February 1998 mystery date by Michael Sippey |
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Michael is one of those New Media Hack Wannabes who sold out for dreams of a Pentium laptop, a successful IPO, and home ownership. Currently developing his own personal business model, Michael's favorite color is blue, he enjoys walks on the beach and he has a fetish for shoulder bags and those clackety keyboards with the "right feel." When recently asked to comment on his writing, he could only bark "woof." (See his excellent work at Stating the Obvious
Surfaces
Yesterday afternoon I went out into the raining California winter to get a
sandwich, and as I crossed College Avenue I was struck by the simplest
thing -- a reflection of a passing vehicle in the richly wet
pavement. For a brief moment, the street defied its own nature and
created the illusion of depth. It was beautiful.
Then again, I'm a sucker for surfaces.
Walk me through any gallery or museum in the world and I'll gravitate to
the 'painterly' canvases, the ones where there's enough eye candy right up
front that they defy any attempt at finding "deeper meaning." Regardless
of how much I've read or how many classes I've sat in, as soon as I'm
confronted with Pollack's "Autumn Rhythm," I forget everything I've
learned about how he reinvented the notion of "painting." Instead, I
spend twenty minutes trying to follow a single thread of blue paint across
the canvas. As an undergrad I wrote a paper that attempted to make a
connection between Immanuel Kant and Jasper Johns; now when I see the flag
paintings I just get lost in the deep layers of encaustic.
A few years ago I went through a Greil Marcus phase, reading everything of
his I could get my hands on. I devoured "Mystery Train" and "Dead Elvis"
looking for meaning in the King. I raced through "Lipstick Traces" trying
to comprehend the cultural significance of the Sex Pistols. And I
swallowed "Ranters and Crowd Pleasers" whole, hoping to finally comprehend
the political undertones of Elvis Costello's records.
These days, my car radio is always tuned to either the "modern rock" or
the "adult contemporary" station, just so I can occasionally catch a
snippet or two of a well-engineered drum-track or catchy backing vocal.
I've come to realize that the pop song is the producer's art, who, with a
few twists of the dials can turn simple lyrics of lost love into beautiful
moments of stereosonic perfection.
I know now that the reason I love Elvis Presley is because he could sing
and dance (and do both at the same time until he reached Las Vegas), not
because he was culturally significant. I know this the same way that I
know that I fell in love with Bob Mould's music not for his devastating
lyrics of relationship angst, but for the delicious major-chord "crunch"
of his guitar.
While a painter can rely on the physical properties of oil or acrylics or
encaustic, and a record producer can fall back on the usual digital
tricks, it's harder to create a beautiful surface using nothing but words.
I'm not talking about writing about surfaces, but rather, the
shellacked sheen that can coat a paragraph and simply make it wonderful to
read, regardless of the content underneath. Nabokov was always good at
this; I remember not a whit of "Ada," save the memory of lying awake until
2 am devouring his sentences. Kundera, too, despite the fact that his
books are transparently political, almost to a fault. In "Unbearable
Lightness of Being" he sketches a character in a single, delicious
sentence. "Tereza's mother blew her nose noisily, talked to people in
public about her sex life, and enjoyed demonstrating her false teeth."
There are obvious reasons why surfaces hold so much appeal. They're quick
and easy...I can consume a beautiful surface in just a fraction of the
time it may take me to comprehend fully a more complex piece. A rich
surface, whether it's on a painting, a pop song or a paragraph, whispers
"take me" and speeds the process towards that moment of cultural conquest
when I can say to myself "ahhh...I get it."
But that seduction is dangerous, obviously. Seductive in the worst sense
of the word, in that surfaces can "lead astray...by flattering
appearances." I'm a child of music television, as if that's a surprise to
anyone. Like many folks my age, I have a habit of "consuming from the
hip." I seek, I find, I consume, I move on. It damn well better taste
good, otherwise I won't stick around to find out what's really going on
with a painting, a song, a novel. I've trained myself to have little
patience for anything beyond surface.
For now, this works for me, believe it or not. "I'm busy, I have no time,
I have no patience, I have no capacity for sustained attention," I tell
myself. Pollack is just fine as a canvas of entwined strings of paint; who
needs Kundera's labyrinthine of structures when you have his raw
sentences; and Elvis sure could swing his hips, couldn't he? I can live
on a diet of surfaces, because there are just so many out there to enjoy.
But I fear -- natch, know -- that beyond those surfaces is a whole
other world inhabited by "serious" thought. Theories, ideas, movements,
broad sweeps of history that are most likely the real message behind the
seductive medium. I know that someday I'll wake up and all my critical
faculties will have been decimated by years of living this way; that I'll
wake up and discover that a façade is no longer just a façade, it's now
the entire architecture.
I know the day will come when I'll feel like Nick Shay, Don DeLillo's
anti-hero in "Underworld," confronting a blacked-out New York City in
November of 1965... "I was a stranger here. I knew Manhattan at only at
street level, fitfully, and felt a little isolated, and the place scared
me with its knowingness, its offhand vaunt, a style of mind and guise that
can be harder to learn than some dialect of the Transvaal."
In the meantime, pass that Spiritualized record, wouldja?
back to the junk drawer
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