Saturday, October 10, 2020

Moomf and Zarathustra



Please excuse this paragraph's misaligned justification. The solution has so far eluded me)
 After speaking on the phone with my Moomf last night, I was left with the impression that she may give my blog another try, but I doubt she will.   I am not sure what her first impression exactly was, but I suppose it drove her away with it's obliqueness.  I would need to write often about home improvement and occasionally about Bill O'Reilly if I were to retain someone in her demographic.  My entries here may be looping and fragmented, unsubstantiated and speculative, and horribly dilettantish, but the hope is that they become something as a whole that is larger than the sum of its parts - synergy.  I am so happy to have this outlet to send thoughts beyond myself, and if I were born in 13,000 B.C.E., I would be recording thoughts of the day with lines in the dirt.

    Above is a label I created in ohhhhhh...maybe 2000?  It features Moomphy's likeness, as she prepares a batch of her special spaghetti sauce.   I printed these and glued them on empty jars so she could sell it by the bottle, or give it away as gifts.  Its a good thing she never used then because I know now, that inkjet ink is not waterproof.   Its called "Lynne's Oh Jesus Christ God Dammit Spaghetti Sauce", for three reasons.  First, this is her most frequently used quote.  She can be heard saying this while driving, in the grocery store, and sometimes in her sleep.  Reason number two:  I think the idea of unreasonably long titles to be hilarious.  Thirdly, we had not started calling her Moomfy.  

    (Moomfy, if you are reading this, skip the entry called Superman vs. Ubermensch.  Its a transcription of a paper I wrote drawing connections between Nietzsche and the rise of the comic book industry.  It will bore you.  I think I said something about Bill O'Reilly in March.  Talk to you on Sunday!)   

    What Moomfy will not know at first, is that I have a small, but incredibly loyal following in Australia.  They are a silent minority, but I know about them through the Blogger stats.  Also, every once and a while, I get a thoughtful correspondence.  Just the other day, I got a message Adam, in Melborne,  asking why I randomly posted a research paper comparing Friedrich Nietzsche's Ubermensch, a theoretical perfect being, to 1930's Golden Age of Comics legend, Superman.  Well, Adam, I wrote the paper for a History of Comic Book class, and was glad to finally make time to do this research, as an interest in the topic had been simmering for years.  

     Turns out, Nietzsche is much, much, much, more interesting than the story of Superman's rise in popularity in the 1930s which is a story of disenfranchisement and commercialism....and Cleveland is just so...unbiblicalUbermensch is invoked by Zarathustra, an imaginary prophet who happens to share the name of the the Persian Zorastrian prophet.  Though named, Ubermensch does not yet exist, and therefore cannot be defined as a character.  Superman is known in the Western world as a character who is vaguely human, but moreover an idealized figure designed to be desirable to all seven sexes. Human susceptibility  to trends like pulp magazines in the 30's or  Cabbage Patch Kids in the 80's  (a more egregious example) are the very thing that Nietzsche stood against. Nietzsche saw followers of religion as cattle, but he was not anti-semetic; he respected the Jews. 

   Nietzsche did not always deny God's existence.  In fact, the grief he felt when God ceased to exist for him fueled his conception of Zarathustra.   Nietzsche labored through life full of unpopular opinions and poor health, but his fiery passion for perfection created a richness in his message. 

   

    



Saturday, September 26, 2020

Gingerbread Storage Unit

 

     I am just making my way back to Brooklyn after a week upstate where I watched my friends' kids and worked on some personal projects.  They live near Beacon, and the trees up here are starting to turn. 

    I got it in my head that while I am up here, this would be a good place to store a few things cheaply.  I need to vacate my school studio (super sad face) and figure out a way of storing a few medium-sized highly irregularly shaped works in progress.  Storage is big business these days, complete with brokers, price-matching, and sly little last minute insurance requirements.  I searched for something more "Mom and Pop", if you will.  A place where I could say, 'Hey, you don't mind if I plug in some lights and a Dremel tool for a few minutes, do yah?'  or "sorry about that sticky spot.  I'll clean it tomorrow.'  Steering clear of big commercial outfits, I found an ad for a spot in Poughkeepsie resembling double-decker barn billing itself as "mixed-use industrial" - catnip to us Brooklynites, triggering images of loft-style structures with gantry cranes and 220 power that are also equipped with a place to sleep and eat.  The photos included heavy metal walk-ways and double doors.  It was accompanied by thoughtfully worded copy including a phone number.  I called the number, left a message, and then went about my business with the children, working hard to cultivate a Mary Poppins-sort of affect.   

    The girls are eight and five.  I an not family, but they are to me, the closest thing I have to nieces.  I only know the mechanics of interacting with these ages from 10 minute increments spent drawing them at a Communion, or Bar Mitzvah.  I am a long-distance aunt of three nephews, if that counts for anything.  I often feel confused by modern children's assertion of themselves, as I remember myself to be more like an absorption barrier.  My will was generally only acknowledged after combat.  A sensitivity to the will of the child is difficult to reconcile with a keen interest in guiding them correctly.  These are both good-natured kids, but the five year old is intractable when it comes to eating, sleeping, and screen time. At five, she already knows how to use her beguiling cuteness to her own ends.  She made me laugh with my whole body a few times with her comic timing and Groucho Marx-like expressions. The child-whispering would have gone better if distance-learning were not in the equation. I was aggrieved by the on-line model, and set to gently coerce the two into math and penmanship.  However, there was no outcome to this that would not cast me as the villain: at the end of the day, I was making them do something they did not want to do.  I didn't blame them.  The teachers on Zoom, though doing their best, struggled with technical issues and lighting, and thus creating many chances for the girls' attention to flicker.  

    To take the strain off the teaching component, we spent an afternoon taking a long hike through some nearby land where we walked along RV tracks with grassy purple and yellow wildflowers growing above our heads.  A row of power lines traveled vanishingly in either direction, and hunting cabins suspended aloft in the trees were painted with camouflage.  The eight year old said, "This is a place where deer have lost their lives."  The five year old complained loudly and dramatically most of the way out about not getting to walk the dog as the eight year old was dragged forward by the muscular Boxer-mix.  When we made our turnaround in a sand pit stamped with RV tracks, the leash was passed to the younger girl and it immediately began to slip from her grasp.  Taking the leash from her I tied it in a knot so she could put her hand through a loop, retaining a better grasp.  I knew this could backfire badly, and stayed side by side with her as she leaned all the way back to counter the dog's forward motion, clearly not in control, and loving every second of it.  She laughed maniacally, and upon removal of the binding leash, she declared breathily, in her squeaky five year old voice, "I am SO full of joy right now!"  She was all will, this girl. Fearless. Questionless. Doubtless. 

    I have an expiration time with children, because I am easily fatigued by too much interaction. At a certain point, even if I want to be patient and pleasant, I am totally incapable of it, and have to shut down.  I reached that point very quickly in those last few days, and a hearty desire to forge ahead with non-caretaker-related business, in as much silence as possible, took hold.  I worked on a small illustration project and eventually heard back from "Jim", who had placed the Craigslist ad for the storage unit.  He left an amicable message which was every bit as inviting as the ad.  I called him back and our conversation with him made everything sound pretty peachy. I could almost smell the welding from the neighboring metal shop and muffin bakery that my imagination had edited in. His voice was even-toned and sonorous, but I noticed, after all relevant details had been exchanged, a very difficult time dislodging myself from the conversation.  He went on lengthily about it's "mixed use" status and history.   He elaborated on how he had lived there for 48 years, and all the updates he had made to the property.  I eventually told him I had to call my Mom back and clicked off abruptly, which was the only way that I could.  

    'Extra friendly', I thought. It is Poughkeepsie!  I drove out to meet him,  but the address was on a busy thoroughfare, and I was not able to slow down enough to read the house numbers.  I parked around the corner feeling slightly thrown off by the decidedly non-industrial quality of the neighborhood, a hamlet of Victorian houses with tidy front lawns.  When I approached the specified address, a man in a tweed suit stood at the gate looking at his watch.  When he looked up at me, I saw that his skin looked soft and unlined.  He didn't smile when he asked if I was here to see the unit. 

"Where did you park?" his brows raised in consternation. 

"Around the corner."

"Didn't you see me?"

"No, I was looking for street numbers."

"Did you read the signs?  You might get a ticket."  

"Ok, I will go check on my car."  The street signs were faded beyond legibility, so in grudging obiesance, I pulled around to his driveway down into a small lot amid baby blue double-decker barn houses.  Standing in front of the car, he forcefully waived me in, as I hesitated for fear of hitting him.  Why did he have to stand there?  I parked and after pleasantries he spoke about the layout of the units, their uses over the years, and about the personal details of every person currently renting space there, or who had ever rented space there since World War Two. He tells me about the alley cats he feeds and all their backstories.  When he smiled, his teeth were unnaturally intact and straight. It began to occur to me that he was not going to stop talking this way unless I initiated movement. When I took a step in the direction of the available unit, he bristled.  

"Do you have somewhere to be?"

"No, I am just so excited to see this space!"  He motioned for me to stop while he passed me on the stairs, hobbling a little.  

"I walk very slow and I have a limp."

A beat of silence.

"Aren't you going to ask me how I got a limp?"

    More silence.  He stops and begins to tell me a story about Paul Revere that somehow ends with him falling off a horse and hurting himself.  My head is now vibrating with numbness and I am glad I am wearing sunglasses which will hide my wandering eyes.  

    He looks at me in a way that suggests he is put off by my lack of response.  I smile appreciatively. 

   The unit is one of many along a narrow hallway.  He unlocked the door, and waved me in.  I almost walked through opening, but then I remember all the Criminal Minds episodes which left me angered by scenarios where serial murder victims do stupid things to imperil themselves.  His hand is on the knob and the ring of keys are in the other hand.  He is jerking his head with a crescent smile toward the shadowy interior saying "Go ahead....Go on.."  I put my hands up in protest. 

"I am good.  I see everything I need to see. " 

"You are not going to go in?"

"Nope. I see it fine."  Stepping away. 

"It has a window."

"I see the window. "

He snorts at me and locks the door.  

"Do you have outlets in here?"  I have already abandoned my Dremel tool idea but it is a way to shift the conversation.  He indicates a row of shiny outlets running the length of the storage unit - unprecedented in my personal storage unit history.   He shut off the light switch, and added that this is how he knows if someone is here or not and points out the window to a lighthouse like enclosure at the top floor of his personal residence.  The situation was seeming more and more like a gingerbread house to me, and I sidle out the door and down the stairs while Jim asks me bullet point questions about my art and am I any good, and what am I having for dinner? 

I notice two security cameras mounted to the eves. 

"How many security cameras do you think are here?" 

"Four?"

"I cannot tell you the correct number, but you are wrong."

"Why can't you tell me?"

"Contract with security company."

"Really?  what's the name of the security company?"

"I cannot tell you that either.  Its in the contract."

 I made my way out of there under the pretense of dinner plans and barely escaped without a full description of recipe ingredients and a full guest list. Poor scary guy.  I couldn't tell if renting the space would be renting "Jim"  with it. 

     On my way out of town, I found a nice commercial storage spot.  A blue-eyed girl assisted the transaction with robotic efficiency.  I feel confident that I will never see her again, and I this is a strictly self-service situation.  All the units are ground level, and there are grassy patches all around - perfect for thinking days when there is good weather.  


Friday, September 25, 2020

Ubermensch Versus Superman

 

Ubermensch Versus Superman 
by Marlene Kryza

   

     Between 1883 and 1885, a forty-year old philosopher named Friedrich Nietzsche worked on a collection of writings that would become known collectively as Thus Spake Zarathustra.  Seeking comfort for his weak body, he lived itinerantly around Europe teaching and writing copiously about morality, theology, and philology.  He remained a bachelor for the entirety of his life, and felt his works were destined for importance.   Europe was beginning the technological phase of the industrial revolution, and standardization and industrialization were reshaping notions of labor. A harrowing chasm existed between rich and poor.  In his latest work, Nietzsche set out to proselytize, through the voice of a fictional prophet named Zarathustra about eternal recurrence, the death of God, and the role of modern mankind as a bridge between the apes of yesterday and the splendid being that is yet to come -- enter, the Ubermensch.  This German word has been translated a number of ways such as "over-man" or "beyond-man".  When George Bernard Shaw (b.1856) an Irish playwright, critic, and polemicist included the concept in his 1903 play titled, Man and Superman, he introduced the idea/word beyond Nietzsche's initial following. 

      In the early 1930's, in Cleveland, Ohio, Jerry Siegel and Joe Schuster, both born in 1914, were infatuated with pulp fiction magazines - fantastical stories which often included beings from space with superhuman powers. One day, after Siegel spent a sleepless night with recurring visions, they met up and penned the first 12 episodes featuring a new character. They named him "Superman", a word that had been bouncing around the the pulp fan drawing community. Superman and other superheroes that gained popularity during the Golden Age of Comics were social justice warriors borne of left-leaning politics, and emerged from a hotbed of institutional corruption and Depression-era hardship.  Superman was shown in his first appearances foiling a lynching, roughing up war prophiteers, breaking a wrongly accused criminal from death row, and rescuing a lady from from a domestic abuser.  It was the beginning of a genre, and the idea of "hero" was redefined for generations to come. 

     The connection between Nietzsche's Ubermensch and the of  Superman 1930's of pulp fandom may be tenuous, but it is not accidental. Superman "essentially owes his effect to the vanishing remnants of ancient mythology, that collective memory of mankind which has here been combined with Utopian anticipation" said one commentator. That 'anticipation' was also present in Europe at the end of the 19th century, when anarchist communes were established as people observed the rising autocratic right-wing regimes.   This was a time in history where people mobilized themselves in an effort to dictate their own freedom.  Throughout Europe, intrepid deviants formed small communities beyond the mainstream confines in an effort to create their own instantiations of Utopia.  The imaginative impulse to create models of a more perfect system, person, or future has marked many eras of human existence, countering strictures and releasing the pressure of reality. 

    The Nazi party wrongfully subsumed the meaning of Thus Spake Zarathustra as they rose to power in the early 1930s. Nietzsche's utter disdain for the masses of people who seemed to him incapable of thinking for themselves never was never aimed at any one single group of people.  Nietzsche disacknowledged the existence of God, and criticized the Jews' practice of letting God dictate their morals, but was a defender of them as a people.  Nietzsche wished that amid the flaccid European population, that "some pack of blond bests of prey, a conqueror and master race which, organized for war and with the ability to organize, unhesitatingly lays its terrible claws upon a populace." (vi)  Zarathustra delivers parables describing creative evolution wherein the Ubermensch is able to will himself into existence-- the next step in physical and spiritual evolution for mankind, leaving behind the last man, who is the loathsome link between primates and the Ubermensch. 

"I tell you, one must have chaos in one, to give birth to a rising star.  The cosmic.  Superman was from outer space.  Alas, the time is coming when man will give birth to no more stars.  Behold, I shall show you the last man.......The last man is one who specializes not in creation, but in consumption.  The last man is deeply miserable and resentful - stagnant in his nest of comfort.  The misery does not render him impotent though; he seeks to victimize those who are seeking higher values, and subdue him by making him a part of the herd. "   (TSZ)

   Walter Kaufmann, the German-American emigre whose translations of Nietzsche were long the standard versions in English, once declared that the philosopher's writings are "easier to read but harder to understand than those of almost any other thinker." (3) The legibility of Thus Spake Zarathustra, and its prophetic descriptions of how only a select few can rise to the status of Ubermensch lent credence to the Nazi party's philosophies and served to bolster their popularity in the 1920's.  The denigration of "the last man" and the comeuppance of a master race served as a template for the devaluation of undesirables and for the ascension of elite individuals who supersede the slothful gluttonous masses.  

    Simon and Shuster were both early generation Americans whose families had fled the antisemitism of Russia and Eastern Europe.  They emerged into an America of burgeoning commercialism, but high-end illustration work was not available to Jews.  Therefore, many talented Jewish artists gravitated toward the pen and ink of pulp art, seeing its promise, and becoming a significant shaper of it's future.   This was also an era of institutionalized corruption during which mob bosses such as Boss Tweed in New York City and Chicago's Al Capone rendered the public unsure of who was protecting them.  In 1925, Capone became crime czar of Chicago running gambling, prostitution, and bootlegging rackets and expanded his territory by gunning down members of rival gangs.  Capone went largely unpunished, and in 1927, when he was just 28 years old, had amassed a fortune estimated to be 100 million dollars. William McSwiggan, an aggressive prosecutor who tried to indict Capone, failed to do so when witnesses, fearing harm to themselves or to their families, would lose their nerve and "forget" the details of an incident when called upon to recount these in court.  Real life villains such as Capone had carved out a place for themselves in society which operated above the law as a way of vindicating themselves beyond their presumed socio-economic strata. 

    Although the Ubermensch is  described as having superior intellect and intuition, some qualities such as the ability to defy obsolete moral codes and having self-defined virtues make him sound prone to villainy.  Nietzsche had read Freud's The Ego and the Id, published in 1923, where he describes "three agencies of the mind jostling for supremacy: the ego, the id, and the superego.  The ego strives for mastery over both id and superego an ongoing and often fruitless task in the face of the id's wild passion and demand for satisfaction on one hand, and the superego's crushing, even authoritarian demands for submission to its dictates, on the other."  

   The internal duel between the protagonist and the antagonist within an individual manifests itself in their personalities.  It is the intensity of this struggle that creates depth in characters, both in fiction and real life.  The villains faced by Superman are not patterned with much complexity, but they personify the criminal curiosity within the reader.  Superman is a richly textured character who is living a lie by way of a false identity, and operates according to the dictates of law only as much as he personally sees fit.  The presence of a villain in these early comic books sets the stage for redemption, retribution, or justice wherein the reader can be assured of their own moral codes.  This is to compare the villain to the "id", a faltering justice system which places an innocent man on death row or allows another to beat his wife to the "superego", and Superman to the "ego".  A "schizoid split" evinced by Superman's dual identity as Clark Kent "symbolizes a basic split within the American psyche," argued one analyst.  Like Superman, Americans are caught between dream and achievement, and power and weakness."  

    That the darker, passionate, and unruly side that Freud called the id, is aligned with weakness, as one has a weakness for wine, lust, power, or money,  This is called 'weakness' because it is something to be overcome.  Nietzsche seized on this idea of weakness in his description of the Ubermensch to refer not to those that were too weak to control their vices, but that were too intellectually weak to observe the herd-like behavior cultivated in them by religion and traditional morality.  Nietzsche said this in Twilight of the Idols in 1889:  

               The church fights passion with excision in every sense; its practice, its cure,
                castrates.  It never asks: 'How can one spiritualize, beautify, deify a craving?' 
                It has at all times laid the stress of discipline on the extirpation of sensuality,
                of pride, of the lust to rule, of avarice, and vengefulness.  But the attack on the
                roots of passion means an attack on life: the practice of the church is hostile
                to life.

    The distinction here is that untempered passions are a part of the will distinguish him or her from others, thereby avoiding the herd. 

   Originally, Superman was a bald telepathic psychopath intent on eugenic omniscience - a very malevolent main character.  Later in 1933, Shuster and Siegel rethought the character of Superman and recast him as a hero with with a rigid identification with morality.  Superman's modis operandi became the defense of those incapable of defending themselves.  Rendered defenseless by gender, age, or poverty, Superman flew to their rescue, imbued with the powers of modern machinery.  Implicit within the backstory is the source of Superman's desire for justice - his own abandonment by his real parents and the ostensible loneliness that accompanies exceptionalism.  Nietzsche had no compassion for those too weak to fend for themselves and made no secret of his adoration of aristocracy.  He would have been enthralled by Superman's extraordinary capabilities, but put off by his interest in saving the weak. 

    Zarathustra's poetic prose announces the death of God.  Not only did Nietzsche see fit to undermine the very idea of  God, he also made some tweaks to Darwinism.  Nietzsche believed that a factor in man's evolution was his ability to assert himself.  Nietzsche called this the Will to Power.  "Creative evolution" was brought about by creative will - the élan vital.  This, according to Nietzsche was a force pulsing within man to a greater iteration of himself.  The idea of  the greater man is bound up in the idea of self, as in self-discipline and self-cultivation.  Nietzsche promotes in his writings the presence of a different being within us waiting to express itself through the last man's destruction.  Zarathustra declares: 

        I teach you the overman.  Man is something that shall be overcome.  What have
        you done to overcome him?  All creatures hitherto have created something beyond
        themselves: and do you want the ebb of this great tide and return to the animals
        rather than overcome man?"

   Whereas Nietzsche's Ubermensch comes from within, Superman comes from without.  In order to protect and save, he is a surrounding force rather than one that is emergent.  Nietzsche was plagued with health problems and lived a privileged mostly solitary life.  In his solitude he conceived of a hyper-splendid being, perhaps as a way of out of his own yearning for something more.  It was within a prison of poor health that he explored the power of mind of matter. "He was a sufferer for many years from severe ailments, but he brought his indomitable will to bear on his condition and for a while was able to will himself to health." (x)  The 'blond beast' may have been a personification of his own will.  The conception of Superman by Siegel and Shuster may have been more akin to Al Capone operating outside the law and creating his own rules, as their talent was not absorbed by traditional art channels due to their Judaism.  However, by fluidly working around these strictures, they observed and alternative success within themselves, going on to redefine the word "hero" and found an culture-shaping industry for decades to come. 

Monday, August 3, 2020

Ancient Things


        The more insane modern reality becomes, the more compelled I am to fix my gaze on the ancient past.  It is consoling to think of the troubles of other times. That every era is punctuated by its own brand of instability or hardship levels the atrocity curve. The past seems more relevant now, or as Yogi Berra put it, "The future is not what it used to be." 

    Those of my generation came of age during a dizzying ascension of technology.   We know what it is like to see a vintage type-writer and admire its fabrication and materials when compared to it's mass produced successors.  We have also been exposed to science-fiction which prophesied panopticons, rampant drug addiction, and authoritarian regimes.  The future envisioned by George Orwell, Ray Bradbury, and Aldous Huxley is spinning out in front of our eyes.  The future seems increasingly less interesting and more predictable and it is the past that seems buried in possibility.

    Just as the study of comic book art is largely the study of capitalism, the study of ancient history is largely the study of war.  Its odd that some think of warriors such as Alexander the Great and Napoleon as great men when they were responsible for so much brutality. Both of them lead their charge under the auspices of protecting their people from encroaching empires.  They were protecting the way of life of their subjects.  Many an ancient marvel was created as a signal to enemies, and allies alike, great breadth of power and riches.  Fortunately, a number of these are still in existence.  I noticed while learning about art history that my interest level in a piece corresponds to my chances of actually seeing it someday.  Cognitive bias?  Maybe. Be that as it may, I would like to learn about those places and times before their artifacts are exploded and bulldozed away or subsumed in a money-laundering scheme.

    It is still possible today to look at someone's features and make an educated guess where their ancestors came from.  An acquaintance of mine, though born here in the states, has Lebanese parents.  Because of growing up in USA in the 80's, the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Lebanon is the Hezbollah, a radical militant group that was mentioned often in the news during that decade.  Lebanon occupies roughly the same area on a map as ancient Phoenicia. The Phoenicians are thought to be possibly a separate ethnicity from the Canaanites who occupied the Levant during pre-biblical times.  the wording around this material gets very technical but it is suspected that the Lebanese are the most ancient people.  Byblos, thought to be first occupied in the 7th century B.C., is attested as an archaeological site during the Bronze Age (2500-500 B.C.) and is thought to be by UNESCO to be one of the oldest surviving cities.  the Phoenicians distinguished themselves with an alphabet, as a maritime hub,  and with the production of cedar timber and a remarkable purple dye, Tyrian purple, that went on to embellish the garb of the ancient rich and famous.  My Lebanese American friend seems like a marvel when viewed in the light of history the same way that the ginkgo tree I observed earlier today does; our ginkgo trees are among the oldest of species with fossils dating back to 270 million years ago.

    A primer in prehistory is in order. The past is addictive. The further you go, the further you want to go. The facts become hazier and more mysterious.  The point at which man became man happened much much earlier than the establishment of Byblos or any other ancient city.  What was everyone doing for 293,000 years?  I can easily see how scrounging for food can take up your days if there is no pizza place around the corner.

   Yesterday, we celebrated a birthday social-distance-style.  The girl of the hour was scheduled to kayak with a group along the Gowanus Canal.  The route was to pass beneath several low-hanging bridges and we were deployed to designated bridges with instructions to sing or wave.  Situated on the Carroll Street Bridge, we conspired to lower a ceramic Stegosaurus piggy bank (appropriated from my nephew) onto a floating tub, so that the birthday girl would encounter a bizarre surprise.  Best laid plans! The ceramic dinosaur toppled faster than you can say "artifact" , and i could see it's glazed eyes looking up at me as it disappeared under the syrupy Gowanus.  Eventually, it's ceramic body will be replaced by minerals to be examined as a fossil in the future, or maybe heat , pressure, and time will transform it into black gold.  Perhaps it will be found by a worker in the distant future who will give it to his nephew...

Gowanus Manhole Cover with Rat, 2018.  Wood, caulk, yoga mat, and paint.
                                     

Monday, July 27, 2020

Moldilocks - An animation



I began this animation in an introductory course in Adobe After Effects. The assignment was to animate a short sequence from a fairy-tale. I chose "Goldilocks", but my character is "Moldilocks", a mischievious silver-haired lady. Please note, I continue to develop this and will update regularly her with improvements as i continue to learn the ins and outs of animation. The learning curve is steep A.F., but I'm into it....

Wednesday, July 15, 2020

Leaving Town, Monuments, the "New Normal", and Oswald Spengler



Again, I find myself on the road.  Thank you universe, for perfect storms.

I started this blog in 2007 while road-tripping around the country for three months.  I spent time in New Orleans, where I helped a man rebuild his house, and bore witness to the devastating fallout that succeeded  hurricane Katrina in 2005.  Thirteen years later, I am on a different road trip, punctuated by its own brand of devastation.   Except this time, its everywhere.  Every media outlet refers to this time as "the new normal".  The constant use of this phrase has a fishy smell.  Shouldn't each of us decide what this is, in our own terms?  The prescriptiveness of it is disconcerting.

"The new normal" refers to the resultant changes from the pandemic, and increasingly, the accompanying civil refusal to tolerate age old forces of nepotism. This current of change has been a slow burn, but the genie is out of the bottle. Most recently, the news has included the dethroning of Confederate monuments in Virginia before cheering crowds.  Not everyone is getting their way.  The night before I drove out of the city, a statue of Fredrick Douglas, the American author and abolitionist, was found in a river gorge in Rochester, debased and destroyed by a cowardly anonymous party.  And now...all these empty pedestals, laden with  all their meaning and potential meaning. New normal in the making.



    Because I am half Irish Catholic, I have a complicated relationship with pedestals. Whether it be a parent, a priest, or a teacher, there is something so comforting about looking up to someone (or something).  All you need to do is know your place. The figure on the pedestal gains so much power, only because you have been conditioned to give it to them.   It is possible, however, to see things another way. With courage and boldness, one can emerge anew, and  the pedestalled figure, looking down, loses it's value.  This is a type of waking up that can happen in a person, when they are ready.  Oswald Spengler, an early 20th century mathematician and philosopher, postulated that mankind is one massive super-organism with a finite lifespan and life stages.  Could this be a growth spurt?

    I  drove out of  Manhattan and through Pennsylvania during a raging Summer storm. Behemoth cargo  trucks raced by blasting water against my windshield in their wake.  My concentration was waning by nightfall.   I slept in my car at a campground off I-80 about an hour outside of Ohio.  In a gas station near my resting place, it was hard to ignore the one person without a mask - a bearded man in a hunting t-shirt playing slots in the candy bar aisle. Throughout the drive, personnel at gas stations and food markets wore masks, but their use was very spotty beyond that.  I wore mine at all times. The few times I almost forgot to wear it, the concern that I would be signifying myself as a Trump supporter was just as alarming as the possibility of violating the social contract into which most of us have hopefully entered as a way of protecting ourselves and each other.



    On day two, it continued to rain hard as I crossed the border into Ohio.  I drove for 8 hours and hoped to cover more ground.  Just as the sun was setting, the engine light came on, followed by a brief deceleration.  The fuel intake lagged, lasting only about a second.  I decided to keep driving with the hope that this would work itself out, as I have successfully wished myself out of automotive troubles before.  So I wished and drove for several more hours in the dark night as the problem grew worse, and the faceless truck drivers signaled their intolerance of the slow-moving impediment with loud groaning honks.



    I stopped at a Quality Inn in Mansfield, Ohio. I perused pamphlets offering guided tours of a local prison while waiting for the concierge to appear.  The young man who emerged from a back room looked like an 18 year old, bleach blond Sean Penn.  I asked him if he knew of any mechanics.  He said he did, and turned out to be a race car enthusiast.  "I've rolled twice," he said.  His turbo-charged Corvette goes from 0 to 60 in 2 seconds, and his father yells at him when he doesn't change his tires before racing.  It "burns lines" on the street and destroys the tires each time the car is raced.

    It is Saturday, and the mechanic is closed until Monday morning.  I drive the length of a vast empty lot and parked in front of my room.  For the two nights that I was there, the only other people I saw were the cleaning crew.  An indoor pool sat half full of water that looked like green gatorade. The patio furniture was strewn about in conversational circles - an echo of more vibrant times.  I began to fear I was stuck in a food desert, and steered in the direction of a  Dominoes Pizza.   I walked passed a lifeless cement factory,  an empty stadium, and over train tracks.   A Mechanics Bank circled by an empty parking lot drew my attention due to its triumvirate of cultural allusions:  Greco-Roman columns, the gabled roof of American suburban aspirations, and the titular designation of the financial institution in service to the working middle class.  Inside the Dominoes, a staff of ten employees took orders over the counter, on the phone, and responded to orders coming over a disruptive omniphonic speaker.  There was no air-conditioning, and the workers sweated into their masks.  I noticed the workers spanned several ages and races, several of them seemingly in their sixties.  I wondered about the circumstances that may cause a person nearing retirement age to have to work in these conditions as I ordered a "cheese steak"  pizza, which I carried back to the hotel, smiling at one of the delivery driver as he passed me with a waving honk.  In the wee hours of the morning, with the air-conditioning while eating pizza in the king-sized bed made up with sheets like white butter, I watched Family Guy, where Peter made a joke about being "more high-maintenance than a white woman on vacation."  Though deeply suspicious of the Dominoes pizza, it won me over with its otherworldly MSG-infused deliciousness.


    Monday morning, I waited in front of 301 Auto Repair as they opened their bay doors.  A pleasant lady in the reception area had me speak with a mechanic who said he would take a look.  While I waited for the verdict, she explained that the Shawshank Redemption had been filmed in Mansfield, and that a newer functioning prison had been built next to the old one used for filming.  I asked her if she was from Mansfield,  She said she was from Portsmouth, 90 minutes west, and that she is never going back.  Portsmouth, she explained, was "the drug capital of the country" and she had there escaped an abusive relationship.  When I asked her about the Portsmouth police, she said they were corrupt and getting paid to help sustain the system.  Nothing new there.

    The mechanic sat down next to me and showed me a printed photo of the solenoid that needed to be replaced and a breakdown of the charges.  $207 for everything.  He presented the information with the greatest of care, like a doctor delivering dubious news to a patient spouse.   I was relieved when he said it would be ready in an hour.  When I signed off on a work order, the lady told me I can keep the pen.  "I have run over mine two times with my jeep, and its still working!" she declared triumphantly.  I am paraphrasing, as she included the year, make, and model including details about its "six-inch lift package".  People in Mansfield know their cars.

    A few minutes of wandering lead to a small civic center.  Workers drove water trucks and drenched  the soil of  flowers arrangements hanging from streetlights. I passed a monument of a European soldier which a few years ago, I would have given no further thought.  In light of recent news concerning the toppling of monuments, I had to wonder: why was this one spared?  Ignored?  Deemed anodyne? The statue was erected in 1998 as a general tribute to soldiers in the area who died fighting for our country.  Around the bend of the wide plaza, a statue of Martin Luther King, erected in 2007.




I photographed a lady watering flowers, whose face struck me with it's Native American features.  Then, I observed two men traversing a grassy hill on their mowers.  One of them posed for me with his cigar dangling in his teeth. He and asked what the picture was for.  I thought about it for a second, and said, "its for my memories".  Content with the answer, he began another lap up the hill, and I pondered how photography is a form of memorialization akin to a bronze facsimile, and noted the shift in my own thinking.  I wanted to retain their images as people alive and functioning - working -today in this changing world.  As if on queue, I noted a small randomly placed  boulder with notable striations - the tell tale signs of geologic time passing glacially, the changes reflected in the different colored bands.