If I know you, this is the first time you’re reading this. I hid this in the pages of that book you’ve been carting around for the last few months, and you’ve probably never gotten around to actually checking it out. I would say that it says something about you, but we already know that…
Since you are holding onto the book, it means I’m not around. I can’t say that I’m all that surprised it came to this, but it must have been a shock to you. Let me assure you that I would never have put this on anyone but you because I know you can handle it. It’s always been a relief to know that you’ve been around.
Sorry if the pages seem a bit wet, there’s a pipe leak in the building. I figure as long as I’m moving out, the next tenants can have that as a homecoming present. At least it’d keep them on their toes, eh?
God, it’s funny. My dad always told me that life would come in ebbs and flows, little eddying patterns in the stream and that sort of thing. You know how metaphorical he would get. But I never seemed to get that. As far as I figured, life was this big tidal wave that sort of enveloped you, and it was luck and perseverance that determined if you got to the surface. I’m not a pessimist, but it just didn’t seem like there was all that much placidity to the whole thing. From the moment you’re born, you’re having to learn and use an insane amount of information. Walking, talking, running, testing… Jesus, if we ever sat down and wrote down the shit we picked up in a year, we’d be living in cabins made from the tidbits.
It’s ridiculous. You learn not to touch hot metal, but that the hot metal can be handled with plastic. Plastics are a series of hydrocarbons with fluorine and chlorine attached periodically within saturated structures. Chlorofluorocarbons are polluting the ozone, baking us eventually when the sun hits us at full capacity. The Phoenix Suns play an “Eight Seconds or Less” style of of offense, creating more scoring opportunities but limiting their defensive efficiency. It’ll take you at least five shots to score in a night club. Five is represented by a V in Roman numerals, the Romans used inclusive counting….
Honestly, that’s one of the main reasons I’m not staying around. Fuck it, you know? I’m tired of information. Hell, I can’t even write this long without dissecting my damn sentence into parts of speech.
But that’s not what I wanted to say, so I’ll change gears.
Remember when we were in high school, and you were into that Model UN junk? You’d bring me to every meeting, every research session, even to the meets. Like the time at Meadow Creek where you had to fake dizziness and have me sit in on the thing so I could monitor you, saying you were from a cloistered family and you were very particular about how you were treated. You were so desperate, weren’t you? And then I had to sit there for six goddamn hours, holding some aspirin you had cut up and convinced the teacher or whatever that it was for your fits. You had everyone going for the longest time.
You even had me going for the longest time, in a way. As stupid and uninteresting it was, I managed to sit through every last event. I actually ended up chatting up some of the other political nerds in the group, I was there so long. Dylan (was it Dylan? Well, I’m calling him Dylan, but I’m sure you know the guy I’m referencing) and I had a good long chat, and I decided to ask him how you had been doing. You know, so I knew how much to rag on you. But he caught me off guard. He told me you were hardly there.
I dug around, and I found out that although you had told me you group only met twice a month, they were actually meeting twice a week. You sessions with the group for research were happening three times as often as you were leading me to believe. Dylan outright told me that you hadn’t even bothered to come to their elections. You, Mr. Parliamentary Procedure, all gung-ho about participating in the smallest things… you weren’t there for the easiest vote you’d ever have to make in your teenage life.
I thought about confronting you face-to-face about it. After all, you were dragging my ass around for all this, and you weren’t even doing it right. I had planned out a big performance in front of Ms. Almonte’s or Alfredson or whatever’s room right before the next meeting. “Hey, man, what gives? You’re a no-show? What the hell are you doing?” I would shout, my voice never getting shrill but instead in a dulcet baritone. Like those announcers on credit commercials, you know the ones. And you’d be sitting there, all stammering and confused. And I’d get this enormous smile on my face. It’d be like one of those Greek masks. And then I’d pivot myself to face the interior of the class, hands extended to the rest of the students.
“I pass the floor to the rest of your constituency.”
And as the group would begin to tell you off, I would leave. My escape would be heralded by the newly-inspired rage of the disenfranchised nerds; they would kick you out of their club for wasting their time and effort, and I would wear the resulting depression and anxiety around my neck like a pimp.
Because you would be my bitch, just as I had been yours all this time.
Now, obviously, I thought better of it. And no, it’s not because I was a good person and I realized the shame that I would put on you would be horrible. Hell, I would have loved that part. But I thought about why you did it. And I looked back at out freshman yearbook, and the thing you had wrote on my cover.
“We’re gonna rule the world! Together forever!“
That’s your problem, you know? You haven’t lived your life. It’s been our life, whether it’s you and me or you and Jeanne or you and your problems. You’re always living in tandem, and you can’t stand it when you go solo. For the past ten years, I’ve kept this revelation to myself, hoping you’d realize it before… well, this.
So this is a long time coming. It’s something I knew I had to do to get you to wake up. I’m just following through on it now. You’re not a group, you’re not a set. Hell, you’re not a duo. For better or worse, you ultimately are you and you alone. Not that you can’t share your life, but it has to be YOURS to share. I know you can do it. I mean, why would I have done this if I didn’t have confidence it would work? But it’s on you. Hopefully, by the time you read this, you’ll have seen the light. Just wish I could be there when you do.
Alright, take it easy, and I’ll see you on the flip side.
Barry.
“I don’t know how I got here, to be honest with you. Well, here, sure, yeah. Here. But that’s A to B. Figure I started at a, um, Q? X? Something like that. Q to A, that’s a leap, innit? My god.
“Well, got here like you – running from that storm. Ain’t that a bitch? Sky was clear as can be, gorgeous weather… and then monsoon! Fsh, right on in. It’s the worst, cause I got my nice clothes on. Five hundred dollars here! I hope I can wear this again, you know. All the rain water’s got, like, mineral buildup and chemicals mixed in now – you get it in the fabric, it’s like, ‘Goodbye, clothes budget!’ And I can’t tell, but don’t think there’ll be a Men’s Warehouse out in bum-fuck Deliverance country.
“Jesus, look at me, rambling like some soda-high teenager…
“I’m Mike, but people keep calling me ‘the Architect’ or something ridiculous. ‘The Orator’… for god’s sake, I’m a manager at an IT firm! You’d think, ‘Programmer,’ maybe. Even the usual ‘geek’ or ‘loser.’ But nope, ‘Orator.’ People got no sense of suitability for these things.
“Like, Kobe goes out and calls himself ‘Black Mamba.’ The hell? You want to sound dangerous going by some racist hat dance? I know, I know, it’s a poisonous snake. Yeah, yeah. You ever see one? The best most people do is a Wikipedia search. So even the best player in the game’s got no sense about it. God.
“So what brings you here?”
I had been stirred from sleep by his yelling at the sky. I acknowledged him, and groggily went back to my slumber.
I met an Artist, passing him on a path in the forest. Malnourished, his feeble hands clutched at a sign he had evidently written from the materials present around him. It simply read, “I am the Artist, ask me if you wish to learn.” Having little purpose in the forest to begin, I decided to humor the wretch.
“I wish to learn. What does the Artist have to teach me?”
His eyes darted to match mine, and an unexpected steely gaze startled me.
“Only that art is death.”
Simple enough, I thought. I wonder how he will expound on this.
A minute passed. We stared, unblinking, each all but goading the other into action. I noticed the sign in his hand was still. He remained as placid as the trees surrounding us, save his piercing eyes.
I broke first. “Art is death?”
“Yes.” His voice barely registered – a dusty whisper, as though words were sewn into the autumn winds. “Art is death. Art is made, art lives, breathes, and soon enough art is dead. Art is life, but life is death in contrary colors. So art is death.”
“Art dies, huh? Find that hard to believe.”
“You will see.”
“Well, what about museums? They hold countless masterpieces – sculptures, paintings, manuscripts, scores – any form and function imaginable. What of that?”
“Those are not pieces of art. Those are edifices. Both contain beauty, both contain truth and wisdom, skill and passion. But one remains and one dies.”
“Edifices? You would equate a Van Gogh to a municipal building or a Michelangelo to a factory?”
“Why don’t you?”
I halted, taken aback by the arbitrary nature of the retort. I began to notice a particular elevation in that voice, now at a conversational level.
“Why is a spattering of dyes on a canvas any more beautiful than a steel monolith? Does harmonic theory have inherent truth or relevance that escapes architectural theory? All things that are made have beauty. All things are artistic.
“Take, for instance, a schoolhouse. Nothing more than bricks, glass, and metal in a rigidly upright form. But your childhood is spent in awe of its presence, either imposing or inviting. Playing on the playground, you memorize every detail of the area – the dents in the reflective surface of the slide, the acclimated dirt casing the rungs of the monkey bars in a dusty brown residue, even the patches of mulch under the jungle gym that have been worn far more than the others in its use. Tell me there is no artistic merit in that.”
I could not.
“Now that you can see that an edifice is not an antithesis to art, understand that both are creations. They are crafted by man with intent and skill, for a specific purpose. One does not happen to make the Empire State Building. One does not happen to write a novel. One chooses and intends to do these things.”
“Yes, but their intentions are entirely antithetical. Art is made for beauty. Though it is beautiful, edifice is made in spite of beauty. Edifice is made for utility.”
“Nothing is made without a purpose of utility. A man may sculpt for a living. A man may compose for fame. A man may sketch because a primal force compels him to. But in all these instances, art is still the means by which something is accomplished or satisfied.
“What separates edifice from these forms, however, is longevity. Greek philosophy and aesthetic, the forebears to Western art, no longer exist. There are no longer philosophers or artists that adhere to these forms. But Greek architecture has survived. Architects and designers still utilize Hellenic principles and innovations to this day.”
I am forced to respond, “But art survives. I can see the Mona Lisa in the Louvre. I can listen to Handel.”
“They have been transformed into edifice. Who are you to say that pieces of greater esteem than those mentioned have not existed? Art is perpetually formed, perpetually made into reality. And yet it is exhausted, either destroyed by new discoverers or lost due to negligence of its owners. Perhaps it is destroyed, even. But each piece of art has an expiration date.
“Edifice, on the other hand, exists to exist. A watch is constructed meticulously to precisely read a specific measure of time. But even if it is broken and does not read at all, you can hold the watch. The same is true of art made into edifice. Even if the Mona Lisa were to be vandalized this night, and torn to pieces and burnt – even if this happened, it would exist. We have copied the image to the point that one could draw it by memory. The image exists even if the original may not.”
“A volcano may erupt several thousand times, but eventually it falls to dormancy. However, rivers may persist for centuries with no sign of deterioration. Art is volcanic, powerful and passionate yet transient. Edifice flows like the river, persistent and eternal.”
Thunder roared in the background as I listened to his speech. The sky had become sooty and threatening without notice, and I needed to seek shelter. I thanked the Artist for his time, and asked if he wished to join me.
“No thank you,” he said with a Shrodinger’s smile. “The rains are coming. Perhaps they will flood the stream nearby.”
I will be working on a fictional photo journal as part of an experiment with a medium I’m not as strong in until the beginning of August. Please contact me or leave a comment if you would like to help in any way, or if you just want to see drafts and the like. Please note that if your contributions and likeness appear in this project, I intend to place this in the public domain; therefore, keep in mind that your work is out of your hands once published.
The Premise
Vince Sutton wakes with a entirely foreign sensation in his bones. He has, in the course of the evening, lost all sense of humanity. People walking on the street, racing to some unknown toil – people sitting in a restaurant, exchanging flesh and death as favors – people lying on parkside hills, holding hands as though the act were meaningful in a global way. The world is fast becoming a torrent of activity, and yet Vince feels inundated by the arbitrary nature of it all. But still he watches, and slowly secrets reveal themselves.
Positions Desired/Required
Co-Drafter
Storyboard Concept Artist
Photographer
Again, let me know if you’re interested, or if you’d like to offer alterations or altogether new ideas for the subject.
The Ancient Greeks had an annual festival known as the City Dionysia, honoring the God of Wine with retelling of myths and religious rites. The separation between this festival and more traditional services, however, was born from the resourcefulness of a man named Thespis. In his telling of the scripted material, he, in a radical separation from his peers, found a form of narrative never previously attempted – narration from the perspective and voice of the character. For his ingenuity, he was given a goat (an animal of paramount importance to the patron god) and became the first actor in Western history.
And he was the last true artist.
Every sculptor, every painter, every writer, actor, singer… every craftsman and artist that follows Thespis carries with them and in them a hidden weight. An onus bogs them down from theoretical levels into the mundane sphere of our reality, inescapable and inextricably woven into the tapestry of our cultural and spiritual DNA. Many try to divorce themselves from it, either wittingly or unwittingly, and all remain within its grasp.
From the moment Thespis stepped forward and delivered the first instance of performance art, he introduced the concept of art as a commodity, as an item that existed in an economic sense; for receiving value for art, Thespis created a dichotomy of worth and un-worth and a standard of measure to separate the two as it pertained to art.
The Dionysia, the religious festival, was so affected by the shift that within a hundred years, it had changed into a largely theatrical week – even bawdy, base satires had entries that won awards at the summation of the ceremonies. When Greece was taken over by Rome some time afterward, Rome found performance troupes; that is to say, performers who worked purely for payment. In Greece and Rome, artists were paid to put sculptures, frescoes, and all sorts of lavish decor into the homes of the wealthy and famous. Virgil’s opus (and considered one of the few great artistic contributions from the Roman Empire), the Aeneid was commissioned by Emperor Augustus to further cement his legitimacy as ruler of Rome.
Even after the Dark Ages forced a cultural hard reset on the Western World, the ramifications of Thespis’ reward were felt. The church began using performance to draw common crowds, pandering in small part because their sermons were in Latin and the masses were illiterate. Italy birthed the reincarnation of the performance troupes, now known as the Commedia Dell’Arte. The Renaissance brought with it the return of paintings and sculptures as the standard expression of opulence and worth, rekindling interest in professional painters and sculptors.
Today, we are left with the extremes of this deriving – publishing contracts, records deals, commissions and studio display costs, performers’ unions, and so on. There is no more artistic, as it were – only the capitalistic.
This is not to debase or devalue modern incarnations of art. This is not to say that art now is “better” or “worse” than it was when Thespis performed. This is saying, however, that there is a value that at one point didn’t exist. Even Shakespeare in the Park, a free endeavor, values the performance as being equal to the time and effort of the performers as well as the time and effort of the audience. Even Kurt Cobain went on MTV Unplugged before his suicide.
Even I am hoping someone will read this.
I can only hope that one day, all this will change. I want art to be unnecessary again, to be something people do purely because they want to, not because it has some value or proves worth.
I want art to exist in a vacuum, just for art’s sake.
1
Two lovers embrace in a wooded grove. Their bodies crash and their jaws jut in jagged lines, tongues freely taking of the salts of their bodies. Thoughts and words are cast to the night, supplanted by cries and screams of base carnality. Minutes, hours of the mutual assault reverberate through the earth itself – the now-infirm firmament caving in time. At last, the bitters of the cocktail still fresh in the air, the man takes to rest as the woman turns to the staring stars; she knows they are not watching her, but she can’t help but feel small in their presence, as though the eyes of God were in the sky tonight.
2
The lovers return to work, their liaison occurring the night before the launch. His urgings were made in haste, his fears of death overwhelming his fears of rejection. “I can’t leave without… you know…” She did. Intimately, she understood his isolation, the dull whirl of the ceiling fan on a Saturday night as one watched the battery on their cell phone wear down to nothing. She too was wanting for something. So despite the forwardness of his advance, she acquiesced. She told herself that it was nothing more than brief sexuality- no consequence. But as the countdown commenced and the numbers drew inevitably closer to nothing, she couldn’t help but feel that, in a way, she wasn’t getting off that easy.
Let me begin by stating that I effectively traded a semester, a year of my life for five rehearsals and two performances. Perhaps forty people came to watch, and I would not take the time back.
The show was Charles Mee’s Summertime, a play that fractures the lives of (in this production) six people all plagued by love and life. Each person pieces themselves together existentially, to varying degrees. I came into the process two weeks late; my participation, enabled by the stress of another, was unplanned but necessary and – I can only conjecture – welcome. Over a week, I learned an hour-long script and laid the groundwork for character development for the only man in this existential torrent that possessed recognition of the situation. Metaconsciousness in the form of words and gestures.
We performed in an abandoned amphitheatre. The forestation of the area nearly complete, seating areas and the stage itself were consumed by roots, bark, and leaves. As we cleared the natural world so we may co-inhabit, the director (Anastasia Sullivan, referred to onwards as Sully) and myself came across an emblem:
It was the front to an old button. It was merely casing, the fastening mechanism lost to time and history. It was plain, a repeating ivy hatching with intermittent cerulean and crimson flowers. At first, it appeared to be stained; however, once washed of debris and grime, it proved to be immaculate. Free of stain, free of a past. New.
We remarked on this wonderous item, and then almost unthinkingly she offered it to me. I put it in my pocket, and for the time being we resumed rehearsal.
I would keep this token in my pocket for the entire process, through two performances receiving strong approval. Once completed, it became a part of my usual clutter, the significance buried in forgetfulness and apathy. This was in spring.
Summer came. My life shifted to the conventional – work, friends, sleep, family, stress, fear, and the rest. Though healthy and alive, passion had left. Then the emblem resurfaced.
It had found its way into my laundry, and I went to retrieve my basket, it sat on the washing machine. Knowing. Metaconscious, knowing it was waiting for me and that I would come. Upon rediscovering this memorial, I recalled every anxious flutter in my core, every sleepless night of memorization and every moment of joy in doing the work I love.
Overwhelmed, I ran to my room and put it on my desk. Lowering myself to the bed, I was helpess as the flood of memories inundated my person, catching my mind in the undertow and carrying everything I was with it. Swimming against the current, I knew I had to do something.
Tonight, I walked a path I hadn’t walked since middle school. The path of my youth. Feeling foreign, I could only smile and nod as children and mothers, fathers and sons, Little League athletes and high school graduates passed me, no doubt returning to their houses to end their days. Whole lives passed through me as these lives passed around me. Taking the casing to an isolated part of the road in the forest, I set to work.
I pressed it within the pages of a pocket Moleskin, with Summertime scrawled above its resting place in hasty pen marks. Placing it on the ground, I fought to maintain Stoic objectivity in the artistic gesture as I endeavored to set the pages ablaze.
Eventually, the book caught and the flames rose from the dark pavement. I was transfixed as it cracked and seered, its paper-fueled combustion straining against the less flammable cover. The heat virus that was the flame was not to be denied, though, and an hour was marked by the death of the last of the charred medium fluttering into the air. Working though the soot and ash with a branch, I sought some sort of proof, one way or the other. Time became inconsequential as I sorted, and then
There it was. Unmarked. Unsullied. New. The memories wouldn’t die. They were mine forever.
As I endeavored home, I set the button top on the ledge of a bridge, along with a note.
If you find me, please keep me. Remember the day you came across me, and hold it forever. This is yours, the gift of the Floral Blaze in the Summer Heat.
