubber tapper<br />
bends in a graceful, time-tested stance into the latex-producing<br />
heveas brasilis tree. Existing as an unchanging conduit<br />
between the past and the present, the figure is meant to<br />
suggest the mutually beneficial relationship that Rivera imagined<br />
was possible between industry and nature, technology and<br />
tradition, progress and continuity. Yet even as Rivera painted,<br />
the Ford Motor Company was hard at work destroying the possibility<br />
he imagined in the rainforests <strong>of</strong> Brazil.<br />
Backed by a state department eager to free American<br />
industry from British domination <strong>of</strong> the rubber market, Ford,<br />
Firestone, and Goodyear had all pledged their allegiance to<br />
producing “American” rubber in Sumatra, Brazil, Liberia, and<br />
Malaya. In 1927, Ford purchased 2,500,000 acres <strong>of</strong> land in the<br />
state <strong>of</strong> Para in northern Brazil as the site for its rubber plantations.<br />
By spring 1928, the Ford-owned Lake Ormoc had set<br />
sail from Detroit for the newly founded Fordlandia. Carrying<br />
enough provisions to house and care for the “American staff”<br />
for up to two years, and to construct a powerhouse, sawmill,<br />
radio station, and hospital, the Ormoc’s arrival on the Brazilian<br />
coast signaled the beginning <strong>of</strong> a short but lethal misadventure<br />
in the history <strong>of</strong> America’s imperial adventures.<br />
A company publication reported: “The first obstacle that confronted<br />
Ford was the almost impenetrable tropical jungle. But<br />
it had to be cleared and for every 40 acres a clearing gang <strong>of</strong><br />
20 native workers was organized.” As early as the summer<br />
<strong>of</strong> 1929, 1,500 acres <strong>of</strong> rainforest had been slashed, burned,<br />
and planted with rubber saplings. By 1930, 3,000 acres were<br />
cleared, and the infrastructure <strong>of</strong> the plantation — administrative<br />
<strong>of</strong>fices, barracks, a clinic — had been constructed. Intent on<br />
conquering the very ecology that had nurtured the trees it was<br />
there to turn into product, Ford’s willful ignorance in the face <strong>of</strong><br />
decades <strong>of</strong> local knowledge <strong>of</strong> rubber production is staggering.<br />
Within a year, the first 1,500 acres <strong>of</strong> trees planted were<br />
76 all killed by a fungus common to the region. Grown in<br />
their natural environment, rubber trees are protected<br />
from the spread <strong>of</strong> the disease by the shelter <strong>of</strong> other plant<br />
life and the distance between them. Ford, having planted<br />
the trees in rows on barren land, could not stop the fungus once<br />
it started.<br />
This was just the beginning <strong>of</strong> the company’s problems.<br />
Convincing enough people to live and work on the plantation<br />
was the largest challenge it faced, and one it was never<br />
able to win. The company clearly thought its plan — <strong>of</strong> creating<br />
a waged labor force <strong>of</strong> single men who slept in barracks,<br />
punched time clocks, and worked 11-hour shifts — was not<br />
only agreeable but generous in contrast to the quasi-feudal<br />
social arrangements on other plantations. At Fordlandia, workers<br />
were paid in money as opposed to company scrip, and<br />
thus were not tied by debt to the plantation, although they<br />
were still required to work <strong>of</strong>f the costs <strong>of</strong> their own transportation<br />
to the plantation, and to pay for their own food,<br />
hammocks, and tools. Ford’s managers had been certain that<br />
“in the beginning plenty <strong>of</strong> laborers can be recruited on the<br />
Tapajos and neighboring rivers. These men when well fed<br />
and cured <strong>of</strong> hook worm, malaria etc. will make good laborers.”<br />
But Ford was consistently proven wrong, and recruiting became<br />
a constant necessity.<br />
An early report by Carl LaRue, who scouted the Amazon<br />
region for the company, <strong>of</strong>fered the following:<br />
The dwellers <strong>of</strong> the Amazon Valley are <strong>of</strong> three main stocks:<br />
Portuguese, Indian and Negro. ...<br />
Admixture has gone on so long that it is difficult to distinguish<br />
the different types. The mixture is not a particularly good<br />
one from a racial standpoint but it is by no means a bad one ...<br />
The fate <strong>of</strong> these people is more tragic because they are not possessed<br />
<strong>of</strong> the stolidity <strong>of</strong> the orientals, but have enough <strong>of</strong> the<br />
white race in them to suffer keenly and long intensely for the better<br />
things.<br />
The company’s own racism severely limited its ability<br />
to create Ford workers out <strong>of</strong> the people living in the region,<br />
as well as its capacity to get them to stay at Fordlandia once<br />
they were recruited. Ranking the people they encountered<br />
in degrees <strong>of</strong> “savagery” and “tameness,” Ford managers<br />
projected their white supremacist fantasies onto the bodies<br />
<strong>of</strong> the “tropical” people they needed to produce their product.<br />
From a tour <strong>of</strong> villages he had been sent to inspect, one labor<br />
recruiter sent a telegram which read, “Even if they were tame<br />
they are lazy and undisciplined.” The company replied, “Suggest<br />
we only take 100 with the distinct understanding that<br />
they are subject to discipline or they will be <strong>of</strong> no value. They<br />
must guarantee to do steady work every day or they would<br />
be without value and if they cannot talk Portuguese we might<br />
be better <strong>of</strong>f without them.”<br />
Every colonial administration has its own idea <strong>of</strong> what it<br />
means to “tame savages.” In Ford’s case, the measurement was<br />
clearly capitalist work discipline. A “tame” worker wore shoes,<br />
lived on the plantation, returned to work the day after being<br />
paid, and worked for 11 hours through the heat <strong>of</strong> the day. In<br />
kind, “taming savages” was not unlike what Ford did in Detroit:<br />
there, the company required male immigrant workers to study<br />
opposite: Small pickup truck coming down a narrow road close to Fordlandia,<br />
ca. 1940. Courtesy The Henry Ford Museum.
English and have their homes and wives inspected before they<br />
could qualify for the five-dollar-a-day wage. Social control is a<br />
necessary part <strong>of</strong> making people perform alienating wage labor.<br />
But in degree, Fordlandia was different. The men Ford sought<br />
to recruit as wage workers lived in the region <strong>of</strong> Brazil that had<br />
once provided more than 90% <strong>of</strong> the world’s rubber. They came<br />
from long traditions <strong>of</strong> skill, and while they worked in hierarchical<br />
networks that accessed the global economy, their work<br />
was autonomous and it built communities. Indeed, the poverty<br />
the company encountered when it arrived in the region was<br />
the result not <strong>of</strong> the nature <strong>of</strong> rubber tapping, but <strong>of</strong> the global<br />
economy from which the Brazilian rubber tappers had been<br />
eliminated. Using seeds smuggled out <strong>of</strong> Brazil and nurtured in<br />
Kew Gardens, British companies had launched large-scale rubber<br />
plantations with which indigenous rubber tapping methods<br />
could not compete.<br />
Mirroring the Brazilian eugenics movement’s obsession<br />
with disease and sanitation, the American managers at Fordlandia<br />
lived in a constant state <strong>of</strong> fear <strong>of</strong> “the tropics,” which<br />
included its people and its ecology. Hospital visits and inoculations<br />
were compulsory, as was the wearing <strong>of</strong> shoes (to guard<br />
against hookworm). Doctors played an increasingly significant<br />
role in the management <strong>of</strong> workers on the plantation;<br />
the hospital was the place where sick workers were<br />
77<br />
distinguished from the “just lazy” ones: the latter were fired.<br />
Ford’s extravagant commitment to its own ideas <strong>of</strong> how<br />
work should be organized and workers managed, perfected<br />
in its auto factories in Detroit, made little sense in Brazil. Yet<br />
the less those ideas seemed to work, the more tenaciously—<br />
and absurdly—the company seemed to cling to them. In an<br />
exchange <strong>of</strong> letters with steam whistle manufacturers, a manager<br />
expressed concern that the company had not yet found a<br />
whistle that could withstand a tropical climate, or that was loud<br />
enough for workers on all sides <strong>of</strong> the plantation to hear it. Of<br />
course, the company had scheduled the whistles at 5:30, 6:00,<br />
6:30, 7:00, 11:00, 11:30 am; noon; 3:30, 4:00, 4:30, 5:00, and 5:30<br />
pm. But <strong>of</strong> what use is all this precision if no one can hear the<br />
whistle? <strong>And</strong> what good is punching time cards if time is not uniformly<br />
understood? As one manager put it, “Owing to the fact<br />
that our daily labor is punching time cards, it is imperative that<br />
time signals be controlled. Otherwise the hours <strong>of</strong> operation are<br />
not uniform throughout the plantation.” Indeed, Ford management<br />
thought electric service would be advisable throughout<br />
the plantation in order to accommodate time clocks and bells<br />
“similar to those in the factory.”<br />
A strike in December 1930 revealed the depth <strong>of</strong> disgust<br />
the workers felt toward the highly controlled living arrangements<br />
on the plantation. The strike began when workers in
the cafeteria were told they would have to wait in line for their<br />
food, rather than have it served at their tables. When they<br />
confronted managers about the new policy, the workers were<br />
told that “the Company now and then puts new rules into effect<br />
but it was always for the betterment <strong>of</strong> the workers.” Not satisfied<br />
with the “betterment” program, workers immediately<br />
banded together as the managers fled by boat. Targets <strong>of</strong><br />
destruction during the strike included the cafeteria, all the time<br />
clocks, the punch card racks, and all the trucks.<br />
The Ford workers presented a list <strong>of</strong> demands to management<br />
which included the dismissal <strong>of</strong> two managers who were<br />
considered particularly vicious; access to the docks and river<br />
without passes; the right to visit neighboring villages; the elimination<br />
<strong>of</strong> the rule that prohibited the consumption <strong>of</strong> alcohol;<br />
the end <strong>of</strong> the requirement to eat in the company cafeteria;<br />
and the cessation <strong>of</strong> arbitrary firing. In response, the company<br />
called in the Brazilian military, which arrested more than 30<br />
“ringleaders.” Following the strike, Ford required its workers to<br />
be photographed when they were hired, and agreed to a police<br />
proposal to create passports for all workers, which contained<br />
their fingerprints and previous police records.<br />
In 1934, after clearing 8,000 acres <strong>of</strong> rainforest, Ford admitted<br />
defeat at Fordlandia. Marking a radical shift in strategy, the<br />
company abandoned virtually the entire plantation, save what<br />
it would use for research purposes, and bought over 700,000<br />
acres <strong>of</strong> land 80 miles away. The new plantation, named<br />
Belterra, promised better growing conditions and easier<br />
access. The move to Belterra coincided with another shift in<br />
policy, as management decided to allow some men to bring<br />
their families to live on the plantation and build housing for<br />
them. Fantastic fears that the plantation would be overrun by<br />
poor women and their children who would require care but<br />
could not work had guided past policy. But as fewer and fewer<br />
men were willing to uproot themselves from their communities<br />
and families, and more and more single men left after working<br />
on the plantation for a short period <strong>of</strong> time, the company<br />
conceded. Having succeeded in creating neither a “loyal” nor<br />
a “disciplined” workforce, Ford set its sights on the workers <strong>of</strong><br />
the future: children.<br />
In a letter to Detroit, a manager at Belterra described the<br />
“youngsters who are growing up on the plantations … [as] our<br />
best prospects for future employees.” Photos <strong>of</strong> President<br />
Vargas’s visit to the plantation show smiling children waving<br />
Brazilian flags — which bear the slogan “Order and Progress.”<br />
One photo in a Ford promotional brochure bears the caption:<br />
“Shades <strong>of</strong> Tarzan! You’d never guess these bright, happy<br />
healthy school children lived in a jungle city that didn’t even<br />
exist a few years ago!”<br />
If Fordlandia became the site for experimentation with<br />
heveas brasilis, Belterra became the site for experimentation<br />
with people. Virtually every activity on the plantation carried<br />
the potential for Fordist ideas about nationalism, thrift,<br />
science, and progress to be shaped into behavior-modifying<br />
campaigns. With the introduction <strong>of</strong> family living at Belterra<br />
came the imposition <strong>of</strong> a multitude <strong>of</strong> requirements. School<br />
was compulsory for adults —”The night shift is reserved for<br />
adults and the one who refuses, goodbye”— and for<br />
78 children. Required uniforms were provided by the<br />
company: “Boys wore outfits similar to Boy Scouts and girls<br />
neat white pleated skirts and white blouses.” The decision to<br />
provide uniforms to those children who could not afford them<br />
was defended by one manager who noted, “It is our opinion<br />
that the psychological effect on the morale <strong>of</strong> all the children<br />
justifies the expenditure.” Working from a textbook called<br />
Moral Education: My Little Friends, children studied Portuguese,<br />
geography, Brazilian history, arithmetic, and geometry.<br />
Described by one writer as a “children’s paradise,” the residents<br />
<strong>of</strong> Belterra learned American folk dancing, an obsession<br />
<strong>of</strong> Henry Ford’s, and were entertained by Ford-made motion<br />
pictures. So successful did the company think this practice<br />
was that Edsel Ford proposed to make films about the plantations<br />
and show them at points “along the Amazon and northern<br />
Brazilian coast” in order to entice workers to this “irradiating<br />
center <strong>of</strong> civilization.”<br />
From its inception in the late 1920s until 1940, no significant<br />
amount <strong>of</strong> rubber was exported from Ford’s plantations<br />
to Detroit for use in auto production. One manager wrote that<br />
“a great amount <strong>of</strong> work has been done... and a great deal <strong>of</strong><br />
money spent but... very little has been done along the lines<br />
<strong>of</strong> what we came here to do, namely plant rubber.” In spite<br />
<strong>of</strong> Ford’s poor production record, its plantations started<br />
to receive a tremendous amount <strong>of</strong> attention in the early<br />
1940s due to the changed global political situation. The US,<br />
worried that access to rubber would become increasingly<br />
threatened, sought to support the development <strong>of</strong> production<br />
in the western hemisphere. Both Time and Fortune magazines<br />
asked to visit, though both were denied. The Detroit Times ran<br />
a series <strong>of</strong> articles on the plantations that was republished as<br />
a small booklet supporting the war effort. Harpers, Cosmopolitan<br />
and Business Week all ran features on the plantations in<br />
1944. The caption underneath a photograph <strong>of</strong> a time clock in<br />
Business Week read: “<strong>And</strong> time clocks — incongruous devices<br />
in the customarily indolent atmosphere <strong>of</strong> a steaming Amazon<br />
jungle — measure the workers’ 11-hour days.”<br />
In 1941, Ford published its own promotional pamphlet.<br />
“The Ford Rubber Plantations” told the story <strong>of</strong> the lucky Brazilian<br />
people who were being civilized through the generosity<br />
and vision <strong>of</strong> the company. Describing both the natural and<br />
built environments at Fordlandia and Belterra, the pamphlet<br />
seems designed to lure potential managers and scientists,<br />
as well as investors in the US. The homey pamphlet set out<br />
“to give you some idea <strong>of</strong> the problems that are involved in<br />
this vast project and <strong>of</strong> the methods by which they are being<br />
brought to successful conclusion,” and reminded the reader<br />
that “the Ford Rubber Plantations <strong>of</strong> Brazil represent but<br />
one <strong>of</strong> many Ford Motor Company projects for the scientific<br />
development and utilization <strong>of</strong> natural resources... projects<br />
that in no small measure make possible the building <strong>of</strong> finer<br />
and finer cars at low prices within the reach <strong>of</strong> more and more<br />
people.” The scary specter <strong>of</strong> “wasteland” and the “jungle” featured<br />
prominently in the story <strong>of</strong> “natives” being brought into<br />
the fold <strong>of</strong> modernity: “Paved roads, cement walks, comfortable<br />
homes, electric lights, telephones — this might be any<br />
midwestern town. But it is Belterra, buried deep in the jungle<br />
opposite: Automobile stuck in mud on road to Fordlandia, ca. 1940. Courtesy<br />
The Henry Ford Museum.
<strong>of</strong> Brazil.... Yes, there is even a golf course — a sporty 18 holes —<br />
at Fordlandia. Beautiful clubhouse, tropical foliage — and 700<br />
miles from civilization.”<br />
One journalist was moved to note the participation <strong>of</strong> the<br />
plantations’ schoolchildren in the creation <strong>of</strong> “Latin-Saxonian<br />
unity”: “Undismayed by isolation, these boys and girls are going<br />
ahead, playing their part in a great movement that is not only<br />
setting an example for satisfied workmen and helping to unify<br />
the Western Hemisphere but producing a necessary product<br />
for the Americas in the Americas.”<br />
But if the automobile remained a “necessary product,”<br />
natural rubber did not. With the introduction <strong>of</strong> synthetic<br />
rubber in the US, Ford — and the American government — found<br />
a new solution to its production worries. Having estimated<br />
in 1941 that the Ford plantations “would produce from 30 to<br />
40 million pounds <strong>of</strong> high-quality rubber during the next ten<br />
years... and thereafter a minimum <strong>of</strong> 10,000,000 pounds per<br />
year,” in 1946, the company left Brazil more abruptly than it<br />
had arrived, departing virtually overnight. The plantations were<br />
sold back to the Brazilian government for $250,000 — a fraction<br />
<strong>of</strong> the sum <strong>of</strong> $20 million that Ford had poured into the project.<br />
79
hashima: The GhOsT island<br />
brian burKe-Gaffney<br />
Seen from a distance, Hashima Island might be mistaken for<br />
the Japanese counterpart <strong>of</strong> Alcatraz rising from the ocean<br />
like a ragged slab <strong>of</strong> concrete, or perhaps a gambling resort<br />
with deserted hotels. Few casual observers would ever guess<br />
that, only 40 years ago, this tiny island was the site <strong>of</strong> a thriving<br />
community with the highest population density on earth.<br />
One among 505 uninhabited islands in Nagasaki Prefecture,<br />
Hashima lies in the East China Sea some 15 kilometers<br />
from Nagasaki, its naked crags striking a stark contrast with the<br />
verdant peaks <strong>of</strong> nearby islands. A closer look reveals clusters<br />
<strong>of</strong> unpopulated high-rise buildings pressing up against a manmade<br />
sea wall, a battered shrine at the top <strong>of</strong> a steep rock cliff,<br />
and not a single tree in sight.<br />
The clue to the island’s mystery lies in coal mining.<br />
Reached by long descending tunnels, coal beds below the bottom<br />
<strong>of</strong> the ocean near Hashima disgorged huge quantities <strong>of</strong><br />
high-grade coal for almost a century. But in 1974 the inhabitants<br />
abandoned the island to the wind and salt spray, leaving behind<br />
only unneeded belongings and a few stray cats that could not<br />
be captured.<br />
An EnErgy Chronology<br />
The history <strong>of</strong> Hashima Island reads like a chronology <strong>of</strong><br />
changes in Japan’s energy policies from the Meiji Period to<br />
modern times. For centuries the people living on Takashima,<br />
a large island near Hashima, are said to have collected coal<br />
from exposed beds and used it as a household fuel. They called<br />
it goheita after the man by the same name who, according to<br />
local legend, stumbled on coal’s combustible properties by<br />
inadvertently lighting a bonfire on the black rock.<br />
When transportation networks improved in the 18th and<br />
19th centuries, the people <strong>of</strong> Takashima began to sell their coal<br />
abroad, primarily to salt-makers on the coast <strong>of</strong> the Seto Inland<br />
Sea. One <strong>of</strong> Japan’s most important industries at the time, saltmaking,<br />
had relied traditionally on resin-rich pinewood as a fuel<br />
to boil seawater, but it was suffering from the ongoing depletion<br />
<strong>of</strong> pine forests. Coal was deemed the ideal alternative to<br />
pinewood.<br />
At the time, Takashima Island was part <strong>of</strong> a feudal domain<br />
administered by the Fukahori Family, a branch <strong>of</strong> the Nabeshima<br />
Clan <strong>of</strong> present-day Saga Prefecture. Seeing the pr<strong>of</strong>its gleaned<br />
from the coal trade, the Fukahori Family usurped the management<br />
rights, assigned the islanders the role <strong>of</strong> subcontractor<br />
and labor force, and established coal pr<strong>of</strong>its as one <strong>of</strong> the pillars<br />
<strong>of</strong> the local economy.<br />
This system was still firmly in place when Japan opened<br />
its doors to the world in the late 1850s and Nagasaki gained<br />
new importance as the closest port to China and a stopover<br />
for foreign commercial ships and naval vessels. This was also<br />
a time when Britain, America, and other Western countries<br />
were replacing their sail-rigged tea clippers and warships with<br />
steam-driven ships. The resulting demand for coal prompted<br />
Nabeshima Naomasa, lord <strong>of</strong> the Nabeshima Clan, to expand<br />
production capacity <strong>of</strong> the mine on Takashima.<br />
Nabeshima turned to Scottish merchant Thomas<br />
81<br />
B. Glover (1838-1911) for help. Until then, the coal-<br />
mining method on Takashima had been primitive: miners<br />
simply chipped away at exposed surfaces with picks and then<br />
moved on to other sites when the coal ran out or the holes<br />
became too deep to dig safely. But Glover imported modern<br />
mining equipment from Britain and hired British mining engineers<br />
to drill a vertical-shaft mine on the island. In April 1869,<br />
the drillers struck a coal bed some 45 meters underground, and<br />
Japan’s first modern coal mine started production.<br />
The enormous success <strong>of</strong> the Takashima coal mine filled<br />
Nagasaki c<strong>of</strong>fers with foreign currency and sparked a rush to<br />
develop mines on nearby islands — including the until-then<br />
useless heap <strong>of</strong> rock called Hashima.<br />
hAShimA CoAl minE iS Born<br />
While assuming exclusive rights to work the Takashima mine,<br />
the Nabeshima Clan allowed the Fukahori Family to tap the<br />
veins <strong>of</strong> coal streaking across other nearby islands. After<br />
several failed attempts, the family finally installed a shaft mine<br />
on Hashima in 1887, inhabiting it for the first time. Three years<br />
later, though, it sold the island to Mitsubishi Corporation for<br />
100,000 yen. The now world-famous company had expanded<br />
rapidly after its inception as a shipping enterprise in 1873,<br />
and had purchased the Takashima Coal Mine in 1881.<br />
The years that followed witnessed a remarkable surge in<br />
Japan’s industrial capacity and military might, encouraged by<br />
victory in both the Sino-Japanese War (1894 -1895) and Russo-<br />
Japanese War (1904 -1905). At Hashima, Mitsubishi launched<br />
a project to tap the coal resources under the sea bottom, successfully<br />
sinking a 199- meter-long vertical shaft in 1895 and<br />
still another shaft in 1898. The company also utilized the slag<br />
from the mine to carry out a series <strong>of</strong> land reclamations, thereby<br />
creating flat space for industrial facilities and dormitories.<br />
Completed around 1907, the high sea-walls gave the island the<br />
appearance <strong>of</strong> a battleship riding the waves. The resemblance<br />
was so uncanny that a local newspaper reporter dubbed it<br />
Gunkanjima (Battleship Island), a nickname that soon replaced<br />
the <strong>of</strong>ficial name in common parlance.<br />
Hashima was producing about 150,000 tons <strong>of</strong> coal annually<br />
and its population had soared to over 3,000 when, in 1916,<br />
Mitsubishi built a reinforced concrete apartment block on the<br />
island to alleviate the lack <strong>of</strong> housing space and to prevent<br />
typhoon damage. This was Japan’s first concrete building <strong>of</strong><br />
any significant size. America’s first large-scale concrete structure<br />
— the Ingalls Office Building, in Cincinnati — had been built<br />
only 14 years earlier.<br />
A square, six-story structure built around a dingy inner<br />
courtyard at the southern edge <strong>of</strong> the island, the building<br />
provided cramped but private lodgings for the miners and<br />
their families. Each apartment consisted simply <strong>of</strong> a single,<br />
six-tatami-mat room (9.9 square meters) with a window, door,<br />
and small vestibule — more like a monk’s cell than an apart-<br />
opposite: Hashima in the late 19th–century, prior to the major reclamations from<br />
the sea. Courtesy Nagasaki Prefectural Library.<br />
overleaf: Residential apartments on Hashima. Photos Carl Michael von Hausswolff,<br />
2001.<br />
page 84: The last pupils form the words “sayonara Hashima” in the schoolground<br />
in 1974. Courtesy Takashima-cho.
ment, but still a major improvement over previous living<br />
quarters. Bathing, cooking, and toilet facilities were communal.<br />
This building was followed two years later by an even<br />
larger apartment complex on the sloping rock at the center<br />
<strong>of</strong> the island. Then the tallest building in Japan, the E-shaped<br />
apartment block had nine stories on the ocean side and three<br />
on the rock side.<br />
One multi-story apartment block followed another until<br />
the tiny island bristled with more than 30 concrete buildings.<br />
Even during the 11-year period before and during World War<br />
II, when not a single concrete building went up anywhere else<br />
in Japan, the construction <strong>of</strong> apartment blocks continued on<br />
Hashima as part <strong>of</strong> national efforts to meet the tremendous<br />
wartime demand for coal.<br />
As a result <strong>of</strong> these efforts, Hashima’s annual coal production<br />
reached a peak <strong>of</strong> 410,000 tons in 1941. But it was<br />
an achievement that exacted a heavy toll in human suffering.<br />
While Japanese youth disappeared onto the battlefields <strong>of</strong><br />
China, Southeast Asia, and the Pacific, the Japanese government<br />
forcibly recruited large numbers <strong>of</strong> Koreans and Chinese<br />
to fill the empty places in its factories and mines, and many<br />
<strong>of</strong> these men perished as a result <strong>of</strong> the harsh conditions and<br />
a starvation diet.<br />
Hashima was no exception. By the time the atomic<br />
bomb rattled the windows on Hashima apartment blocks and<br />
Japan surrendered to the Allied forces in August 1945, about<br />
1,300 laborers had died on the island, some in underground<br />
accidents, others <strong>of</strong> illnesses related to exhaustion and malnutrition.<br />
Still others had chosen a quicker, less gruesome death<br />
by jumping over the sea-wall and trying in vain to swim to<br />
the mainland.<br />
Suh Jung-woo, one <strong>of</strong> the Korean laborers fortunate<br />
enough to survive the ordeal, remembered Hashima in a 1983<br />
interview:<br />
I was one <strong>of</strong> two boys forced onto a truck in my village and<br />
taken to the government <strong>of</strong>fice, where several thousand other<br />
Koreans ranging in age from about fourteen to twenty had been<br />
gathered. After a night at an inn, we were taken by truck to a<br />
nearby city, then by train to the port at Pusan and ship<br />
82<br />
from Pusan to Shimonoseki. About 300 members <strong>of</strong> the<br />
group, including myself, were then taken by train to Nagasaki,<br />
where we arrived the following morning. All <strong>of</strong> us were being<br />
sent to Hashima.<br />
I had relatives in Japan, not only my parents in Nagoya but<br />
also family members living in Sasebo. I thought that no matter<br />
where I was sent in Japan I would be able to escape and find shelter<br />
with them. But as soon as I saw Hashima I lost all hope.<br />
The island was surrounded by high concrete walls, and<br />
there was ocean, nothing but ocean, all around. It was crowded<br />
with concrete buildings as high as nine stories.... We Koreans<br />
were lodged in buildings on the edge <strong>of</strong> the island. Seven or eight<br />
<strong>of</strong> us were put together in a tiny room, giving each person no<br />
more than a few feet <strong>of</strong> space.<br />
The buildings were made <strong>of</strong> reinforced concrete and<br />
had mortar on the outside, but the interior was filthy and falling<br />
apart.... We were given uniforms like rice bags to wear<br />
and forced to begin work the morning after arrival. We were<br />
constantly watched and ordered around by Japanese guards,<br />
some <strong>of</strong> whom were wearing swords.<br />
The mine was deep under the sea, the workers reaching<br />
it by elevator down a long narrow shaft. The coal was carried<br />
out from a spacious underground chamber, but the digging<br />
places were so small that we had to crouch down to work. It was<br />
excruciating, exhausting labor. Gas collected in the tunnels, and<br />
the rock ceilings and walls threatened to collapse at any minute.<br />
I was convinced that I would never leave the island alive.<br />
Four or five workers in fact died every month in accidents.<br />
Modern concepts <strong>of</strong> safety were nonexistent. The corpses were<br />
cremated on Nakanoshima, the little island beside Hashima.<br />
The end <strong>of</strong> World War II brought radical changes to<br />
Hashima Island and an important new purpose for its product.<br />
Instead <strong>of</strong> fuel for warships and steel for cannon shells,<br />
the coal from Hashima forged the tools for Japan’s recovery<br />
from the pit <strong>of</strong> humiliation and defeat. Ironically, however,<br />
it was another conflict — the Korean War (1950 -1953)— that<br />
catapulted the coal mines, and virtually every other Japanese<br />
industry, into a golden period <strong>of</strong> prosperity and growth.<br />
The population <strong>of</strong> Hashima reached a peak <strong>of</strong> 5,259 in<br />
1959. People were literally jammed into every nook and corner<br />
<strong>of</strong> the apartment blocks. The rocky slopes holding most
<strong>of</strong> these buildings comprised about 60 percent <strong>of</strong> the total<br />
island area <strong>of</strong> 6.3 hectares (15.6 acres), while the flat property<br />
reclaimed from the sea was used mostly for industrial facilities<br />
and made up the remaining 40 percent. At 835 people per<br />
hectare for the whole island, or an incredible 1,391 per hectare<br />
for the residential district, it is said to be the highest population<br />
density ever recorded in the world. Even Warabi, a Tokyo<br />
bedtown and the most densely populated city in modern Japan,<br />
notches up only 141 people per hectare.<br />
Hashima contained all the facilities and services necessary<br />
for the subsistence <strong>of</strong> this bulging community. Elbowing<br />
for space in the shadows <strong>of</strong> the apartment blocks were a<br />
primary school, junior high school, playground, gymnasium,<br />
pinball parlor, movie theater, bars, restaurants, 25 different<br />
retail shops, hospital, hairdresser, Buddhist temple, Shinto<br />
shrine, and even a brothel. Motor vehicles were nonexistent.<br />
As one former miner put it, one could walk between any two<br />
points on the island in less time than it took to finish a cigarette.<br />
Umbrellas were also unnecessary: a labyrinth <strong>of</strong> corridors and<br />
staircases connected all the apartment blocks and served as<br />
the island’s highway system.<br />
Equality may have reigned in the corridors, but the allocation<br />
<strong>of</strong> apartments reflected a rigid hierarchy <strong>of</strong> social classes.<br />
Unmarried miners and employees <strong>of</strong> subcontracting companies<br />
were interned in the old one-room apartments; married<br />
Mitsubishi workers and their families had apartments with<br />
two, six-mat rooms but shared toilets, kitchens and baths;<br />
high-ranking <strong>of</strong>fice personnel and teachers enjoyed the luxury<br />
<strong>of</strong> two-bedroom apartments with kitchens and flush toilets. The<br />
manager <strong>of</strong> Mitsubishi Hashima Coal Mine, meanwhile, lived in<br />
the only private, wood-constructed residence on the island — a<br />
house located symbolically at the summit <strong>of</strong> Hashima’s original<br />
rock.<br />
Indeed, Mitsubishi owned the island and everything on<br />
it, running a kind <strong>of</strong> benevolent dictatorship that guaranteed<br />
job security and doled out free housing, electricity and water<br />
but demanded that residents take turns in the cleaning and<br />
maintenance <strong>of</strong> public facilities. Thus the people <strong>of</strong> Hashima<br />
huddled together, all under the wing <strong>of</strong> “The Company” and all<br />
bent on a common purpose.<br />
But coal is not edible. The community depended completely<br />
on the outside world for food, clothing and other staples.<br />
Even fresh water had to be carried to the island until pipes<br />
along the sea floor connected it to mainland reservoirs in 1957.<br />
Any storm that prevented the passage <strong>of</strong> ships for more than<br />
a day spelled fear and austerity for Hashima.<br />
The most notable feature <strong>of</strong> the island was the complete<br />
absence <strong>of</strong> soil and indigenous vegetation. Hashima, after all,<br />
was nothing more than a rim <strong>of</strong> coal slag packed around the<br />
circumference <strong>of</strong> a bare rock. A movie shot there by Shochiku<br />
Co. Ltd. in 1949 was aptly entitled Midori Naki Shima (The<br />
Greenless Island).<br />
The initiation <strong>of</strong> a planting campaign in 1963 was a sign<br />
<strong>of</strong> the residents’ first hard-won taste <strong>of</strong> leisure. Using soil from<br />
the mainland they made gardens on the ro<strong>of</strong>tops and enjoyed<br />
the unprecedented pleasure <strong>of</strong> home-grown vegetables and<br />
flowers. It was around this same time that electric rice cookers,<br />
refrigerators and television sets became standard appli-<br />
83<br />
ances in the island’s apartments.<br />
But the optimism did not last long. Hashima’s fortunes started<br />
on a downhill slide in the late 1960s when Japan’s economy<br />
soared and petroleum replaced coal as the pillar <strong>of</strong> national<br />
energy policies. Coal mines across the country began to close.<br />
Mitsubishi slashed the work force at Hashima step by step,<br />
retraining workers and sending them <strong>of</strong>f to other branches <strong>of</strong> its<br />
sprawling and booming industrial network. The coup de grâce<br />
came on 15 January 1974, when the company held a ceremony<br />
in the island gymnasium and <strong>of</strong>ficially announced the closing<br />
<strong>of</strong> the mine.<br />
The subsequent exodus proceeded with amazing speed.<br />
The last resident stepped onto the ship for Nagasaki on 20<br />
April 1974, holding an umbrella up to a light rain and glancing<br />
back woefully toward the empty apartment blocks.<br />
ThE End rESulT oF dEvElopmEnT<br />
Now desolate and forgotten, Hashima guards the entrance<br />
to Nagasaki Harbor like a strange, dead lighthouse, attracting<br />
little more attention than the visits <strong>of</strong> tired seagulls and the<br />
curious stares <strong>of</strong> people on passing ships. But the symbolism<br />
is hard to ignore. The tight-knit Hashima community was<br />
a miniature version <strong>of</strong> Japanese society and it straddled a<br />
landmass that, except for the lack <strong>of</strong> water and greenery,<br />
mimicked the entire archipelago. The island’s present forlorn<br />
state is a lesson to contemporary Japan about what happens to<br />
a country that exhausts its own resources and depends solely<br />
on foreign trade. Taking note, the Japanese government has<br />
used photographs <strong>of</strong> Hashima in full-page national newspaper<br />
advertisements calling for conservation <strong>of</strong> energy.<br />
During its 84- year career under Mitsubishi, the island produced<br />
some 16.5 million tons <strong>of</strong> coal. The miners tunneled deep<br />
into the sea bottom, the builders carefully utilized every precious<br />
square meter <strong>of</strong> island property, and the islanders made<br />
valiant efforts to lead a comfortable and dignified life. But few,<br />
if any, <strong>of</strong> these people included the closing <strong>of</strong> the mine in their<br />
plans.<br />
In that sense, the dead island <strong>of</strong> Hashima delivers a lively<br />
warning about the importance <strong>of</strong> foresight. It <strong>of</strong>fers a view<br />
<strong>of</strong> the end result <strong>of</strong> “development,” the fate <strong>of</strong> a community<br />
severed from Mother Earth and engaged in a way <strong>of</strong> life<br />
disconnected from its food supply. In short, Hashima is<br />
what the world will be like when we finish urbanizing and<br />
exploiting it: a ghost planet spinning through space — silent,<br />
naked, and useless.<br />
There is currently a documentary on hashima island under production for Swedish televi-<br />
sion. The directors are Carl michael von hausswolff and Thomas nordanstad.
The flOaTinG island<br />
Paul collins<br />
In late 1942, Lord Louis Mountbatten — the British military’s<br />
Chief <strong>of</strong> Combined Operations — paid a visit to Winston Churchill<br />
at his <strong>of</strong>ficial country home, Chequers. Mountbatten had with<br />
him a small parcel <strong>of</strong> great importance. A member <strong>of</strong> Churchill’s<br />
staff apologized that the Prime Minister was at that moment in<br />
his bath.<br />
“Good,” said Mountbatten as he bounded up the stairs.<br />
“That’s exactly where I want him to be.” Mountbatten entered<br />
the steaming bathroom to find Churchill in the tub. It was generally<br />
not a wise thing to interrupt Sir Winston in his bathtub.<br />
“I have,” Mountbatten explained, “a block <strong>of</strong> a new material<br />
that I would like to put in your bath.”<br />
Mountbatten opened his parcel and dropped its contents<br />
between the Prime Minister’s bare legs in the water. It was a<br />
chunk <strong>of</strong> ice.<br />
Rather than bellow at his Chief <strong>of</strong> Combined Operations,<br />
Churchill stared at the ice intently — and so, standing by the<br />
bathtub, did Mountbatten himself. Minutes passed, and still<br />
they looked into the steaming depths <strong>of</strong> bath water before<br />
them. The ice was not melting. 1<br />
Ice is strange stuff: brittle when struck suddenly, yet malleable<br />
when pressured over a period <strong>of</strong> time. With low but steady<br />
pressure, this plastic deformation can continue indefinitely.<br />
Above all, ice is unpredictable. Molded into a beam, it will<br />
fracture at loads anywhere from 5 kg/sq cm to 35 kg/sq cm.<br />
Because it fails at unpredictable loads, it is not ideal as a building<br />
material. But what was bobbing about in Churchill’s bathtub<br />
was no ordinary ice: it was pykrete.<br />
Pykrete is a super-ice, strengthened tremendously by<br />
mixing in wood pulp as it freezes. By freezing a slurry <strong>of</strong> 14<br />
percent wood pulp, the mechanical strength <strong>of</strong> ice rockets up<br />
to a fairly consistent 70 kg/sq cm. A 7.69 mm rifle bullet, when<br />
fired into pure ice, will penetrate to a depth <strong>of</strong> about 36 cm.<br />
Fired into pykrete, it will penetrate less than half as far — about<br />
the same distance as a bullet fired into brickwork. Yet you<br />
can mold pykrete into blocks from the simplest materials and<br />
then plane it, just like wood. <strong>And</strong> it has tremendous crush<br />
resistance: a one-inch column <strong>of</strong> the stuff will support an<br />
automobile. Moreover, it takes much longer to melt than pure<br />
ice. But as strong and eco-friendly as it is, pykrete remains<br />
forgotten today save among glaciologists, who express<br />
bafflement over why no one has made use <strong>of</strong> it. “I don’t really<br />
know why it has languished in obscurity,” admits Pr<strong>of</strong>essor<br />
Erland Schulson, director <strong>of</strong> the Ice Research Laboratory at<br />
Dartmouth College. 2<br />
Pykrete is the namesake <strong>of</strong> Ge<strong>of</strong>frey Pyke, who the Times<br />
<strong>of</strong> London once declared “one <strong>of</strong> the most original if unrecognized<br />
figures <strong>of</strong> the present century.” His career began in 1914<br />
when, as a teenager at Cambridge University, he landed a<br />
foreign correspondent job by using a false passport to sneak<br />
into wartime Germany. After getting tossed into a concentration<br />
camp, he fled the country in a daring daytime escape.<br />
In the 1920s, he virtually created progressive elementary<br />
education in Great Britain, all for the sake <strong>of</strong> his own son’s<br />
education. Pyke financed his own school by brilliantly riding
futures markets and controlling a quarter <strong>of</strong> the world’s supply<br />
<strong>of</strong> tin, a ploy which brought him to financial ruin in 1929. He<br />
lived on as an eccentric hermit, publishing prescient warnings<br />
<strong>of</strong> Nazism and proposing one <strong>of</strong> the first media watchdogs.<br />
After the war, his freelance genius helped propel the creation <strong>of</strong><br />
the National Health Service. 3<br />
During the war, he appeared at the <strong>of</strong>fice <strong>of</strong> the Chief <strong>of</strong><br />
Combined Operations with a simple recommendation for<br />
his hiring. “You need me on your staff,” the shabbily dressed<br />
man explained to Lord Mountbatten, “because I’m a man who<br />
thinks.” What Pyke was thinking about just then was building<br />
ships out <strong>of</strong> ice.<br />
Pyke envisioned ships as vast and solid as icebergs. You<br />
could make the sides <strong>of</strong> your boat tens <strong>of</strong> feet thick, hundreds<br />
if you felt like it, and bullets or torpedoes would bounce away<br />
or knock <strong>of</strong>f pathetically ineffectual chunks. <strong>And</strong> when a torpedo<br />
did knock a chunk away — so? You were floating in a sea<br />
<strong>of</strong> raw repair material. Given how long it took pykrete<br />
86 to melt, and the minimal onboard refrigeration equip-<br />
ment needed to stay frozen and afloat, it would be months or<br />
years before the boats exhausted their usefulness. In battle, the<br />
ice ships could put their onboard refrigeration systems to good<br />
use by spraying super-cooled water at enemy ships, icing their<br />
hatches shut, clogging their guns, and freezing hapless sailors<br />
to death.<br />
Pykrete freighters could carry eight entire Liberty class<br />
freighters as cargo, but Pyke’s dream was not to use them as<br />
cargo ships but as aircraft carriers. One <strong>of</strong> the great disadvantages<br />
<strong>of</strong> aircraft carriers had always been that their short landing<br />
surfaces and cramped storage favored small planes with<br />
foldable wings and light armor. The most desirable fighters, like<br />
Spitfires, were not an easy fit for carriers, and bombers were<br />
altogether out <strong>of</strong> the question. Pyke’s logical conclusion<br />
above: The ro<strong>of</strong>ed-over test model <strong>of</strong> Habbakuk resting on Patricia Lake in<br />
early 1943.<br />
opposite: Canadian workmen assembling the protoype <strong>of</strong> the ship.<br />
Photos courtesy National Research Council Canada
was to build a behemoth: the H.M.S Habbakuk, he called it.<br />
Constructed from 40-foot blocks <strong>of</strong> ice, his Habbakuk would<br />
be 2,000 feet long, 300 feet wide, with walls 40 feet thick. Its<br />
interior would easily accommodate 200 Spitfires. The largest<br />
ship then afloat was the H.M.S Queen Mary, which weighed<br />
in at 86,000 tons. The Habbakuk would weigh 2 million tons. 4<br />
For a man who had had ice thrown into his bath, Winston<br />
Churchill was surprisingly receptive to the idea. After reading<br />
the formal War Cabinet report on the Habbakuk project,<br />
Churchill shot back a memo stamped “Most Secret” the next<br />
day, on 7 December 1942. “I attach the greatest importance<br />
to the prompt examination <strong>of</strong> these ideas,” he wrote. “The<br />
advantages <strong>of</strong> a floating island or islands, even if only used<br />
as refueling depots for aircraft, are so dazzling that they do<br />
not need at the moment to be discussed.”<br />
Mountbatten had already ordered Pyke and his colleague<br />
Martin Perutz to produce pykrete in large quantities to test and<br />
perfect it. Utmost secrecy was required, so Pyke set up shop<br />
in a refrigerated meat locker in a Smithfield Market butcher’s<br />
basement; his “shop assistants” were disguised British commandos.<br />
Their work was carried on behind a protective screen<br />
<strong>of</strong> massive frozen animal carcasses. When Mountbatten came<br />
to visit the operation, it was so hush-hush that Lord Louis had to<br />
disguise himself as, <strong>of</strong> all things, a civilian.<br />
It looked like an ordinary boathouse, tucked in on the shore<br />
<strong>of</strong> Patricia Lake, just outside Jasper, Ontario. But it was not a<br />
house at all—it was the boat, with a tin ro<strong>of</strong> stuck on top to make<br />
the bizarre craft look like a boathouse.<br />
The prototype Habbakuk was 60 feet long and 30 feet<br />
wide, weighing in at 1,000 tons, and was kept frozen by a onehorsepower<br />
motor. The boat would not move very quickly,<br />
and the enemy would hardly fail to see it coming, but this<br />
hardly mattered. “Surprise,” Pyke theorized in his first<br />
Habbakuk memo, “can be obtained from permanence as well as<br />
suddenness.” The immense hull was just as strong as Pyke had<br />
predicted, but Mountbatten eschewed the scientist’s reports<br />
for a more direct testing method: hauling out a shotgun and trying<br />
to blow a hole into their precious prototype’s side. He failed.<br />
Meanwhile, the butcher’s backroom had produced<br />
enough samples for Mountbatten and Churchill to take their<br />
pykrete show on the road. Mountbatten unveiled the invention<br />
at a tense secret meeting <strong>of</strong> the Allied chiefs <strong>of</strong> staff at<br />
Quebec’s Chateau Frontenac Hotel in August 1943. With<br />
the heads <strong>of</strong> nearly every Allied branch in attendance, the<br />
outside <strong>of</strong> the conference room was filled with high-level<br />
staff waiting to give their reports. British Air Marshall Sir William<br />
Welch was among them when they heard two pistol shots<br />
ring out from inside the conference room.<br />
“My god,” Welch yelled, “the Americans are shooting the<br />
British!” Guards rushing into the conference room found Lord<br />
Mountbatten holding a pistol amidst a scene <strong>of</strong> shattered ice<br />
and mayhem. <strong>And</strong> yet some <strong>of</strong> the <strong>of</strong>ficers were laughing.<br />
There was a very reasonable explanation for it all. Mountbatten<br />
had set out two blocks <strong>of</strong> material and then pulled out a gun to<br />
give the assembled chiefs a little demonstration. The first shot<br />
had been at a block <strong>of</strong> pure ice, which shattered. Nobody was<br />
much surprised by this. But the second shot proved<br />
87<br />
very surprising indeed. This time, Mountbatten shot a<br />
piece <strong>of</strong> pykrete, and the bullet ricocheted right <strong>of</strong>f the block<br />
and zipped across the trouser leg <strong>of</strong> Fleet Admiral Ernest King. It<br />
was quickly decided that Mountbatten had made his point. 5<br />
Churchill and Roosevelt soon came to an agreement that<br />
the world’s biggest ship should be built. But one man was<br />
conspicuously missing from these meetings: Pyke. The ship’s<br />
inventor was stunned to discover that to appease the Americans—who<br />
were not too keen on pottering eccentrics—he had<br />
been cut loose from his own project. It hadn’t helped that Pyke<br />
had sent a cable marked “Hush Most Secret” back to Mountbatten.<br />
It read, in its entirety: “CHIEF OF NAVAL CONSTRUCTION IS<br />
AN OLD WOMAN. SIGNED PYKE.” 6<br />
In the end, the Habbakuk was never built anyway. Landbased<br />
aircraft were attaining longer ranges, U-boats were<br />
being hunted down faster than they could be built, and the<br />
US was gaining numerous island footholds in the Pacific—all<br />
contributing to a reduced need for a vast, floating airfield.<br />
<strong>And</strong> deep within the newly built Pentagon was the knowledge<br />
that America already had a secret weapon in development to be<br />
used against Japan—an end to the war that would be brought<br />
about not by ice but by fire.<br />
The prototype ice-ship, abandoned in Patricia Lake, did not<br />
melt until the end <strong>of</strong> the next summer.<br />
1 This Chequers account is included in the only biography <strong>of</strong> inventor ge<strong>of</strong>frey pyke: david<br />
lampe’s wonderful 1959 book Pyke, the Unknown Genius (london: Evans Brothers, 1959).<br />
2 martin perutz, “description <strong>of</strong> the iceberg Aircraft Carrier and the Bearing <strong>of</strong> the mechani-<br />
cal properties <strong>of</strong> Frozen Wood pulp upon Some problems <strong>of</strong> glacier Flow,” in Journal <strong>of</strong><br />
Glaciology, march 1948, pp. 95-104. There’s an entertaining modern experiment involving<br />
shooting pykrete at http://www.geocities.com/Broadway/1928/pykrete.htm. The Schul-<br />
son quote is from my 7 march 2001 email interview with him.<br />
3 See pyke obituaries “The Fearless innovator,” The Times (london), 26 Feb 1948, p. 6; and<br />
“Everybody’s Conscience,” Time, 8 march 1948, pp. 31-33.<br />
4 due to an Admiralty clerk’s error, it was “habbakuk” rather than the correct biblical name<br />
“habakkuk.” pyke’s memos are available through the public record <strong>of</strong>fice (www.pro.go.uk);<br />
they are Admiralty files Adm 1/15672 and Adm 1/15677. Also see the London Illustrated<br />
News, 2 march 1946, pp. 234 –237.<br />
5 “War on ice,” Newsweek, 11 march 1946, p. 51.<br />
6 martin perutz, “Enemy Alien,” The New Yorker, 12 August 1985, pp. 35-54. perutz notes<br />
that design flaws might have made the Habbakuk impossible anyway.
Old raGs, sOme Grand<br />
scoTT a. sandaGe<br />
“These Colors Don’t Run,” I keep reading. Small wonder, after<br />
six months holding on by a thread to a speeding Eddie Bauer<br />
Ford Explorer. There used to be some rule about burning a flag<br />
when it gets torn or dirty. Does this mean it would be patriotic<br />
to torch a sport utility vehicle?<br />
By spring, the flags <strong>of</strong> September 11 looked like veterans<br />
<strong>of</strong> Ground Zero. Even Presidents’ Day sales could not move<br />
overstocks <strong>of</strong> red, white, and blue stickers, magnets, mugs,and<br />
mittens. Twenty-six stripes for the price <strong>of</strong> thirteen! Patriotism’s<br />
pan had flashed. Again.<br />
Up in the Bronx, George M. Cohan turned in his grave,<br />
or rather in his tiffany-windowed granite mausoleum at<br />
Woodlawn Cemetery — the house that flag-waving built. Let’s<br />
hope they buried Broadway’s ur-ho<strong>of</strong>er in his tap shoes.<br />
Any American who grew up in the 20th century learned the<br />
songs <strong>of</strong> George M. “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy” and “You’re<br />
a Grand Old Flag!” rang out at scout jamborees and on fourthgrade<br />
field trips to cheer up the nursing home: “Every heart<br />
beats time, for the mud, soot, and grime.”<br />
A century ago, Cohan invented patriotism as we know it:<br />
loud, brash, mass-market fervor at so much per stripe. Scion<br />
<strong>of</strong> a vaudeville family, he made his Broadway debut in February<br />
1901 in a musical called The Governor’s Son. Fifty -some<br />
plays followed over three decades. To approximate<br />
his versatility, imagine the talents <strong>of</strong> Irving Berlin, Neil<br />
Simon, Spencer Tracy, Robert Preston, Gene Kelly, Bill Irwin,<br />
Groucho Marx, Bob Fosse, Hal Prince, and David Merrick — all<br />
in the body <strong>of</strong> a racehorse jockey. Cohan found major success<br />
as a composer, lyricist, playwright, actor (light and dramatic),<br />
singer, dancer, clown, comedian, choreographer, director, and<br />
producer.<br />
<strong>And</strong> flag-waver. Yet, commodified patriotism was merely<br />
an element in Cohan’s greater invention: American musical<br />
comedy. Half a century before Rodgers and Hammerstein got<br />
the credit, Cohan used songs and dances to tell integrated<br />
stories. His patriotism was sincere, but he also knew how to<br />
milk applause. “Many a bum show,” he once said, “was saved<br />
by the flag.”<br />
Leave it to Americans to forget the artistic innovation and<br />
keep the gimmick. Despite (or because <strong>of</strong>) tributes by James<br />
Cagney in Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942) and Joel Grey in the<br />
1968 Broadway play George M!, if Cohan is remembered at<br />
all, it is as a pr<strong>of</strong>essional flag-waver. In fact, Cohan’s flag-waving<br />
got him in trouble twice — both times prefiguring today’s<br />
climate <strong>of</strong> thug patriotism and constitutional flag-protection<br />
amendments.<br />
In 1905, the toast <strong>of</strong> Broadway was grand marshal <strong>of</strong><br />
a parade for Civil War veterans. Riding next to a graybeard<br />
who cradled a battle-torn flag in his lap, Cohan asked about<br />
it. After a few words about Gettysburg, the old soldier looked<br />
down and said, “She’s a grand old rag.” With ragtime all the<br />
rage, a song called “You’re a Grand Old Rag” seemed just<br />
88 above: Cohan and Hirano in Cohan’s flag-bedecked dressing room
the thing for Cohan’s next musical. Songsheets and Edison<br />
cylinder recordings were already on sale when the show<br />
(audaciously entitled “George Washington, Jr.”) opened to<br />
scandal. The Daughters <strong>of</strong> the American Revolution (kneejerk,<br />
even then), and blowhards like President Teddy Roosevelt,<br />
accused the star <strong>of</strong> desecration. In a rare retreat for the<br />
headstrong showman, Cohan recalled the sheets and<br />
cylinders (missing a few that collectors prize today) and<br />
rewrote the song into the piece <strong>of</strong> cheese most <strong>of</strong> us learned<br />
too well. The 1905 incident proved a rule that George M.<br />
coined: there’s no such thing as bad publicity. But the events<br />
<strong>of</strong> 1941 ended differently.<br />
At 63, Cohan was battling abdominal cancer. More than ever,<br />
he needed the help <strong>of</strong> his longtime valet, Michio “Mike” Hirano.<br />
A Japanese immigrant from Shizuoka Prefecture, he had been<br />
the showman’s gatekeeper and confidante for decades. When<br />
Hirano was busy, Cohan delighted in answering the telephone<br />
in a heavy Japanese accent, to screen his own calls and frustrate<br />
the press. George M. even wrote a part for Mike in a<br />
1936 Broadway play. Hirano had only one line, but it stopped<br />
the show nightly by breaking Cohan into fits <strong>of</strong> laughter. By<br />
1941, Hirano enjoyed minor Broadway celebrity as the star’s<br />
ever-present sidekick, backstage and at hangouts like the Oak<br />
Room at the Plaza (where a bronze plaque still marks Cohan’s<br />
secluded corner table).<br />
Soon after Pearl Harbor, Hirano’s visibility caught him in<br />
the backlash against Nisei and Issei: immigrants and citizens<br />
<strong>of</strong> Japanese heritage. Intelligence agents pronounced both<br />
groups harmless, and not one case <strong>of</strong> espionage ever stuck.<br />
Yet, as Greg Robinson relates in his new book, By Order <strong>of</strong><br />
the President, Franklin D. Roosevelt imprisoned more than<br />
110,000 Japanese-Americans during the war, in what a classic<br />
government euphemism termed “internment camps.”<br />
Cohan tried to rescue Mike. On 18 December 1941, he<br />
sent a long, urgent telegram to Attorney General Francis<br />
Biddle, writing “I will personally vouch for Mike Hirano.” But<br />
this was one string the ailing showman could not pull, despite<br />
renewed fame. The war brought his music back in style, after<br />
its eclipse by that <strong>of</strong> Cole Porter and the Gershwins. Franklin<br />
D. Roosevelt presented him with a Congressional Gold Medal<br />
in a White House meeting that framed James Cagney’s cinematic<br />
flashbacks in Yankee Doodle Dandy. Of course, the film<br />
did not portray Michio Hirano, not even for one line. Onscreen<br />
and in life, Hirano simply vanished. Some said he went into the<br />
camps; others, that he escaped to freedom, <strong>of</strong> a sort, in the<br />
sweatshops <strong>of</strong> wartime New York.<br />
The nation’s preeminent patriot died in November 1942.<br />
He lived long enough to watch his life in the movies and to see<br />
something more important. With the loss <strong>of</strong> Mike, Cohan finally<br />
made the connection between jingoism and prejudice. “He felt<br />
very bad about that,” his son George M. Cohan, Jr., told me in a<br />
1988 interview. Never one for self-criticism, the old flag-waver<br />
saw his own hand in Mike’s fate.<br />
The Cohan children had grown up with Hirano and looked for<br />
him after the war, but in vain. They hoped he would show up<br />
when a statue <strong>of</strong> George M. was dedicated on Times Square in<br />
1959, but he did not. As late as the 1970s, reported sightings<br />
had Mike selling oriental kitsch in Chelsea or upholstering furniture<br />
on the Upper West Side.<br />
Cohan’s star still rises during wartime and on his birthday,<br />
the Fourth <strong>of</strong> July, before burning out as quickly as a dimestore<br />
sparkler. At less fervent moments, were it not for dinner<br />
theaters and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, nobody would<br />
remember Cohan at all.<br />
<strong>And</strong> <strong>of</strong> course, nobody does remember Michio Hirano. I<br />
make an effort to think <strong>of</strong> him in parking lots and at tollgates,<br />
when I see a shredded, sooty flag dangling from a gas-guzzling<br />
Leviathan. <strong>And</strong> I can’t help but think <strong>of</strong> Mike when today’s<br />
Attorney General or some other song-and-dance man uses<br />
September 11 to defend ethnic pr<strong>of</strong>iling, arbitrary detentions,<br />
and invasions <strong>of</strong> privacy. But I also think <strong>of</strong> Cohan and wish<br />
that he had never rewritten the song we all learned in school:<br />
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot, keep your eye on that<br />
grand old rag!”<br />
A recording <strong>of</strong> “you’re a grand old rag” is available on the Cd accompanying this <strong>issue</strong>.
The War Of The flea<br />
marVin doyle<br />
For the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life.<br />
It is clear to me exactly when it ended. I can fix the day, the<br />
setting—a windblown vacant lot in the San Gabriel Valley, with<br />
a phone booth and a streetlight. The ultraviolet sizzle <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Los Angeles sky at dusk is like nothing else. Three <strong>of</strong> us sat<br />
in the car watching while our comrade, Alice, talked on the<br />
phone, standing in a pool <strong>of</strong> light as it got dark around her.<br />
We were quiet; everyone’s wheels were spinning.<br />
Our little clandestine cell had been hunting in the Los<br />
Angeles – San Diego corridor for more than a year, looking for<br />
a chink in the armor <strong>of</strong> the military-industrial complex, a gap<br />
in the defenses <strong>of</strong> the war machine big enough to permit<br />
delivery <strong>of</strong> one <strong>of</strong> our group’s patented surprise packages. It<br />
was early in 1973. Richard Nixon, an apparent sociopath, had<br />
won a second term in the White House with false promises<br />
<strong>of</strong> peace in Vietnam, while high-altitude bombings <strong>of</strong> civilian<br />
populations continued across Indochina. Legal remonstrance<br />
had proved futile. The Holocaust was fresh in memory —<br />
never again! — and all-white police forces roamed the ghettos<br />
beating and shooting black suspects at will. We had learned<br />
in the civil rights movement the meaning <strong>of</strong> the categorical<br />
imperative: One does not stand idly by in the face <strong>of</strong> evil.<br />
The need to act gnawed at us, and that afternoon we found<br />
our opening.<br />
Southern California bristled with military installations<br />
and defense contractors, and there weren’t many that we had<br />
not sniffed around. But all the airfields and weapons contractors<br />
girded their domains with razor wire and motion sensors,<br />
and the longer we looked, the more helpless we felt. The best<br />
we had done was at Air America, the CIA’s notorious pirates-<br />
for-hire, who flew agents, mercenaries, weapons, and drugs<br />
in and out <strong>of</strong> illegal operation zones in Laos and Cambodia.<br />
One <strong>of</strong> our group, disguised as a nurse, had wandered through<br />
an open gate at their complex in Van Nuys and made it all the<br />
way into a hangar, where she saw crates <strong>of</strong> hardware stacked<br />
and marked for shipment to Thailand. But she had no cover, no<br />
excuse to be there, and had to scoot back out before she was<br />
noticed, without seeing any kind <strong>of</strong> hole or corner where a device<br />
could be lodged.<br />
That day, on the edge <strong>of</strong> the desert, we found a hole. On<br />
the outskirts <strong>of</strong> the last town in the valley — a patchy grid <strong>of</strong><br />
scattered, weather-beaten ranch homes and trailers amid the<br />
cactus and yucca — lay a little backwater airfield, unfenced,<br />
with a squadron <strong>of</strong> B-52s parked on the tarmac. We’d seen<br />
these planes up close at military air shows, built low to the<br />
ground with big openings around the wheel-wells where the<br />
wings joined the fuselage. A small bomb planted there — ten<br />
sticks <strong>of</strong> dynamite with a pocket-watch fuse — would cripple<br />
the plane, and destroy it completely if its fuel tanks detonated.<br />
As we drove incredulously past the disused lanes around the<br />
field’s edge, it was easy to picture an approach on bicycles,<br />
with backpacks, posing as desert campers. Where the sage<br />
grass grew in tall clumps, a bike -hiker could easily fade into<br />
the twilight and wait for the wee hours.<br />
Alice had been talking too long. The phone booth now<br />
looked sinister under the streetlight, and I began to mis-
trust what was happening over the wire. It was a previously<br />
scheduled, phone-booth-to-phone-booth call to our leadership<br />
contact on the East Coast, an exchange <strong>of</strong> information<br />
on our activities and theirs, a quick update on strategy and<br />
analysis —routine communication that is the daily bread <strong>of</strong> a<br />
serious political organization. After our breakthrough, we had<br />
approached the contact exultantly, eager to share the news<br />
and fully expecting the East Coast to be as joyous over the<br />
discovery as we were.<br />
To mount an action we needed to mobilize a considerable<br />
array <strong>of</strong> human and material resources, which required full support<br />
<strong>of</strong> leadership. How could they not say yes? Our organization<br />
existed to shock and repudiate the war effort, and what we<br />
viewed as the concomitant outrages <strong>of</strong> institutionalized racism<br />
at home. With pinprick attacks on symbolic targets, this underground<br />
organization had defined a new genre <strong>of</strong> mil-itant, but<br />
non-lethal, direct action — annealed by the trauma <strong>of</strong> a 1970<br />
bomb-building accident in New York City that killed three <strong>of</strong> its<br />
members. Regrouped and rededicated, the group waged a brash<br />
campaign <strong>of</strong> midnight attacks that held a mirror up to the pathological<br />
violence <strong>of</strong> the war, gave voice to the anger many others<br />
felt, and mocked the FBI’s inability to catch us. Destroying two<br />
heavy bombers would drive our message home as never before:<br />
No business-as-usual while the war goes on.<br />
Why was I so uneasy when the call went on so long? In<br />
our little collective, we <strong>of</strong>ten lost our way. Most <strong>of</strong> the group<br />
were fugitives who had been forced to cut <strong>of</strong>f contact with<br />
their families and friends. We had only carefully-rationed meetings<br />
with our allies in the above-ground antiwar movement. For<br />
safety’s sake, we lived deliberately sterilized lives, almost entirely<br />
dependent on each other for human warmth and stimulation.<br />
Sometimes the only way to practice our intense political convictions<br />
was by analyzing our own behavior, on the seductive<br />
theory that what is personal is political too. We could scarcely<br />
dare to admit that only in these rare, transcendent moments<br />
<strong>of</strong> action were we really living. Survival required ignoring the<br />
precariousness <strong>of</strong> our existence. But in unguarded moments,<br />
it inevitably impinged.<br />
Alice hung up the phone and slouched back across the<br />
crumbling pavement. She climbed in and we started <strong>of</strong>f toward<br />
the last <strong>of</strong> the light over the ocean. “They don’t want us to do it,”<br />
she said simply, and I realized with a sinking feeling that she was<br />
relieved. A silence... “Why? How can they think that?” I did not<br />
know how to say that I felt as if I was falling from a great height.<br />
“We’ve been criticized a lot in the East,” she went on. “People<br />
think just doing actions all the time is too macho. Sonia said<br />
we need to just chill out for a while. Besides, think how heavy it<br />
would be to do planes. It would be really bad heat. Really, really<br />
bad for everyone.”<br />
“It’s all we’ve been trying to do for the past year,” I said. But<br />
the others were silent. Eventually, we speculated that our collective<br />
was perhaps not trusted, not thought competent. Years later,<br />
I heard the theory that the leadership by this time was making<br />
plans to disband the organization, surface, and seek plea bargains<br />
on the relatively minor charges most <strong>of</strong> them faced from the<br />
wild street demonstrations <strong>of</strong> 1968 and 1969. A “heavy” action<br />
against a military target would screw up the chances for lenient<br />
deals. <strong>And</strong> playing in our own minds was dread <strong>of</strong> the<br />
91<br />
stress and toil that mobilizing for an action would entail.<br />
That night, the four <strong>of</strong> us ceased to function regularly as the<br />
fingers <strong>of</strong> one hand — as we had, up to that time, to a commendable<br />
extent. We rode silently home, disconnected, spinning away<br />
from each other into inner space. In the weeks that followed, we<br />
all did our best to pretend that nothing irrevocable had happened.<br />
But as time went by, we clung more and more to the abstractions<br />
<strong>of</strong> political ideology and increasingly lost sight <strong>of</strong> the slender,<br />
ineffable truth that had guided us and justified our extreme and<br />
rarefied way <strong>of</strong> life —that in the face <strong>of</strong> a great wrong, there is a<br />
duty to act. Enforced isolation and the enormous pressure <strong>of</strong> the<br />
odds finally tipped the balance <strong>of</strong> our existence too far inward.<br />
The once-fresh hypothesis that our example would inspire a<br />
spontaneous movement <strong>of</strong> the young and disaffected overgrew<br />
its natural limits; it became a doctrinaire theory <strong>of</strong> international<br />
class struggle in which revolutionary nationalist movements<br />
in the Third World replaced the industrial proletariat <strong>of</strong> Marx’s<br />
vision as the vanguard. Study groups were formed. Work began<br />
on a manifesto explaining “our class stand.” Organizing networks<br />
to distribute clandestinely produced political tracts became our<br />
de facto strategy for helping to build a political movement that<br />
would support a revolution led by black and Third World insurgents.<br />
But while we dug in, the world moved on. Middle America<br />
was turning against the war. The rafters were beginning to rattle<br />
with the beginnings <strong>of</strong> an extraordinary transformation in the<br />
lives <strong>of</strong> women. <strong>And</strong> by mid -1973, the Senate Watergate hearings<br />
had cracked open the putrid core <strong>of</strong> the Republican government<br />
right before our eyes. The fucker was going down!<br />
The victory was as much ours as anyone’s. Others had<br />
marched and thrown their medals on the White House lawn.<br />
We had created a theater <strong>of</strong> the real, blown up the royal privy,<br />
and made good on our promise that there would be no peace<br />
at home while the slaughter went on. It was time to fold up our<br />
tents and melt into the night. But we did not get it. Instead <strong>of</strong><br />
recognizing the war <strong>of</strong> the flea for what it was— an artful game<br />
<strong>of</strong> witness and confrontation—we fell for the delusion that<br />
revolutionary change was at hand. A sclerotic, small-group<br />
orthodoxy set in, built on fixed and unspoken absolutes. Blacks<br />
had to lead; original sin clung ineluctably to the white race.<br />
Feminism had to be ultra, fueling the compulsion to segregate<br />
humanity into orders <strong>of</strong> political purity. Succumbing to<br />
the acquired habit <strong>of</strong> blocking out heterodoxical information,<br />
we developed a tin ear for the dialectics <strong>of</strong> real life. Among<br />
the many sins we were accused <strong>of</strong>, the only one that counted<br />
was that we had become cognitively impaired. Our muddle-<br />
headedness helped to inflict on the next generation a legacy <strong>of</strong><br />
arid political correctness that hurt its chances <strong>of</strong> reaching higher<br />
ground.<br />
That night in the San Gabriel Valley was the beginning <strong>of</strong><br />
the end. But most <strong>of</strong> us did not realize we were through until a<br />
long time after it happened. Some may not know it yet.<br />
Further reading:<br />
Bill Ayers, Fugitive Days (Boston: Beacon press, 2001)<br />
Cathy Wilkerson, review <strong>of</strong> Fugitive Days, Z Magazine, december, 2001<br />
hal Jacobs, Weatherman (Berkeley: ramparts press, 1970)
The shOrT, sad life Of danny The draGOn<br />
dirK libeer<br />
Danny the Dragon, touted as the “monster with a heart <strong>of</strong> gold,”<br />
was one <strong>of</strong> the star attractions <strong>of</strong> Freedomland, which opened<br />
its doors in June 1960. Built at a cost <strong>of</strong> $33 million in the<br />
Bronx, Freedomland is considered one <strong>of</strong> the greatest failures<br />
in amusement park history. The size <strong>of</strong> Disneyland but shaped<br />
like the continental US, the theme park had areas corresponding<br />
to America’s geography and history. These included “Chicago,<br />
1871,” “San Francisco, 1906,” “The Old Southwest, 1890,” and<br />
“Little Old New York, 1850-1900.” A few days after opening, a<br />
stagecoach overturned, injuring ten people and garnering much<br />
bad press. But that was not the park’s most pressing problem.<br />
Word <strong>of</strong> mouth quickly spread that the half-finished Freedomland<br />
was boring. The “attractions” at Freedomland included a<br />
Pony Express rider who changed horses; firemen who put out<br />
one building <strong>of</strong> the Great Chicago Fire; a “futuristic moving sidewalk”<br />
which was little more than a horizontal escalator across a<br />
small lake; a mule-driven merry-go-round; and a mysterious tunnel<br />
from San Francisco to the old Southwest.<br />
Having lost $5 million dollars a year for three years, the<br />
desperate management tried to salvage the situation by<br />
installing “thrill” rides, but it was too late. Freedomland filed<br />
for bankruptcy on September 15, 1964. The site is now home to<br />
Co- op City.<br />
Danny the Dragon was bought by the Great Escape in Lake<br />
George, New York, where he was repainted and put to use. At<br />
the end <strong>of</strong> 1996, Danny was finally taken out <strong>of</strong> service and<br />
currently sits by his lonely self on the back road in the amusement<br />
park’s maintenance area.<br />
Cabinet wishes to thank rob Friedman for his assistance. his website at http://ourworld.<br />
compuserve.com/homepages/robfriedman/<br />
is dedicated to the history <strong>of</strong> Freedomland. much thanks also to The Journal <strong>of</strong> Ride Theory,<br />
whose “Bad ideas” <strong>issue</strong> was a valuable source for compiling the information above. JoRT is<br />
available by writing to Box 2044, portland, or 97208.<br />
above: Danny the Dragon as he appeared in a guidebook from ca. 1960. Courtesy<br />
Rob Friedman<br />
below: Danny the Dragon retired behind the maintenance yard at the Great Escape<br />
. Photo Lorraine Rock.<br />
previous page: Freedomland as illustrated in its guidebook, ca. 1960. Courtesy Rob<br />
Friedman
BeTTer luCK neXT Time<br />
GreGory Williams<br />
There’s nothing like the knowledge <strong>of</strong> one’s pending execution<br />
to inspire a need for comfort. As the 6th-century philosopher<br />
Boethius sat out his last days in a dungeon near Rome,<br />
accused by King Theodoric <strong>of</strong> high treason, he penned his<br />
Consolation <strong>of</strong> Philosophy, an imaginary discussion between<br />
the condemned man and Lady Philosophy. The ensuing<br />
debate pits the all-too-human sense <strong>of</strong> self-pity against the saving<br />
grace <strong>of</strong> rational thought, the only means <strong>of</strong> preventing a<br />
lapse into pointless sentimentality. As a Christian, Boethius<br />
did seek spiritual solace, but only ins<strong>of</strong>ar as it was reinforced<br />
by the practice <strong>of</strong> a clear-headed, rigorous assessment <strong>of</strong> his<br />
circumstances. A similar situation confronted Sir Thomas<br />
More, who wrote his Dialogue <strong>of</strong> Comfort in the Tower <strong>of</strong><br />
London while Henry VIII and his cronies deliberated over More’s<br />
demise, which happened in 1535 when he was beheaded. Like<br />
Boethius, he invented a conversation, this one between two Hungarian<br />
relatives (stand-ins for the threatened English Catholics)<br />
trying to come to terms with their likely deaths at the hands <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Turks. For More as for Boethius, a period <strong>of</strong> anxious anticipation<br />
and fear is made tolerable by the soothing words <strong>of</strong> an internal<br />
dialogue.<br />
The terms consolation, comfort, and condolence are<br />
<strong>of</strong>ten used interchangeably in such contexts, motivated, <strong>of</strong><br />
course, by the presence <strong>of</strong> death. Letters <strong>of</strong> condolence in<br />
particular have a long history, with records going back to the<br />
ancient Greeks. While on a trip in 90 AD, Plutarch famously<br />
consoled his wife upon learning <strong>of</strong> the death <strong>of</strong> their two-yearold<br />
child. He praises her dignified response to the tragedy:<br />
“It did not surprise me that you, who have never tricked yourself<br />
out for theaters or processions and have always believed that<br />
expense was useless in pleasures, should also have maintained<br />
the same simplicity and modesty in time <strong>of</strong> sorrow.” 1 Stoic acceptance<br />
<strong>of</strong> grief was certainly not the only option for the mourning<br />
relative, but it <strong>of</strong>fered a measure <strong>of</strong> dignity and acknowledged<br />
the fleeting nature <strong>of</strong> life with quiet resolve.<br />
A more recent phenomenon in the category <strong>of</strong> loss management<br />
is the consolation prize, <strong>of</strong>ten associated with casualties<br />
suffered in the sports arena. In the classical Greek games, prizes<br />
were awarded only to the single victors, who typically received the<br />
modest gift <strong>of</strong> an olive branch. They were also given all manner <strong>of</strong><br />
material rewards by the cities they represented, but the original<br />
goal was to establish everlasting fame on earth, the sure route to<br />
immortality. Defeat in the classical era was linked with a failure to<br />
live on in legend. Only with the rise <strong>of</strong> the modern Olympics, first<br />
held in Athens in 1896, did the practice <strong>of</strong> granting medals to second-<br />
and third-place finishers become established. Yet despite the<br />
modern effort to make all talented participants feel recognized as<br />
winners, there is still the sense that only absolute triumph will do.<br />
Perhaps the most indelible memory taken from Olympic games<br />
is the expressions <strong>of</strong> bitterness on the faces <strong>of</strong> the silver and<br />
bronze medalists. Though they have clearly accomplished<br />
a remarkable task, there can be nothing more depressing to<br />
an athlete than to hear a sports commentator say, “She gave<br />
it an excellent try, but it just wasn’t her night to take<br />
96 the gold!”<br />
Indeed, constant advances in camera technology have<br />
enabled television coverage <strong>of</strong> Olympic events to become<br />
increasingly invasive. The number <strong>of</strong> angles from which an athlete’s<br />
every facial expression and bodily contortion is recorded<br />
has raised spectator voyeurism to an uncomfortable level.<br />
When Sarah Hughes upset the pool <strong>of</strong> favorites in women’s<br />
figure skating at the 2002 Winter Olympics in Salt Lake<br />
City, viewers were able to closely observe the corners <strong>of</strong><br />
Michelle Kwan’s mouth for signs <strong>of</strong> twitching as she grudgingly<br />
accepted the bronze medal. Even well after the award<br />
ceremonies had ended, the network revisited the negative<br />
aspect <strong>of</strong> “the thrill <strong>of</strong> victory and the agony <strong>of</strong> defeat” (the classic<br />
motto <strong>of</strong> ABC’s Wide World <strong>of</strong> Sports) in such relentless<br />
fashion that any sense <strong>of</strong> sympathy with the competitors was<br />
lost. The whole experience gradually took on the air <strong>of</strong> a vast and<br />
highly public wallowing in Schadenfreude.<br />
The artists Måns Wrange and Tracey M<strong>of</strong>fatt take two different<br />
views <strong>of</strong> Olympic-scale downfall in their manipulation<br />
<strong>of</strong> photographic documentation. Wrange concentrates on the<br />
moment before the <strong>of</strong>ficial results are announced, just when the<br />
top two finishers from historic competitions pass through the ribbon.<br />
He highlights the instant <strong>of</strong> the photo-finish as the runnerup<br />
first becomes aware <strong>of</strong> the fact that it is all over. Out <strong>of</strong> the<br />
sixteen images from this section <strong>of</strong> Wrange’s Encyclopedia <strong>of</strong><br />
Failure, a mere thirteen seconds collectively separates all victors<br />
from the vanquished; “13 seconds from immortality” must feel<br />
like an eternity. Each <strong>of</strong> these temporal fragments brings to mind<br />
Roland Barthes’s equation <strong>of</strong> photography and death. The click<br />
<strong>of</strong> the shutter is a form <strong>of</strong> indirect violence, leaving the secondplace<br />
runner with a lifetime’s worth <strong>of</strong> pro<strong>of</strong> that victory is forever<br />
irretrievable.<br />
M<strong>of</strong>fatt, on the other hand, considers fourth place to be<br />
the ultimate form <strong>of</strong> disappointment. To get so close to a medal<br />
but to come up short can only be devastating. Like Wrange,<br />
she focuses on that decisive shudder <strong>of</strong> recognition as it is<br />
registered on the faces <strong>of</strong> athletes who will not be ascending<br />
the platform to receive even a conciliatory ribbon. As M<strong>of</strong>fatt<br />
stated in a press release for her “Fourths” series (2001), “Fourth<br />
means that you are almost good. Not the worst (which has<br />
its own perverted glamour) but almost a star.” Her project<br />
refers us back to the ancient Olympic desire for fama, that<br />
sure route to everlasting glory. M<strong>of</strong>fatt enacts a futile rescue<br />
operation in order to grant the non-medalists a brief reprieve<br />
from their historical obscurity. The effect, however, is to forcefully<br />
call attention to their misery, plainly visible on their<br />
highlighted faces.<br />
1 Sarah B. pomeroy, ed., Plutarch’s Advice to the Bride and groom and A Consolation to his<br />
Wife (new york and oxford: oxford university press, 1999), p. 60.<br />
previous page, top to bottom: Tracy M<strong>of</strong>fat, Fourth No. 18, Fourth No. 2, and Fourth<br />
No. 17, 2001. Courtesy Paul Morris Gallery<br />
opposite: Måns Wrange, Second Best (13 Seconds from Immortality), 1991
The disappOinTed and The Offended<br />
maGnus bärTås<br />
My ongoing work, The Disappointed and Offended, is based<br />
on reading Sweden’s evening newspapers on a daily basis and<br />
finding low-level stories <strong>of</strong> failure where someone has been<br />
<strong>of</strong>fended, hurt, snubbed, disappointed, or otherwise given<br />
cause to complain. I reproduce the newspaper’s photograph<br />
<strong>of</strong> the person using the simple technique, <strong>of</strong>ten used by<br />
children, <strong>of</strong> dripping molten wax on the image. When dry, the<br />
wax is carefully removed with an imprint <strong>of</strong> the face on it. The<br />
wax medallions are hung on long walls from pieces <strong>of</strong> thread<br />
embedded in the wax. A list <strong>of</strong> printed one-sentence texts<br />
nearby tell the stories behind the disappointed and <strong>of</strong>fended<br />
faces, thus making the work vascillate between empathy and<br />
malicious pleasure. Begun in 1994, the series now has more<br />
than 650 portraits.<br />
The work is evocative <strong>of</strong> a wailing wall — the fact that complaining<br />
and wailing, even when it concerns “trivial” ordinary<br />
problems, needs a public space. Maybe the most important<br />
part <strong>of</strong> the work is its story-telling — that each face contains<br />
a complete story that is condensed into the one sentence<br />
exhibited alongside the portraits. The texts are never directly<br />
correlated to the faces, and it is up to the viewer to imagine<br />
which face connects with which text. These stories from the<br />
newspapers are normally consumed in an ephemeral way.<br />
By using the candle wax technique, it is possible to freeze<br />
this stream <strong>of</strong> complaints. In that sense the work has a documentary<br />
aspect (an alternative title could be Disappointment<br />
in Sweden from 1994 until Today). Christian Boltanski once<br />
made an artwork consisting <strong>of</strong> portraits <strong>of</strong> dead Swiss citizens.<br />
Boltanski claimed that these people, living in one <strong>of</strong> the safest<br />
countries in the world, had had no reason to die. The Swedes,<br />
living in one <strong>of</strong> the wealthiest countries in the world, have<br />
no reason to complain, and yet they do.<br />
98
100
the reserve <strong>of</strong>ficer who does not get to keep his <strong>of</strong>ficial gun<br />
the man who is considered too fat for his job as a bus driver<br />
the man whose dog got an electric shock when it sniffed a lamp post<br />
the smoker who had his pay cut for the six minutes it took him to smoke a cigarette<br />
the fireman who went to a call on his bicycle, arrived late, and got dismissed<br />
the man with a whiplash injury who thinks that the doctors are not taking him seriously<br />
the girl whose five rabbits were killed by dogs<br />
the ice hockey coach who thought he would be getting a Christmas present when he was called to the clubhouse but instead got<br />
the sack<br />
the former nazi who is not believed when he says he has left the nazi movement<br />
the singer who had 1300 calls to his mobile telephone from the same woman<br />
the woman who is threatened with eviction because for many years she has been feeding birds on her balcony<br />
the woman who worked for a sect-like company in which those who succeeded were praised ecstatically and those who failed were<br />
humiliated<br />
the boy who was not allowed to be in the class photo because he was wearing a T-shirt that said “Made <strong>of</strong> Swedish Steel”<br />
the woman who lost 50 kilos but who thinks she lost her identity because <strong>of</strong> the new body<br />
the artist who thinks that the graphic arts have lost their legitimate status<br />
the two parents whose child was forced to change schools due to magnetic fields<br />
the woman who is called a “psycho” by an insurance company and is refused further compensation<br />
the lottery saleswoman who wonders why the disabled have to move to make room for the election stands<br />
the boy who got stuck against the gratings <strong>of</strong> the water circulation system in an adventure swimming pool<br />
the woman who was cheated by her friends after winning a prize in the lottery<br />
the headmaster who was beaten up by the father <strong>of</strong> one <strong>of</strong> the students<br />
the man who was robbed by a person from the domestic help service<br />
the man whose dead mother’s diaries have been destroyed by mistake<br />
the wrestler who was excluded from his club when he supported a wrestler in a rival team<br />
the tuberculosis sufferer who was sent home from the hospital with aspirin and cough medicine<br />
the woman who was advised to drink a lot <strong>of</strong> water during a yoga course whereupon she drank seven liters and lost consciousness<br />
the man who has been fooled by an impostor who called himself “a special messenger <strong>of</strong> the Vatican”<br />
the woman who was in the elevator going to her boyfriend’s apartment when the elevator fell three meters and she became so<br />
scared that she forgot to take her pill and became pregnant<br />
the boy who found live caterpillars in a mint chocolate<br />
the girl who was knocked down by a car and is now stalked by the car driver who says that “their lives have been joined”<br />
the man who for the past nine years has had the hiccups when awake and has tried everything imaginable to get rid <strong>of</strong> his hiccups<br />
the politician who claims that he has been frozen out by his colleagues<br />
the two young socialists who discovered that the international conference was overflowing with drugs<br />
the woman who waited eleven months for her gallstone operation<br />
the woman who discovered that Maryland Cookies can be fatal for people with nut allergy<br />
the couple who are afraid <strong>of</strong> their neighbor<br />
the woman who was supposed to fly to a bridal shower and whose airplane crashed in the water<br />
the rock musician who was swindled by his manager<br />
the two female taxi drivers who can’t stand the customers’ constant pesterings any longer<br />
the tenant who lives in a house damaged by underground construction blasts<br />
the chairman <strong>of</strong> a golf club who discovered that 3,000 golf balls had been stolen from the clubhouse<br />
the man who has received double invoices after buying shirts with his credit card<br />
the soccer fan who got a bottle in his head while sitting in the stands<br />
the man who accidentally shot himself in the leg and had to wait one and a half hours because there was only one ambulance in the<br />
district<br />
the family who has been evicted because the neighbors are tired <strong>of</strong> their children playing soccer in the yard<br />
the dismissed director accused <strong>of</strong> sexual harassment and tax fraud who claims he is the victim <strong>of</strong> a conspiracy<br />
the woman who was sacked by her own husband<br />
the man who was forced to move because the rent was too much<br />
the detective superintendent who was accused <strong>of</strong> ignoring information from a fortuneteller<br />
the woman who discovered bits <strong>of</strong> glass in her minced meat<br />
the man who feels swindled by the national lottery’s new rules<br />
the owner <strong>of</strong> a florist shop who wasn’t given enough time to come up with a quote for a church’s Interflora Flower Relay<br />
the tenant who has to pay twice as much rent as his neighbor with an identical apartment<br />
the car mechanic who is three centimeters too short to get a job with SAAB<br />
101<br />
the book publisher who says he has wasted “millions on meaningless books for people who can’t understand them”
The invenTiOn Of failure: an inTervieW<br />
WiTh sCOTT a. sandaGe<br />
sina naJafi & daVid serlin<br />
Failure, to paraphrase Wordsworth, is too much with us; every<br />
day seems to add yet another tale <strong>of</strong> bankruptcy, romantic loss,<br />
or personal tragedy, suggesting that failure, as a concept, is a<br />
fundamental part <strong>of</strong> what used to be called the human experience.<br />
But in his forthcoming book Forgotten Men: Failure in<br />
American Culture, Scott A. Sandage, a pr<strong>of</strong>essor <strong>of</strong> history at<br />
Carnegie Mellon University, argues that the notion <strong>of</strong> failure<br />
as something that defines one’s identity is a relatively recent<br />
invention with its roots in the entrepreneurial capitalism <strong>of</strong> 19thcentury<br />
America.<br />
Can you start by telling us the scope <strong>of</strong> your book?<br />
The book is a cultural history <strong>of</strong> the idea <strong>of</strong> failure in American<br />
life from roughly Benjamin Franklin to Bob Dylan. They establish<br />
the dates <strong>of</strong> the book, but it is not really about famous<br />
people or the early setbacks <strong>of</strong> people who eventually succeeded.<br />
It is not about Thomas Edison or Ulysses S. Grant failing<br />
and later becoming successful. It is a book about ordinary<br />
people who throughout American history fell short <strong>of</strong> whatever<br />
the prevailing mark was in the period in which they lived.<br />
One <strong>of</strong> the problems I had was answering the question,<br />
“Why had nobody written a book about failure before?”, at least<br />
not a book about real people who failed, rather than what sermons<br />
or short stories or novels or advice manuals say about<br />
failure. There had been an assumption that there is no source<br />
material, that, by definition, someone who failed miserably<br />
throughout his life would not have left a paper trail. This turned<br />
out to be a false assumption. One <strong>of</strong> the reasons is that failure<br />
has been such a ubiquitous part <strong>of</strong> the American experience<br />
that archives are full <strong>of</strong> people who have failed. For example,<br />
one <strong>of</strong> the best sources I have found was a cache <strong>of</strong> about 5,000<br />
letters that ordinary people wrote to John D. Rockefeller, Sr.,<br />
starting in the 1870s, saying “Dear rich and famous man, here<br />
is my long, sad story. Please help me by (a) giving me a job (b)<br />
sending me some money (c) giving me advice on how to succeed,<br />
etc.”<br />
Does the quantity <strong>of</strong> material remain consistent throughout<br />
the period that you analyze?<br />
Yes and no. Yes, because I have been able to find enough information<br />
throughout the period. No, because part <strong>of</strong> the analysis<br />
in the book is the role that has been played by evolving narrative<br />
genres in describing the identity <strong>of</strong> failure. For example, prior to<br />
1820 you didn’t have things like credit reports, police reports,<br />
school grades, personnel files, constituent mail, letters to millionaires,<br />
and so on. All <strong>of</strong> these are narrative genres that are<br />
invented at particular points in our history and each <strong>of</strong> them<br />
contributes something new to the ability <strong>of</strong> a person to describe<br />
his or her own identity.<br />
A phrase that occurs repeatedly throughout the essays<br />
and novels <strong>of</strong> an author like Mark Twain is “the average man.”<br />
There is a scene in Huckleberry Finn where Twain says “the<br />
average man is a coward.” The idea <strong>of</strong> the average man can’t<br />
exist until the science <strong>of</strong> statistics becomes sufficiently wellknown<br />
to a cross-section <strong>of</strong> the general public. The science <strong>of</strong>
statistics dates back to the 1830s and 1840s, but it is the advent<br />
<strong>of</strong> sociology in the late 19th century — as well as ideas like credit<br />
reporting and movements like Social Darwinism-that represent<br />
the beginning <strong>of</strong> systems being invented to meet perceived<br />
needs to rank and classify people.<br />
Credit reporting, for instance, is something that figures<br />
largely in the book. You know how you get <strong>of</strong>fers in the mail<br />
to show you your credit report? Consumers get rated by TRW,<br />
and businesses by Dun & Bradstreet and other companies. This<br />
all starts in 1841, with a New York City business called the<br />
Mercantile Agency, which later turns into Dun & Bradstreet.<br />
The country is at that time still reeling from one <strong>of</strong> the first<br />
national economic crises — the Panic <strong>of</strong> 1837 — and the Mercantile<br />
Agency <strong>of</strong>fers a service to meet a need that did not previously<br />
exist. It helps you decide who is trustworthy in a situation<br />
in which you are now doing business with people you will never<br />
meet. The telegraph, the railroad, the steamboat — all these<br />
developments make it possible to transact business across<br />
great distances, and so the handshake and looking a man<br />
directly in the eyes and sizing him up is no longer possible.<br />
The Agency comes into existence to meet the need to<br />
systemize trust. But for the first 40 or 50 years, credit ratings<br />
are largely verbal. They are little stories. Only gradually do<br />
they begin to develop numerical, encrypted, or coded rating<br />
systems. So, if I am a silk wholesaler in New York City and I<br />
receive an order for five bolts <strong>of</strong> silk from a general storekeeper<br />
in Ohio, I want to know if he’s good for the money. I would go to<br />
the Mercantile Agency and they would have on file a little story<br />
about this person that had been provided by a covert operative<br />
in that person’s town.<br />
The service had recruited what the founders called “local<br />
correspondents” in just about any location in the country where<br />
people were doing business across distances. The local correspondent<br />
would send in updated reports every six months<br />
about businessmen in that town. These reports would be things<br />
like, “He’s a thriving businessman but the rumor in town is that<br />
his wife is about to divorce him and that’s going to cost him a<br />
lot <strong>of</strong> money, bring shame to his name, and it is inevitable that<br />
he will fail.”<br />
That is one <strong>of</strong> the major new forms <strong>of</strong> narrative that comes<br />
up in the 19th century because it is a way <strong>of</strong> keeping track <strong>of</strong><br />
your career over a long term. The idea <strong>of</strong> moving from town<br />
to town when you fail and leaving your past behind becomes<br />
much more difficult when you have anonymous spies keeping<br />
track <strong>of</strong> you.<br />
Much <strong>of</strong> the language that people use today to describe<br />
themselves or others as a failure derives from the language<br />
<strong>of</strong> business in general, and the language <strong>of</strong> credit reporting in<br />
particular. I think that is part <strong>of</strong> the puzzle <strong>of</strong> failure in America.<br />
Why have we as a <strong>culture</strong> embraced modes <strong>of</strong> identity where<br />
we measure our souls using business models? For example, the<br />
term “A Number 1” used to describe a person comes from credit<br />
rating. It means that this person’s financial assets, A, and moral<br />
character, 1, qualify him for the best rate <strong>of</strong> interest when he<br />
borrows money. Or if you call somebody second-rate or thirdrate,<br />
that’s another way <strong>of</strong> describing what type <strong>of</strong> credit rating<br />
he has. If he’s first-rate, that is because he gets the first rate <strong>of</strong><br />
credit, etc. If you’ve ever heard someone called “<strong>of</strong> no<br />
103<br />
account,” or “good for nothing,” these are from the lan-<br />
guage <strong>of</strong> credit rating. Is he good for a thousand dollars to borrow<br />
or good for nothing? But in our <strong>culture</strong>, the phrase “good for<br />
nothing” has moved from a very specific, purportedly objective<br />
financial and numerical assessment to something that is much<br />
more encompassing in terms <strong>of</strong> what it says about a person’s<br />
identity.<br />
How do ordinary people evaluate failure before the creation <strong>of</strong><br />
these standards <strong>of</strong> failure?<br />
In debate with public ways <strong>of</strong> measuring failure. My goal in a<br />
lot <strong>of</strong> the cases is to get as many competing narratives about<br />
the same person as I can find. I will have the credit report which<br />
is narrative, a diary if I can find one, a letter from that person’s<br />
wife or relative describing the person. There are various ways<br />
in which these historically specific narratives I mention start to<br />
multiply in the 19th century so that your identity is a competition<br />
amongst the various people who claim the right to describe<br />
you. Your identity is in some way a distillation <strong>of</strong> these narratives,<br />
and at various times one may win out. These narratives<br />
that we use to construct our identity come increasingly with<br />
rewards and punishments. If you are the sort <strong>of</strong> person who can<br />
tell this type <strong>of</strong> story about your life, you get this reward. If you<br />
are the sort <strong>of</strong> person who can tell another story, you get that<br />
punishment. Your life story can help or hurt you.<br />
So in terms <strong>of</strong> how ordinary people respond, they become<br />
aware <strong>of</strong> the fact they are not the only person telling their story.<br />
A lot <strong>of</strong> times they contest them. The major part <strong>of</strong> what I do<br />
when I deal with the credit reporting is to look at libel cases<br />
filed by people who felt that they had been maligned by various<br />
credit agencies, which had reported that they were failures or<br />
were going to become failures.<br />
Credit rating was invented by a man named Lewis Tappan,<br />
who was also an abolitionist centrally involved in the Amistad<br />
case. Tappan was a silk wholesaler with his brother in New York<br />
City. They went bankrupt spectacularly in the Panic <strong>of</strong> 1837, and<br />
Lewis decided to get out <strong>of</strong> that business and do something<br />
else. It is ironic that an abolitionist created a new way <strong>of</strong> putting<br />
a price on a human head.<br />
The two major drivers <strong>of</strong> changing American attitudes<br />
toward failure in the long term have been, obviously, the growth<br />
<strong>of</strong> capitalism and, much less obviously, the emancipation <strong>of</strong><br />
slaves. Prior to the Civil War, there were two categories <strong>of</strong> identity<br />
in American life: slaves and free people. After the Civil War,<br />
there are two categories <strong>of</strong> identity in American life: successes<br />
and failures. Obviously success and failure is much more <strong>of</strong> a<br />
continuum than slave or free. On the other hand, because it is<br />
a continuum and explained within the idea <strong>of</strong> meritocracy, it is<br />
much easier to blame or to make moral judgments about the<br />
deficiencies <strong>of</strong> someone who fails than it was to blame someone<br />
for being a slave.<br />
What did failure mean before these changes?<br />
Basically nothing, because the concept <strong>of</strong> failure as something<br />
that defines your whole identity is a new thing. In terms<br />
<strong>of</strong> language, it doesn’t exist at all before the Civil War: you will<br />
not find a sentence like “I feel like a failure” in American writing<br />
before 1860. <strong>And</strong> it is, strangely enough, the usual literary<br />
suspects who recognize the metaphoric value <strong>of</strong> business failure<br />
and begin to use it in ways that describe what the <strong>culture</strong> is
doing with that metaphor, meaning that they begin to use it as a<br />
metaphor for personal failure — not because they agree with the<br />
metaphor but because they have recognized that the <strong>culture</strong> is<br />
moving toward taking business success or failure as being the<br />
thing that defines your soul. I’m thinking <strong>of</strong> people like Thoreau<br />
and Whitman, who writes the poem “To Those Who’ve Fail’d” in<br />
Leaves <strong>of</strong> Grass.<br />
So American literature reflects these changes?<br />
Absolutely. It isn’t something that I deal with directly but there<br />
are millions <strong>of</strong> short stories and novels in the pre-Civil War period<br />
that are beginning to deal with the fact <strong>of</strong> economic instability<br />
and how that effects individuals and families in their identities.<br />
<strong>And</strong> after the Civil War, you get much more <strong>of</strong> the stereotypical<br />
Horatio Alger rags-to-riches stories.<br />
The first major American financial crisis was the Panic<br />
<strong>of</strong> 1819 and that was the first event that showed ordinary<br />
people in diverse geographic areas that some incomprehensible<br />
thing that happened on Wall Street could make a major<br />
change in their life. Now, <strong>of</strong> course, there had been hard times<br />
before that, but generally in relation to wars, crop failures,<br />
droughts, and other phenomena that were visible and could<br />
be understood. But in 1819 when the economy went belly up,<br />
it was invisible and incomprehensible. It was a sea change for<br />
Americans to begin to construct their identities in a society that<br />
was secularizing, on the one hand, and experiencing cyclical<br />
booms and busts that were <strong>of</strong> uncertain origin, on the other.<br />
So about 1820, you begin to get that kind <strong>of</strong> literature about<br />
bankruptcy and failure. But there’s a 180-degree shift in the way<br />
the word failure is used: from 1820 through the Civil War, or<br />
thereabouts, failure was used to describe people who met economic<br />
catastrophe, but the construction was, “I made a failure,”<br />
rather than, “I am a failure,” It was an event that could be discreet,<br />
without touching upon one’s moral and existential being.<br />
So the first meaning <strong>of</strong> failure before the Civil War is bankruptcy.<br />
If you say, “He made a failure,” it means he’s a bankrupt<br />
businessman and, more specifically, it means somebody was<br />
too ambitious. He ran his credit up too far, he tried to expand<br />
their business too quickly, or he moved into a sideline business<br />
that was not the thing he knew the most about. If you ask an<br />
ordinary American today to describe a person who is a failure,<br />
they would say, “An underachiever who sort <strong>of</strong> ambles through<br />
life without a real plan and is stagnant.” <strong>And</strong> that’s a 180-degree<br />
shift from failure as a person who is an over-reacher and too<br />
ambitious to someone who is an underachiever, not ambitious<br />
enough.<br />
<strong>And</strong> is the average person safe from this new rhetoric <strong>of</strong> failure?<br />
No. People think <strong>of</strong> “averageness” as a form <strong>of</strong> failure. By the<br />
definition <strong>of</strong> failure as being an under-achiever, you can live<br />
a relatively secure and happy life and still be a failure. The<br />
poster child for this is Willy Loman in Death <strong>of</strong> a Salesman. If<br />
you took out a piece <strong>of</strong> paper and did a balance sheet <strong>of</strong> what<br />
Willy Loman has achieved in our meritocractic society, it tabulates<br />
as follows: He owns a home; he owns an automobile; he<br />
has modern appliances in his house; he has kept the same job<br />
for 35 years, including during the Depression; he has a wife;<br />
104<br />
he has two handsome, strapping sons, one <strong>of</strong> whom<br />
is a football star and got a scholarship to college. You tell me.<br />
How is that failure? That is the American Dream. He has done<br />
everything he’s supposed to do and acquired everything that<br />
he’s supposed to acquire. <strong>And</strong> yet everybody — his wife, his children,<br />
his neighbor, his employer — knows that he’s a failure, not<br />
because he went bankrupt in business or because he was too<br />
ambitious, but because he’s stagnant and because there is a<br />
deficiency in his complete identity.<br />
One <strong>of</strong> the questions I’ve brought to this book and that I<br />
think I have been least able to answer is, “Why do Americans<br />
still believe this notion <strong>of</strong> success and failure?” The American<br />
equation is that if you work hard, you will succeed. Well, we all<br />
know <strong>of</strong> people who succeed who didn’t work hard and we all<br />
know <strong>of</strong> people who worked very hard and don’t succeed. So,<br />
the equation is honored in the breach and it works rarely if at<br />
all, and yet we conduct our entire lives based on an unshakable<br />
faith that it really works. In the 1930s, there was a sociologist<br />
named William Miller who studied captains <strong>of</strong> industry and<br />
the statistic he produced was that <strong>of</strong> major American corporate<br />
CEOs, something like 3% came from what might loosely<br />
be called humble origins. The idea that people grow up in<br />
Spokane and make computers in their garages and become<br />
the richest man on earth is statistically invalid. It doesn’t happen<br />
<strong>of</strong>ten, but it is a really difficult myth for Americans to<br />
let go <strong>of</strong> and that continues to puzzle me. Letting go <strong>of</strong> it would<br />
mean letting go <strong>of</strong> the idea that you structure your soul based<br />
on entrepreneurial models and that regardless <strong>of</strong> what life<br />
calling you pursue, whether you’re a journalist or college pr<strong>of</strong>essor<br />
or a businessman or a musician, you should always be<br />
investing in yourself, trying to reap pr<strong>of</strong>its, maximize potential<br />
– all <strong>of</strong> these business metaphors that we use to describe<br />
our personalities.<br />
Is the rise <strong>of</strong> self-help literature in the mid- to late-19th century<br />
tied to this? Or is that different, because much <strong>of</strong> that material<br />
is not about getting ahead financially but about being a better<br />
person, being more morally upright.<br />
The rags-to-riches novels are not about rags to riches. They’re<br />
usually about luck and pluck and perseverance and striving. So<br />
yes, there is a relationship to that and there also is a religious<br />
element to it. The 19th century is the century <strong>of</strong> secularization<br />
in America. It opens as a century in which the church and the<br />
local religious community are the primary community that people<br />
identify with, and it ends after urbanization and geographic<br />
mobility in a very different kind <strong>of</strong> country. There is an element<br />
<strong>of</strong> economic theory that uses Freud and Norman O. Brown, that<br />
looks at economics as a different form <strong>of</strong> coming to terms with<br />
death, <strong>of</strong> cheating death, if you will. Religion is one way <strong>of</strong> coming<br />
to terms with death and reassuring yourself that something<br />
good will happen when it finally does occur, and economics is<br />
another way. There is a real element in which when Americans<br />
talk about success and failure, they’re not only talking about<br />
freedom and slavery but also talking about life and death. Failure<br />
is a form <strong>of</strong> death. If you think about your life as a story, most<br />
<strong>of</strong> us assemble and carry our lives around with us by constantly<br />
revising the story that we understand ourselves through. Failure<br />
is when the story stops. Failure is not merely a cataclysm that<br />
adds to the plot <strong>of</strong> your life story but is something that stops your<br />
life cold because you lose a sense <strong>of</strong> your future.
It reminds me <strong>of</strong> Fitzgerald’s claim that there are no second<br />
acts in American lives.<br />
One <strong>of</strong> the myths I wanted to debunk was that failure is a bump<br />
on the road to success, that there is going to be a second act.<br />
<strong>And</strong> I looked in the historical record for people who did not<br />
rebound. That is one <strong>of</strong> the reasons why I’m interested in the<br />
way in which failure means the story has stopped. What surprised<br />
me most in writing this book is how <strong>of</strong>ten the theme <strong>of</strong><br />
death cropped up. Ultimately I decided to begin and end the<br />
book with two notable funerals: the book opens at the funeral <strong>of</strong><br />
Henry David Thoreau in May 1862 where his best friend Ralph<br />
Waldo Emerson shocked some people in the church by giving<br />
a eulogy that pronounced Henry a failure, ins<strong>of</strong>ar as he did<br />
not live up to his potential. Emerson, who had been Thoreau’s<br />
pr<strong>of</strong>essor at Harvard, said that Thoreau could have been one<br />
<strong>of</strong> the great men <strong>of</strong> his time — a scientist, a general, or a politician<br />
— but instead, in Emerson’s disappointed words, “he was<br />
the captain <strong>of</strong> a huckleberry party.” That meant he was a failure<br />
because he had these abilities that he did not use in the most<br />
traditional, pr<strong>of</strong>it-driven, entrepreneurial sense. Thoreau was<br />
happier picking berries.<br />
The end <strong>of</strong> the book is the funeral <strong>of</strong> Willy Loman, where<br />
the play ends with the requiem where people stand around and<br />
ask “Did Willy have the right dream or the wrong dream?” So<br />
Thoreau is the failure <strong>of</strong> wasted potential in Emerson’s eyes, and<br />
Loman is the failure <strong>of</strong> mediocrity who fails by virtue <strong>of</strong> being<br />
average. That’s why my students are scandalized if I give them<br />
a “C”: it means they are merely average. I think there is a line in<br />
the film American Beauty about how horrible it would be to be<br />
merely ordinary. <strong>And</strong> Thoreau represented for many Americans<br />
a different way — that you can choose not to organize your soul<br />
entrepreneurially and still achieve great things.<br />
Are there other arenas that play a part in defining our notions<br />
<strong>of</strong> failure?<br />
Yes, one <strong>of</strong> the obvious ones is athletics and sports. There are<br />
winners and losers not just on Wall Street but also in every elementary<br />
school gym class. There is also sexuality, and so on.<br />
Do women play a role in 19th-century business and in your<br />
book?<br />
By and large, there were women in the credit reports. Women<br />
were much more entrepreneurial than we think they were, but<br />
from the first part <strong>of</strong> the 19th-century maybe up until the 1870s,<br />
failure is very clearly a discourse that describes things that happen<br />
to men, specifically to white middle-class men because<br />
those are people on whom expectations are placed. You can’t<br />
fail unless someone expects you to succeed. Women, African-<br />
Americans, and working class men are not expected to improve<br />
or succeed. But by the end <strong>of</strong> the 19th century, you begin to see<br />
newspaper articles and discussions in other ways <strong>of</strong> women as<br />
failures, blacks as failures. To a great degree, those discussions<br />
import the business analogy.<br />
Does your book address current events?<br />
The last chapter <strong>of</strong> my book, which is a breezy sweep through<br />
the 20th century, raises a couple <strong>of</strong> <strong>issue</strong>s. One is the Columbine<br />
phenomenon. I was asked to speak at several<br />
105<br />
conventions <strong>of</strong> high-school principals after Columbine.<br />
I didn’t think my research would be operationally useful to people<br />
in those difficult situations, but they were very grateful for<br />
any larger framework that could give them an understanding<br />
<strong>of</strong> where the grammars <strong>of</strong> stigma come from. The most chilling<br />
thing I’ve read in maybe the last ten years was a quotation in<br />
the New York Times in the first days after the shootings where a<br />
young woman who was a survivor said “Everybody knew those<br />
guys were losers. In this school, people wear Abercrombie &<br />
Fitch, American Eagle, or The Gap.” The second most sickening<br />
thing I’ve read was in the wake <strong>of</strong> September 11 and prompted<br />
me to go back and add something to the conclusion <strong>of</strong> my book,<br />
and that was the discussion <strong>of</strong> how to divide payments to the<br />
families. The purportedly objective mathematical formula that<br />
uses age and “future earnings” potential and comes up with one<br />
person on the 93rd floor being eligible for $600,000 and another<br />
dead person on the 93rd floor being eligible for much less is an<br />
example <strong>of</strong> a society that not only has its priorities out <strong>of</strong> whack<br />
but a society that is really in thrall to a black-and-white notion <strong>of</strong><br />
success and failure. There will be no situation that Americans<br />
will confront that they won’t hammer into that box <strong>of</strong> success<br />
and failure.<br />
Emerson’s eulogy for Thoreau is posted on Cabinet’s website at www.immaterial.net/cabi-<br />
net under the link for this <strong>issue</strong>.
TravelfesT is ClOsed<br />
michael smiTh & naThan heiGes<br />
I had mixed feelings when I read the Austin American-Statesman’s<br />
headline in late August 2001 announcing Motorola’s<br />
lay<strong>of</strong>f <strong>of</strong> 3,000 employees. I was flying to Austin, Texas, to live<br />
in what was supposed to be one <strong>of</strong> the fastest growing and<br />
hippest towns in America. Housing was scarce and expensive.<br />
Maybe the recession would help me find a place to live.<br />
Friends helped me locate a sublet for the first semester.<br />
Their description <strong>of</strong> a l<strong>of</strong>t in a quiet housing complex over-<br />
looking a swimming pool filled with young lovelies sounded<br />
good, but in reality it was a bit <strong>of</strong>f the mark. The place looked<br />
more like a Red Ro<strong>of</strong> Inn with dirty socks on the railings. On<br />
the first night I learned that the pool was not used until 2 am,<br />
when I awoke to the squeals <strong>of</strong> co-ed merriment and a chorus <strong>of</strong><br />
screeching tires.<br />
Shortly after sunrise, while on a reconnaissance for<br />
strong c<strong>of</strong>fee, I discovered Travelfest. When I looked through<br />
the large store windows, it seemed more like an abandoned<br />
theme park than a travel agency. I noticed a kiosk, travel<br />
posters, and a lot <strong>of</strong> colorful Formica surfaces, perfect for<br />
endorsing traveler’s checks and filling out luggage tags. I<br />
was not quite sure if this space was used for photo shoots,<br />
trade shows, or training sessions for future travel agents.<br />
There was a blankness about it that told me absolutely nothing.<br />
The only thing that was certain was what was written on the<br />
sign: “Travelfest is closed.” Over the next couple <strong>of</strong> weeks,<br />
every time I passed Travelfest I’d imagine people costumed<br />
as travel agents, tourists, and baggage handlers going about<br />
their business as if they were extras in some Technicolor<br />
movie. I fantasized about renting this space to preserve it<br />
for others to experience Travelfest like I did, forgetting about<br />
their worries and projecting themselves into some dream<br />
landscape.<br />
After a few weeks in Austin my attitudes toward my<br />
surroundings started to shift. I was fatigued by the late-night<br />
pool parties, and by the realization that having a new job at the<br />
university meant that I actually had to work. Then the events <strong>of</strong><br />
September 11 changed my perceptions. Travelfest’s mute and<br />
frozen quality took on a look <strong>of</strong> tragedy. All <strong>of</strong> a sudden I felt<br />
lucky to have my job.<br />
Now I fantasize about raising public funds to preserve Travelfest<br />
as a monument, a reminder <strong>of</strong> the persistence <strong>of</strong> failed<br />
dreams and the hope that fuels them, a three-dimensional version<br />
<strong>of</strong> an Internet site where they dispense hard-copy tickets<br />
to nowhere.<br />
Text written by michael Smith<br />
106
synTaX errOr: speCial Cd inserT<br />
1 WILLIAM SAFIRE, IN CASE OF MOON DISASTER (1:38)<br />
William Safire penned this speech in 1969 for Richard Nixon in the event that the<br />
two astronauts landing on the moon had to be abandoned there.<br />
Nixon impersonator: Jon Dryden<br />
2 YASUNAO TONE, WOUNDED MAN’YO AT LOvEBYTES (5:23)<br />
“In the fall <strong>of</strong> 1984, after reading a chapter on digital recording in a Japanese<br />
book, I wondered if it was possible to override the error-correcting system <strong>of</strong> a<br />
CD player. If so, I could make totally new music out <strong>of</strong> a ‘ready-made’ CD. I began<br />
by simply making pinholes on a bit <strong>of</strong> Scotch tape, which I stuck to the bottom <strong>of</strong><br />
a CD. The Scotch tape not only changed the pitch and timbre, but also the speed<br />
and the direction <strong>of</strong> the spinning disc. To my surprise, the ‘prepared CD’ seldom<br />
repeated the same sound when I played it again, and it was very hard to control.<br />
The machine’s behavior was very unstable and totally unpredictable; I therefore<br />
thought it would be perfect for performance. Solo for Wounded CD uses my<br />
album Musica Iconologos (1993) made with the same technique. It produced<br />
sound waves that were so mercilessly distorted that the original could not be<br />
recognized. The related piece for Cabinet is part <strong>of</strong> a CD-ROM project called<br />
Musica Simulacra, based on the 8th-century Japanese poetry anthology Man’yo-<br />
shu, and will ultimately consist <strong>of</strong> 4,516 pieces.”Live performance recorded on<br />
16 March 2002 at Lovebytes Digital <strong>Art</strong> Festival, Sheffield, UK.<br />
3 ANDREW DEUTSCH, ZERBROCHEN BEWEGUNG TOMATO (5:47)<br />
“‘Zerbrochen Bewegung (electro-mechanical loops)’ is a series <strong>of</strong> sound works<br />
constructed using broken music boxes. My interest in these works first developed<br />
out <strong>of</strong> experiments with analog tape loops that later extended to music boxes.<br />
Music boxes are mechanical loops set into motion via spring compression and<br />
consequently have the character <strong>of</strong> ‘winding down’ as they play. This composi-<br />
tional unfolding is most delightful as it destroys the <strong>of</strong>ten gebrauchsmusik quality<br />
<strong>of</strong> music box melodies. To further destroy this ‘music <strong>of</strong> the home,’ I explored the<br />
possibilities <strong>of</strong> working exclusively with broken music boxes as their melodic<br />
structures would be ‘readymade destroyed.’ Additional deconstructions were<br />
performed with electronics such as vocoders and ring modulators.” Produced in<br />
2002 at the Institute for Electronic <strong>Art</strong>s, Alfred, New York.<br />
4 CHRISTOF MIGONE, FADO (5:49)<br />
“My Portuguese neighbors in Montreal <strong>of</strong>ten fought. It seemed that their relation-<br />
ship was in a permanent state <strong>of</strong> breakdown, with episodic flares announcing<br />
and confirming it to the neighborhood. As this fight got louder, I got my video<br />
camera out in the kitchen where they could be heard the loudest, the video<br />
focused on an aloe plant on the table and the microphone eavesdropping on the<br />
downstairs commotion. The visuals are peaceful and oblivious to the sound. The<br />
sound witnesses the failure in progress. This incident ended with the police tak-<br />
ing the man away.” Recording in the summer <strong>of</strong> 2001. All sounds based on the<br />
original recording. Arranged in Brooklyn, March 2002.<br />
5 DOUG HENDERSON, SODAPOP (5:59)<br />
A protest piece <strong>of</strong> sorts produced in 2002, Sodapop is a vehicle in which a “voice<br />
<strong>of</strong> America”—the Coke machine—is inveigled to “sing” against itself, its rhythms<br />
<strong>of</strong> “ka-ching” and consumerist fantasy forced to fail. The vérité dripping sounds,<br />
clashes <strong>of</strong> metal on glass, and burbling <strong>of</strong> carbonated release are juxtaposed<br />
with sound effects (receding footsteps, guttural vocalizations, muffled fisticuffs)<br />
lifted from the little-known Cold War-era radio program Reality Versus the Thing,<br />
a science-fiction/whodunit that aired for only three episodes in 1953.<br />
108<br />
6 CLAUDE WAMPLER, LIFE IS LONG XAvIER LEROI (2:39)<br />
“To be listened to while lying on your back, weight distributed onto<br />
your shoulders with your hips in the air, legs over your head and knees resting on<br />
the floor on either side <strong>of</strong> your ears, eyes gazing at your crotch.”<br />
An excerpt from the soundtrack <strong>of</strong> Present Absence, a piece by Claude Wampler,<br />
with sound by Christ<strong>of</strong> Migone. Recorded in 2001.<br />
7 ANDREW DEUTSCH, ZERBROCHEN BEWEGUNG KLING KLANG (4:22)<br />
See liner notes for track no. 3.<br />
8 PETER LEW, NO! (1:48)<br />
Homer Simpson’s endless wonder at the world failing to meet his expectations,<br />
put to song. Produced in 2002.<br />
9 PAULINE OLIvEROS, UNTITLED (FAILURE 1) (5:18)<br />
“My procedure in making electronic music in the 1960s was my own invention,<br />
predating synthesizers and mixers. I used oscillators set above 30kHz to gener-<br />
ate combination tones and tape delay. This had a delightful instability caused<br />
by the bias <strong>of</strong> the tape recording machine and the non-linearity <strong>of</strong> the system. I<br />
improvised all my pieces, using this system and reacting instantaneously to the<br />
sounds that occurred. There was always the possibility <strong>of</strong> failure (and success).<br />
The risk gave the music an exciting edge.” Recorded in 1966 at Mills Tape Music<br />
Center, Mills College, California. Produced with support from the Pauline Oliveros<br />
Foundation (www.p<strong>of</strong>inc.org).<br />
10 ANDREW DEUTSCH, ZERBROCHEN BEWEGUNG BUGS (1:32)<br />
See liner notes for track no. 3.<br />
11 M. BEHRENS AND TOBIAS SCHMITT, CHAIR (2:27)<br />
In this piece, made in 2002, the sound <strong>of</strong> a creaking studio chair is used,<br />
accompanied by voice and the rustling <strong>of</strong> some piezoceramic transducers in M.<br />
Behrens’s trouser pockets. Tobias Schmitt modulates the sounds with digital<br />
delay and modular synthesizer. The focus falls less on the inherent automatism <strong>of</strong><br />
digital machines than on generating glitches and failure by themselves. Schmitt/<br />
Behrens concentrate on instant compositions derived from different media for<br />
each piece. Tobias Schmitt: www.acrylnimbus.de<br />
M. Behrens: www.mbehrens.com<br />
12 DOUG HENDERSON, LBS/Sq. IN. (3:07)<br />
The title refers to sonic distortion caused by submarine pressure upon the<br />
recording equipment (<strong>of</strong> a strictly non-oceanographic grade) with which this<br />
mini-submersible was mounted. Trolling in the feeding grounds <strong>of</strong> the Minke<br />
whale <strong>of</strong>f Cape Cod, the small vessel was repeatedly butted, nosed (and, it<br />
appears, unsuccessfully courted) by a young male Minke, whose increasingly<br />
confused signals were imperfectly picked up by the device. Note the motif <strong>of</strong> a<br />
“boinging” antenna, and approximately five seconds <strong>of</strong> dead airtime, both caused<br />
by the overzealous attentions <strong>of</strong> our frustrated pelagic friend.<br />
Produced in 2002.<br />
13 ANDREW DEUTSCH, ZERBROCHEN BEWEGUNG GARDEN (5:48)<br />
See liner notes for track no. 3.<br />
14 GEORGE M. COHAN, YOU’RE A GRAND OLD RAG (2:18)<br />
A rare Edison cylinder recorded before Cohan changed the lyric “Rag”<br />
to “Flag” (see Scott Sandage’s article on patriotism in this <strong>issue</strong> <strong>of</strong><br />
Cabinet for details). Sung by Billy Murray, this topped the charts<br />
for 11 weeks to become the best-selling record <strong>of</strong> 1906. Thanks to Scott<br />
Sandage.<br />
CD engineered by Stephen Gaboury.<br />
CD image: Mike Ballou, Yum Yum
OmanTiC landsCapes WiTh missinG<br />
parTs<br />
nedKo solaKoV<br />
“Romantic Landscapes with Missing Parts” were executed<br />
in the murky winter <strong>of</strong> 2001-2002 up north in Stockholm in a<br />
nice studio at the Royal Academy <strong>of</strong> Fine <strong>Art</strong>s.<br />
That was a very hard, horrible time for me, the conceptual<br />
artist who pretends that being classically educated in mural<br />
painting 20 years ago gives him some kind <strong>of</strong> advantage. Most<br />
<strong>of</strong> the time during these three months I was really pissed <strong>of</strong>f<br />
by my inability to achieve in paint what I wanted (not to mention<br />
the bitter feeling that I was not quite sure what I actually<br />
did want). In such moments I had an enormous desire to close<br />
my eyes and have all the canvases, oil paints, brushes, easels,<br />
and palettes disappear so that I could again start dealing with<br />
ideas (mainly) — a relatively easy (at least for me) way <strong>of</strong> working.<br />
But I kept doing the paintings, day by day, night after night,<br />
fiercely trying to accomplish them in an acceptable way for an<br />
audience like you.<br />
“Why am I doing this?!” I had been asking myself this<br />
constantly, when one day I realized that perhaps the reason for<br />
me to keep going was that I had the little hope that all the parts<br />
missing from these romantic landscapes —<br />
the moon itself;<br />
the mountain’s reflection on the tranquil surface <strong>of</strong><br />
the lake;<br />
the light in general;<br />
the sailor’s boat;<br />
all the pr<strong>of</strong>ound thoughts in the philosopher’s head;<br />
the flock <strong>of</strong> anxious birds;<br />
the exhausted pilgrim’s tracks over the deep snow;<br />
Europa;<br />
the castle on the top <strong>of</strong> the mountain;<br />
the rainbow’s violet band;<br />
the purse <strong>of</strong> the wanderer (not the obviously unfinished<br />
painting);<br />
the artist’s concentration (a substantial part <strong>of</strong> the<br />
horizon goes unexpectedly down)<br />
— would have a better and more interesting life when left<br />
outside the paintings.
the exhausted pilgrim’s tracks over the deep snow
the artist’s concentration (a substantial part <strong>of</strong> the horizon goes<br />
unexpectedly down)
the light in general
all the pr<strong>of</strong>ound thoughts in the philosopher’s head
118<br />
The life Of ernsT mOiré<br />
lyTle shaW<br />
Mystery has always surrounded the life <strong>of</strong> the Swiss photographer<br />
Ernst Moiré (1857-1929). Not least because, though<br />
frequently photographed throughout his life, it is almost<br />
impossible to see him. Indeed, the blurry photographs <strong>of</strong><br />
Moiré possibly point to the origin <strong>of</strong> (and certainly exemplify)<br />
the technical problem <strong>of</strong> two dot matrices mis-aligning during<br />
printing and resulting in a flawed reproduction, now commonly<br />
know as “the moiré effect.” Or, perhaps, these photographs<br />
do not index the first human to produce the moiré<br />
effect at all, since we cannot be sure who they depict. What<br />
we do know, first, is the Swiss government’s account: that a<br />
photographer named Moiré was regarded, in the Switzerland<br />
<strong>of</strong> the 1920s, as impervious to photography; second, that this<br />
bizarre disappearance became a source <strong>of</strong> nationalist pride<br />
(Moiré was applauded for his technological Ludditism by<br />
anti-modernist elements within Swiss folk <strong>culture</strong>, just as his<br />
supposed visual “neutrality” was seen, more generally, as<br />
socially exemplary); and third, that a collection <strong>of</strong> photographs<br />
— ostensibly <strong>of</strong> Moiré, and always with one illegible<br />
figure — is housed in Zurich’s municipal archives. Opposing<br />
this position stands a counter-testimony from Moiré’s relatives<br />
(embarrassed, perhaps, to have their name still associated<br />
with this famous photographic failure), which may implicate<br />
the Swiss government itself in Moiré’s photographic illegibility.<br />
It was to investigate this case <strong>of</strong> meta-failure that the<br />
editors at Cabinet sent me to Zurich. There I would document<br />
a documentary abyss.<br />
Living inside the Zurich archive for two months, I gradually<br />
pieced together the following biographical outline. An<br />
Ernst Moiré was indeed born, in 1857, in the capital <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Swiss Confederation’s smallest Canton <strong>of</strong> Zug, within view<br />
<strong>of</strong> the Bernese Oberland. Moiré’s primarily French ancestors<br />
made their way from Geneva to Lucerne, where we find<br />
his father, Pierre Wolfli Moiré (a postal clerk and scientific<br />
tinkerer) playing a small role in the attacks on Jesuit Priests<br />
that precipitated Switzerland’s democratic revolutions <strong>of</strong> 1847-<br />
1848. The subsequent inquiry into these attacks, however, was<br />
hampered by the lack <strong>of</strong> postmarks on the conspirator’s letters,<br />
for which Pierre was held accountable. Exiled to Zug, Pierre<br />
seemed to drop from sight: records <strong>of</strong> his later activities are<br />
scanty, possibly because he instructed Ernst to vaporize his correspondence.<br />
Aside from carefully recorded chemical experiments in his<br />
father’s improvised lab, the main records <strong>of</strong> Moiré’s early education<br />
are decayed prints from his early Alpine photographic<br />
expeditions to the Jungfrau with his Uncle Rudolf, in which<br />
the two would document both geological and architectural<br />
curiosities, accompanied (we learn from verses inscribed onto<br />
the prints themselves) by readings <strong>of</strong> Albrecht Von Haller’s<br />
classic <strong>of</strong> Swiss proto-nationalism, Die Alpen. Moiré seems<br />
to have excelled at Zurich’s Technical Institute, winning both<br />
the Uli Fleiss Laboratory Award, and the Gottfried Taur Field<br />
Photographic Award — while, however, being chastised for<br />
his habitual bureaucratic errors, especially his failure to sign<br />
test and registration forms, a problem that would plague<br />
Moiré throughout his career. Strangely, nothing in Moiré’s
120<br />
childhood or college records suggests his imperviousness to<br />
photography. But Moiré’s complex relation to authorship and<br />
representation does begin to emerge at this time, especially<br />
in his copy <strong>of</strong> the influential color theories <strong>of</strong> the poet<br />
Charles Cros, each <strong>of</strong> whose 272 pages bears no less than 7 <strong>of</strong><br />
Moiré’s own signatures, in widely varying styles. This pattern<br />
would continue in his highly secretive post-university experiments<br />
in Zug.<br />
Considered in the history <strong>of</strong> photography, Moiré’s string <strong>of</strong><br />
near patent misses is stunning: in March <strong>of</strong> 1879 he invented<br />
a photogravure process parallel in all essentials to Klíc’s<br />
(published that year), but failed to address his patent form.<br />
More tragically, Moiré’s pioneering use, in outdoor photography,<br />
<strong>of</strong> gelatin-silver bromide instead <strong>of</strong> wet collodion (a process<br />
he had discovered as a 14-year-old, on a trip with Uncle<br />
Rudolf) did not become known until after Charles Bennett had<br />
popularized the process in 1879. The most crushing patent<br />
failure, however, was autochrome, whose development Moiré<br />
had followed closely since his reading <strong>of</strong> Cros. From the beginning,<br />
the three color filters used in the process had relied on<br />
fine grains <strong>of</strong> potato starch, dyed orange, green and mauve.<br />
The dying process, especially the use <strong>of</strong> zinc phosphate to<br />
produce the yellows, was both toxic and slow. Moiré’s introduction<br />
<strong>of</strong> mature sweet potatoes was as elegant as it was<br />
simple. Though Moiré was in fact able to patent the sweet<br />
potato process, the untreated status <strong>of</strong> the potato itself<br />
rendered the process, under Zug Canton law, a craft and not<br />
a science, thereby allowing the Frenchman Louis Ducos du<br />
Hauron, and after him the Lumière Brothers, to popularize<br />
their own three-color systems in photographic technical<br />
journals.<br />
Moiré was crushed. Worse, after this protracted string <strong>of</strong><br />
failures, he found himself in desperate financial straits, which<br />
accounts for his new partnership with his college friend, Willi<br />
Ostler, in a more conventional photographic studio. Because<br />
Ostler’s uncle, Jürg, was the Canton Commissioner <strong>of</strong> Architecture,<br />
they landed a long-term, lucrative project documenting<br />
Alpine architecture. Still, Moiré seems not to have been able to<br />
give up his hopes <strong>of</strong> discovering a new photographic process.<br />
As early as 1882, Moiré had experimented with high-amperage<br />
flash bulbs in night photography. By 1896, the craze for portraiture<br />
had reached such a peak that Moiré believed, were he able<br />
to invent an outside flash mechanism that could merge figures<br />
with those romantic nighttime mountainscapes most admired<br />
in portrait painting, that he could make a definitive entrance<br />
into the technological history <strong>of</strong> photography, and a mountain<br />
<strong>of</strong> Swiss francs.<br />
But on 3 August 1896, tragedy struck. Moiré wrote to<br />
his father: “Lili [Moiré’s bride] and I had left Zurich for a weekend<br />
in Zermatt, where the Matterhorn backdrop would insure<br />
the dramatic night portraits I wished to produce. After two<br />
Photographs <strong>of</strong> Ernst Moiré from the “Mind over Matterhorn” exhibition.<br />
previous page: Moiré as a child (beside his mother), 1861<br />
above: Moiré in 1884 examining his “sweet potato” patent. Lili is to his left.<br />
below: Moiré, Willi Ostler, and unidentified man during the Alpine architecture<br />
project, 1894<br />
opposite: Moiré and Willi Ostler during their final year at university, 1879<br />
All photographs courtesy Swiss Alpine Museum
unsuccessful low-level flashes I increased the amperage. Lacking<br />
my spectacles, I misread 100 for 10. The effect was instantaneous<br />
and devastating. Lili grasped for her eyes and spun arcs<br />
on her back on the chalet’s terrace while I, after smashing the<br />
<strong>of</strong>fending bulbs into innumerable shards, helplessly pawed the<br />
tiles around her blind twirls.” After two months in Zermatt monitoring<br />
Lili’s condition, Moiré was infinitely relieved to see signs<br />
<strong>of</strong> progress (though Lili would always wear thick bifocals after<br />
the event, and could never drive a car).<br />
Meanwhile, in Zurich, Willi was forced to move forward<br />
with the definitive prints <strong>of</strong> the government architecture project,<br />
without Moiré’s invaluable technical assistance. A novice at<br />
printing, Willi mis-aligned the plates and produced a sequence<br />
<strong>of</strong> blurry images, which were immediately rejected by the government<br />
agent. In a moment <strong>of</strong> panic, Willi suggested to the<br />
stern client who had descended on his shop that the business<br />
was dually owned (a “fact” he was successful in proving by<br />
Ernst’s faulty records), and that the responsibility for the quality<br />
<strong>of</strong> the prints was “in Moiré’s hands.” By the time Ernst returned<br />
to Zurich two months later, “the moiré effect” was all over the<br />
papers.<br />
After 1896, Moiré rarely appeared in public. In fact, it was<br />
not until 1927 (two years before his death) that Moiré became<br />
known as a recalcitrant photographic object. This because<br />
a handful <strong>of</strong> prints (ostensibly) <strong>of</strong> the photographer had been<br />
included in an exhibition at the Alpine Museum in Bern called<br />
“Mind over Matterhorn,” which documented para-scientific<br />
phenomena among the Mountaineering Swiss. Here, Moiré’s<br />
whole biography gets told through a consistent photographic<br />
absence. We see Pierre, Uncle Rudolf, Willi, Jürg, Lili and many<br />
other <strong>of</strong> Moiré’s friends and family, flanked by an eerie near<br />
absence — a figure almost legible, but subject to a kind <strong>of</strong> technical<br />
poltergeist. Interpreting this absence as deliberate, the<br />
exhibition likened Moiré to Emma Kunz and (later in his life)<br />
Rudolf Steiner who embodied strains <strong>of</strong> holistic and anti-scientific<br />
feeling within Swiss popular medicine.<br />
Because he refused to write (and even sign his name) after<br />
1896, Moiré’s own response to the exhibition is not known.<br />
Nor did Lili comment on her husband’s infamy until 1941, two<br />
years before her own death, when she wrote an open letter to<br />
the new Swiss Canton Commissioner <strong>of</strong> Architecture. Inexplicably<br />
unpublished, this letter emerged only in 1998, accompanied<br />
by documents that justified the suppression as a measure<br />
to insure faith in the Swiss central government during the war<br />
that surrounded them, during which both French and German<br />
elements <strong>of</strong> the population suspected the government <strong>of</strong> aiding<br />
the opposing side.<br />
Lili describes an afternoon in November <strong>of</strong> 1896, three<br />
months after the explosion <strong>of</strong> “the moiré effect,” in the Zurich<br />
newspapers: “Ernst had taken the train to Zug to gain distance<br />
from the maelstrom that had hold <strong>of</strong> his name. I remained in Zurich<br />
to oversee our household. Returning from the Limmat vegetable<br />
quay, I noticed two men emerging from our attic dormers<br />
with stacks <strong>of</strong> framed photographs. Till then, rude government<br />
<strong>of</strong>ficials had visited only our studio, not our flat on Münstergasse.<br />
I cursed the intruders from two blocks away. Whether<br />
my suddenly frigid neighbors — eyeing the spectacle from their<br />
windows — were in support <strong>of</strong> the theft, or had merely<br />
121<br />
chosen to ignore me, I do not know. Their daily glares<br />
told me only that they, too, felt cheated, as Swiss, by the failure<br />
<strong>of</strong> Herr’s Ostler’ government subsidized project, now attributed<br />
to my dear Ernst, <strong>of</strong> whom every photograph was gone when I<br />
arrived. Now the scoundrels have shown why.” How Lili, with<br />
her weakened eyesight, was able to notice two small figures 60<br />
yards away adds one final mystery.
122
123
a/C<br />
cheaTer.com<br />
Every December and May, tens <strong>of</strong> thousands <strong>of</strong> students in<br />
the United States face the possible humiliation <strong>of</strong> failing their<br />
courses. Only one thing can save them: the Great American<br />
Paper, one just beyond their reach. Little did the scientists who<br />
devised ARPANET—the early prototype for the Internet—know<br />
that their tool for the dissemination <strong>of</strong> knowledge would one<br />
day forever alter the political economy <strong>of</strong> college education.<br />
Thousands <strong>of</strong> websites now hustle millions <strong>of</strong> college papers<br />
waiting to be downloaded and handed in as one’s own. Or, for<br />
only $24.95 a page, you can make someone else in America pull<br />
an all-nighter and write a brand-new paper for you on the topic<br />
you know nothing about but should.<br />
Having run into a deadline problem with this <strong>issue</strong>, it<br />
occurred to us that we too might benefit from some help. We<br />
commissioned cheater.com (we liked their forthrightness)<br />
to write two papers for us in response to the following topic:<br />
“One can only understand one’s true inner self by experiencing<br />
failure. Discuss.” We asked that one paper be written to get a C,<br />
and one be devised to score the elusive A. To both our shame<br />
and delight, the rates charged per page made these essays cost<br />
roughly the same as the honoraria we pay to our illustrious writers.<br />
We <strong>of</strong>fer these two essays here as they arrived to us.<br />
proJECTEd grAdE C<br />
It is a widely held belief that many people succeed in life due to<br />
luck, in-born abilities or some other factors such as social connections<br />
and support from parents, relatives and friends. It is<br />
difficult to disagree with that assertion simply because such<br />
factors as luck, innate talents and abilities do play a very important<br />
role. I do not think that Mozart would have become nearly<br />
as brilliant had he not have that talent for music he acquired at<br />
birth. Nevertheless, people who accept such a view tend to disregard<br />
the other component which in my view happens to be<br />
even more important than luck or outside support. That component<br />
is labor or hard work or personal effort that you put in. I<br />
am determined that a person no matter how talented he or she<br />
is and how much support he or she is given from the outside<br />
can hardly ever achieve anything in life without hard work. Hard<br />
work is what drives us to the goal. It is the fuel that we need to<br />
keep the engine running. Any talent is like a precious jewel but<br />
regardless <strong>of</strong> the case that jewel is rough uncut and unpolished.<br />
Hard labor lets a talented person polish that jewel and thus master<br />
certain abilities and skills. Most people who have achieved<br />
something in life agree that hard work is the necessary component.<br />
Another point that I want to get across is that the thorny<br />
path to success is accompanied by failures. Moreover, it is only<br />
by experiencing failure that you can begin to understand your<br />
true, inner self.<br />
The path to success through hard work is usually accompanied<br />
by failures. It is needless to say that failures are always<br />
out there to entrap us and bring us back to the ground. No matter<br />
what you do and how you do it you are very likely to fail. In<br />
my experiences failure is a rather common occurrence. I used to<br />
play guitar and as I learned I experienced many difficulties<br />
and failed many times to deliver performance which<br />
I thought was necessary. In the beginning failures devastated<br />
me and detracted from my motivation and inspiration. Many<br />
times I thought that the reason I failed was my inadequacy or<br />
lack <strong>of</strong> pr<strong>of</strong>iciency and talent. However, as I progressed in my<br />
learning I realized that time and effort can heal. Furthermore,<br />
I realized that failure was a true indicator <strong>of</strong> the fact that something<br />
was done the wrong way. To be honest I began to appreciate<br />
failures because they showed me the area <strong>of</strong> my weakness.<br />
It was important because I knew what I needed to work a little<br />
more on and where I had to put an extra effort. Now I understand<br />
that as a person matures one begins to understand the<br />
whole idea behind failure and even appreciate it because it is a<br />
way to know your inner self.<br />
At present I am convinced that no matter how talented<br />
and determined a person is failure will always be there. It is<br />
important not to attempt to avoid failures but rather to learn to<br />
react to failures in a certain manner. It is no secret that most<br />
people perceive failure as something negative, something bad<br />
that can happen to a person. Generally, people are afraid <strong>of</strong> failures.<br />
I talked to many college students and many told me that<br />
they were afraid <strong>of</strong> taking scholastic tests because they knew<br />
they could fail. Most students are nervous when they go take<br />
a test. It may sound surprising but I am rarely nervous when I<br />
take a test in school. The reason I am not afraid <strong>of</strong> failing a test is<br />
not because I do not care about my academic performance but<br />
rather because I have mastered the skill <strong>of</strong> controlling failure<br />
and actually using it to my advantage. I do not allow failure to<br />
overwhelm me. If I fail a test I know that next time I will have to<br />
study harder to improve my grade.<br />
I have learned to appreciate failure because it helped<br />
me learn more about myself and have a more accurate, more<br />
objective opinion <strong>of</strong> myself as a person. Failure enables me to<br />
assess my abilities objectively and never overestimate myself.<br />
Whenever I begin to think that I am extremely good at something<br />
an occasional failure is like a shock therapy which brings<br />
my feet back to the ground and tells me that I have yet to walk<br />
a long way. Many talented people I have read about report very<br />
similar observations. Failure helped them improve themselves.<br />
I believe that a person must know that mistakes and failures<br />
are a valuable source <strong>of</strong> learning. They show where the weakness<br />
is. Everything else is hard work and labor. Once you fail it<br />
is important to stay focused on the goal and keep going never<br />
allowing failure to depress or devastate your mind.<br />
124 previous page: Nancy Davenport, Concert, 2002
proJECTEd grAdE A<br />
To understand your true inner self is a rather complicated task,<br />
especially taking into consideration the fact that every person<br />
is capable <strong>of</strong> having different emotional modes, which significantly<br />
influences the way one is able to assess himself/herself.<br />
If a person is successful for a substantial part <strong>of</strong> his or her life, it<br />
is impossible to realistically evaluate and even try to understand<br />
your true inner self, since the “winner attitude” that results from<br />
past successes and high self-confidence level prevents such a<br />
person from evaluating various aspects <strong>of</strong> self due to the fact<br />
that those aspects are something that has never been revealed<br />
before. Thus, in order to understand him/herself truly, one<br />
needs to experience failure at some point, since it is an inherent<br />
part <strong>of</strong> people’s perception <strong>of</strong> themselves and something that<br />
enables any person to get rid <strong>of</strong> the biases that result because<br />
<strong>of</strong> the “winner attitude”.<br />
The thing is, once a person experiences failure in anything,<br />
(certainly, the degree <strong>of</strong> that failure does matter, however not<br />
that much as the fact <strong>of</strong> failure itself), his/her perception <strong>of</strong> his/<br />
her inner self undergoes some drastic changes, and that very<br />
person now assesses the situation from a completely different<br />
point <strong>of</strong> view. During my own life, I have seen some people that<br />
truly understood themselves and their inner desires and wants<br />
when they experienced failure in something, since when they<br />
were successful and prosperous, a lot <strong>of</strong> things were simply<br />
impossible for them to understand.<br />
One <strong>of</strong> my close friends, whom I knew since we were<br />
going together to the elementary school, was always preoccupied<br />
in performing at his best, trying to overachieve, trying to<br />
be the best. Although it took him a lot <strong>of</strong> efforts, he succeeded<br />
in almost everything he was doing, which formed his perception<br />
<strong>of</strong> himself, his understanding <strong>of</strong> his true inner self and the<br />
way he saw his future. He was assured that his self-confidence<br />
and willingness to reach his objectives and goals whatever<br />
the costs were made him immutable to all the bad thighs that<br />
could possibly happen in his life. He perceived himself as a<br />
person that could never possibly fail, and his past successes<br />
were the solid base for such an assumption. He thought that<br />
failure was something that could never happen to him, and his<br />
inner self for him was limited to his goals and objectives that he<br />
was trying to achieve all his life.<br />
However, he became a completely different person when<br />
he did actually experience failure. During the last three years<br />
<strong>of</strong> high school he dreamed <strong>of</strong> entering the university <strong>of</strong> Michigan.<br />
This became his preliminary goal, he thought that his past<br />
successes were enough to take any challenge, therefore when<br />
his application was rejected it became really a turning point in<br />
his life. He had to reassess completely his values and attitudes,<br />
since now his perception <strong>of</strong> himself changed due to the fact<br />
that he realized that he, like most <strong>of</strong> the other people, could possibly<br />
fail, and that failure actually occurred in his life. After that<br />
incident, he never claimed to be always successful, he was able<br />
to understand his inner self truly, and he realized that he was a<br />
vulnerable person after all, that success was not his only goal<br />
in life, and that there were a lot <strong>of</strong> other important things that<br />
he neglected while they could have actually changed his life for<br />
better.<br />
Definitely, only through experiencing failure one can<br />
truly understand his/her true inner self, the chain <strong>of</strong><br />
125<br />
successes and victories is inevitably going to end at some point<br />
in life, which is bad if one looks at it from a rational prospective,<br />
but quite good if he/she looks at it from the prospective <strong>of</strong> inner<br />
harmony. The harmony, both inner harmony and harmony and<br />
complete understanding with other people, is one <strong>of</strong> the most<br />
important things in life, thus getting to know one’s true inner<br />
self is really important. To understand one’s true inner self is to<br />
be able to assess completely all the aspects <strong>of</strong> self that are not<br />
correlated with success or failure, thus failure at some point<br />
in life is really helpful for realizing that fact, and thus realizing<br />
one’s true inner self.
Orphan<br />
nina KaTchadourian<br />
The first time I noticed the sculpture, it was not very easy to see it.<br />
Three dense bushes had bullied their way in front <strong>of</strong> it, and they<br />
grew bigger and more brazen with each passing month. I wondered<br />
when the grounds maintenance people would notice and<br />
give them a trim. They finally did, but took the radical approach <strong>of</strong><br />
removing the bushes altogether. The sculpture was now shockingly<br />
exposed, standing on a plain stretch <strong>of</strong> dirt, and completely<br />
vulnerable to the public eye. It looked like a furry animal that had<br />
been completely and inappropriately shaved.<br />
The orange sculpture was a tripod <strong>of</strong> sorts, made <strong>of</strong> Ibeams<br />
with a Bert-like tuft <strong>of</strong> metal hair on top. It was positioned<br />
in an awkward, in-between buffer zone designated for<br />
landscaping, sandwiched between the New York City Technical<br />
College building and a street in downtown Brooklyn. A bit too<br />
small to be monumental, and a bit too large to relate to the people<br />
walking by, it stood slightly above them, uncomfortable with<br />
its height, like a tall pre-teen. It looked like the kind <strong>of</strong> sculpture<br />
that had started its life with aspirations <strong>of</strong> a long tenure in front<br />
<strong>of</strong> the Seagram’s Building, later to be put to pasture at Storm<br />
King. Given this, it was even more painful to see it stuck in purgatory<br />
at the corner <strong>of</strong> Jay Street and Tech Place.<br />
It became a landmark for me, and I always looked for it<br />
when passing by. For better or worse, the bushes never grew<br />
back, and so it was easy to notice that graffiti and doodles<br />
occasionally appeared on its skin. The vandalism was done<br />
somewhat half-heartedly (“Your mother is a ?”) and never had<br />
anything to do with the sculpture itself. Somehow, it did not<br />
seem to elicit a reaction from anyone: it was simply a marker<br />
that-“there is art in front <strong>of</strong> our building,” rather than expressing<br />
a concept or reacting to a physical space.<br />
In January 2002, New York City Technical College underwent<br />
an external renovation, and a blue scaffolding “skirt” was<br />
built around the perimeter <strong>of</strong> the building. Now, it looked like<br />
the sculpture was forced to slump in order to fit under this new<br />
structure. The scaffolding had been chopped up in awkward<br />
ways to accommodate the top <strong>of</strong> the sculpture. Large construction<br />
vehicles and dumpsters were brought onto the side street<br />
to cart away debris, and for several weeks a garbage truck was<br />
parked with its rude, gaping rear-end provocatively facing the<br />
sculpture. A few days later, a long streamer <strong>of</strong> yellow caution<br />
tape was anchored to a lamppost on one end and the sculpture<br />
on the other. The I-beams, which before had perhaps reflected<br />
the artist’s interest in the sculptural qualities <strong>of</strong> industrial materials,<br />
now seemed merely part <strong>of</strong> the language <strong>of</strong> demolition.<br />
A conversation with an <strong>of</strong>ficial at New York City Technical<br />
College turned up the name <strong>of</strong> the artist, Allen Mooney, and<br />
the title, Iroquois Walk. This Native American reference was<br />
intriguing (was the Bert hair in fact some kind <strong>of</strong> headdress?)<br />
but then on the artist’s website the sculpture is entitled Iroquis<br />
Walk. In this photograph, the picture is taken from behind<br />
the sculpture, in effect showing us its point <strong>of</strong> view. It strides<br />
out toward the street and into the world. The grass is rich and<br />
green beneath its feet, and its orange paint glows in the sun.<br />
I wondered if the artist had helped pick the site and what the<br />
126<br />
real title was, but the phone call went unreturned.<br />
I wondered if he knew how it was doing these days.<br />
Photos: Nina Katchadourian
127
CaBineT unlimiTed ediTiOns numBer 4<br />
At the 1976 Summer Olympic Games in Montreal, the Canadian<br />
Olympic Committee voted to award a special Participation<br />
Medal to all competing athletes who failed to win a gold,<br />
silver, or bronze medal. The committee took pains to stress the<br />
un<strong>of</strong>ficial nature <strong>of</strong> their medal. “The Participation Medal is a<br />
gift <strong>of</strong> thanks from the people <strong>of</strong> Canada to all the athletes <strong>of</strong><br />
the world,” the committee’s statement read. “The true Olympic<br />
spirit is embodied as much in those who strive and fail as in<br />
those who glide to victory.”<br />
The award was cast in aluminum and was the approximate<br />
size and shape <strong>of</strong> the conventional medals. One side depicted<br />
five cherubs holding hands, symbolizing the five continents,<br />
beneath the words Tout de Même (“all the same”). The other side<br />
showed the face <strong>of</strong> the moon in partial eclipse. According the<br />
committee’s statement, this symbolized both Man’s inexhaustible<br />
ambition and the cyclic nature <strong>of</strong> all things.<br />
The <strong>of</strong>ficial award ceremonies were to be followed by the<br />
presentation <strong>of</strong> the Participation Medals to all the non-winning<br />
athletes. The first event to be completed during the games was<br />
the platform dive. Avery Brundage, the President <strong>of</strong> the International<br />
Olympic Committee, attended the awards ceremony.<br />
When the losing athletes lined up in front <strong>of</strong> the award podiums<br />
and received their Participation Medals, Brundage, who had not<br />
been informed in advance <strong>of</strong> the Canadians’ new ritual, was so<br />
enraged he rushed out and confiscated the medals by pulling<br />
them <strong>of</strong>f the necks <strong>of</strong> the athletes. He refused to even consider<br />
the Canadian Committee’s appeal <strong>of</strong> his decision and ordered<br />
the medals destroyed. He personally monitored their destruction<br />
in an Ontario foundry.<br />
Brundage did not manage to confiscate all the Participation<br />
Medals. Kris Lee, an 18-year-old Chilean diver who had finished<br />
23rd in the event, slipped <strong>of</strong>f the stage and returned to<br />
the athletes’ village. Lee refused to give up the medal despite<br />
repeated entreaties from Brundage’s <strong>of</strong>fice. In return, Brundage<br />
vindictively canceled the 50-kilometer race, Lee’s brother’s<br />
specialty, the only time the event had not been held since its introduction<br />
at the 1932 Olympic games. On hearing that Brundage<br />
had ordered that the medal be physically seized and destroyed,<br />
Lee abruptly left Canada and returned to Santiago.<br />
Lee retired from competitive diving and worked for a<br />
few years as a schoolteacher in Montevideo, Uruguay. In 1981<br />
Lee enrolled in art classes at the Federal University <strong>of</strong> Rio<br />
de Janeiro and has exhibited widely throughout South<br />
America and Europe since 1985. Best known for conceptual<br />
projects that blend tough-minded critiques <strong>of</strong> institutional<br />
hegemony with a romantic pan-nationalism, the artist has<br />
<strong>of</strong>ten cited the events in Montreal as “the crucible for my<br />
artistic thought.”<br />
As a special project for Cabinet, Lee has produced an<br />
unlimited series <strong>of</strong> aluminum reproductions <strong>of</strong> the original<br />
Participation Medal. The reproductions are available for $50.<br />
Twenty dollars <strong>of</strong> this amount is tax-deductible in accordance<br />
with section 501 (c) (3) <strong>of</strong> the Internal Revenue Code. Please<br />
email: editions @immaterial.net for orders.<br />
Cabinet wishes to thank matt Freedman for his invaluable assistance on this project.<br />
replicas cast at the new Foundry in greenpoint, Brooklyn. photos: Bill orcutt