Thermal
Noise
June
28, 1993
Yesterday
I was up early. I used the extra time to hang my photographs on the wall. At least
they off the floor and out of the way. I called Alan to set up a time to return
three compact discs he lent me. He said he was a little groggy. He'd been up till
four and said he's getting too old to do that anymore. Alan told me a story about
going to a beer fest and meeting an interesting and attractive woman. He's always
doing that. So am I. The big difference is that eventually, women decide that
he doesn't have what they want, while in my case, they immediately know that they
don't want what I have. Makes you think.
He
told me he was almost ready to buy a computer for image processing. His next direction
as an artist was going to be determined by technology. I asked Alan if there had
been any fallout from his show in New York. He said, "Not really."
We
had a long discussion about the state of his work. I realized that the general
remarks I'd made about art in his truck when we drove back from New York were
too elliptical for him to understand, so I made specific criticism of his show.
He expressed concern about the poor lighting there and interest in the effect
of seeing his work on the wall as a body rather than as single images. I expressed
concern about the formal weakness, the intellectual muddle and the emotional sterility
that I saw in his photographs and in Tim's. I drew particular attention to the
way that they both seem to take a stance of neutrality, of smirking objectivity.
"I
think that many photographers peek through a machine at the world. It's like they
want to control it.(note 35) Your suspension
of judgment is a refusal to participate. Your refusal to be in the landscape,
like the small size of the prints, ends up excluding the viewer. After all, the
most important thing about a camera is that it sees from a particular locus. You
need to develop your point of view. That's much more important than questions
about subject matter and technique. What's so great about the way you look at
things that anybody would want to acquire it by looking at images you make?"
We
had a detailed discussion covering many of the problems I saw in Alan's work.
He told me it was the only thorough criticism he had been given. He wouldn't have
sought it out. Alan is too disengaged.
Our
talk turned toward politics and the environment. I observed that the word "crisis"
comes from the Greek "krisis" which was a medical term describing the turning
point where the patient either got better or died. Alan perceptively noted that
"critical" also has the same sense of dividing and we checked to find that it
comes from the same root. Despite the length of our conversation, we failed to
arrange a meeting before we hung up.
I
finished reading Greeks, Romans and Barbarians and liked his model of core-periphery
trade relationships. Cunliffe says that there is a pattern of raw materials flowing
in from the provinces and luxury goods flowing out to pay for them. The peripheral
chiefs use these goods to enhance their positions and become dependent upon this
trade. That description of the economic interaction between societies at different
levels of development adds an interesting dimension to the dynamics that we usually
describe as imperialistic.
Now
I'm reading Etruscan Life and Afterlife a handbook of Etruscan studies
edited by Larissa Bonfante. I'm curious how it will compare to Emily Vermuele's
excellent Aspects of Death in Early Greek Art and Poetry.
I
went to Paul's for our usual brunch. On the way I found myself thinking about
symbiosis. I'd always heard it defined as mutual parasitism. But the second law
of thermodynamics demonstrates that at least one of the organisms in the exchange
must suffer a net loss so could hardly be described as a parasite. Symbiosis as
I understood it is impossible.
After
we ate we went to my place to watch a Hitchcock film. When it ended, we had to
hurry to get to the Institute for Contemporary Art before 5:00 when Margo
was leaving. We arrived ten minutes before closing time and had enough time to
see the Crosscurrents exhibit. It was practically just a bunch of polaroids
of transvestites. The ICA seems to reach for the flimsiest of trends in
an effort to be avant garde. Margo and a few of her co-workers were just finishing
up. It was their last day as they'd all been laid off. There was a lot of talk
about the plan to staff the galleries with volunteers. The main points seemed
to be that there wouldn't be enough high quality volunteers for the plan to work.
They said that nobody would want to do it. I had to remind them that I did volunteer
work at the MFA and was sure that if anybody thought the ICA was
important, they would make sure it remained open. (My own opinion of popular judgment
is so skeptical that I assume the ICA will have little trouble finding
volunteers to keep it open).
Margo's
friend, Scott, joined us and we spent a half hour or so in the office while the
ex workers packed up their personal things and said their farewells. Paul, Margo,
Scott and I got into Margo's car and drove to East Boston to attend a cookout
at Machiko's house. I didn't know anybody there except the friends I'd come with
and I remarked to Paul how funny it was to be at another party in East Boston
but with Margo wondering where Chris and Crash were instead of with Chris and
Crash wondering where Margo was. I went over to the grill to barbecue myself a
burger and found myself talking to Mary. She was using a partially melted plastic
spatula and I located a metal one and offered it to her. She told me that she
is an athlete. Triathlons and all that. The plastic spatula indicated that she
had an athlete's brain. I thought about Heidi's bicycle race and regretted my
comment to Paul about the symmetry with the last party.
Margo
introduced me to her friend, Machiko, about whom I'd been hearing for several
years. Machiko's studio is right across the street from where I live. She could
look out of her window into my living room if I didn't have curtains. We had never
met before but she was very friendly and a refreshingly gracious hostess. She
introduced me to her roommate, Deb. Deb is a jeweler. She said that she remembered
me. After a while she realized that she has seen me delivering work to the Society
of Arts and Crafts where she works. Chris and Crash arrived and I spoke with
them for a while. I don't know them very well. They are really friends of Paul's.
They all grew up together in Pittsburgh.
I
walked over to Paul who was talking with a woman whose name I didn't catch. She
was telling him that she's a biologist at Harvard. Her specialty is parasitism
and symbiosis so I was interested in what she knew.
I
said to her, "It's funny that you're here. I was just thinking about symbiosis
earlier and I don't understand how there can be such a thing."
She
said that she thought what I said was weird. "I don't usually meet people who
think about these things. Do you read Scientific American?"
I
don't. She said that there had just been an article about symbiosis in it. I hadn't
read it. As I talked with this woman, I found that she said some interesting things
but, seemed to have trouble understanding the simple questions that I asked her.
They were clear to Paul. She recommended Edmund Wilson's On Human Nature
about which I've been curious. She said that it was controversial. Especially
about sex. We spoke for some time without her showing any curiosity about who
we were or what we thought. Deb joined us and it was as if some hormonal switch
was thrown. Instantly, the conversation between them turned to women's roles in
society and what great progress attended the advent of Hillary Clinton.
I
asked, "How can you call it progress for women, when her position is a consequence
of her marriage to the President of the United States?"
Seeming
a little offended, they explained, "She didn't marry the President. He was nobody
when she met him."
I
said, "It was nice meeting you but we have to go now."
Paul
and I backed away slowly. We didn't want any trouble.
Once
we were safely in the car, Margo asked me what I thought of the woman she saw
me talking to for so long.(note 36)
I told her that she knew some interesting stuff, but when they started rhapsodizing
about Hillary Clinton, it was more than I could stomach.
Margo
asked, "What don't you like about Hillary Clinton?"
"Well,
I don't care for her personally, but that's not the problem. To me she represents
so much of what I find objectionable in contemporary political thought (her statism,
moralism, compassionism and communitarianism) that I hardly have time to be disturbed
by her role as a media icon." Margo pointed out that she has done some good things.
I
said, "No doubt."
Friday,
July 2, 1993
I
haven't been sleeping well. When I finally got out the door, I went to the museum
to deliver the last prints for the bronze age catalogue. Amy (this is still another
Amy) said she was pleased with my work and said that I'd get copies when it is
published in a few years. My next project will be the creation of an electronic
database for the classical collection. I think that I'll also have to take more
responsibility for the department's various computer systems once Amy (who has
been managing them) is gone. It will be a lot of work because I don't know much
about that stuff.
On
my way out, I took a quick glance at the watercolor show. Although there were
no big surprises, I found many wonderful paintings by my favorite artists. I want
to go back when I have the leisure to study them more.
I
had to run some errands in Cambridge. I went to Hubba Hubba to borrow a
videotape from Suzy. While there, I mentioned my upcoming show at the nearby Middle
East and she said that I should leave some flyers to put up in the store.
Suzy asked me if I'd heard the news about Cindy. She'd had words with somebody
and no longer worked there.(note 37)
I wonder if that means my show is off. When I got home I called her machine. It
said that she no longer worked at the Middle East and any questions about
art exhibitions should be directed to the management. I called them and got no
answer.
I
went to bed early. Before I fell asleep, the intercom buzzed. It was Bethany.
She said she was in the neighborhood and wanted to say, "Hi." I let her in. She
asked if she woke me up. It was only 11:00 or so and there was no reason to assume
it was too late. I agreed with her and said, "It's fine. Come on in."
Bethany
said, "I can't. I just came up to see how you're doing. I didn't catch you in
your underwear."
"You
should be so lucky. I can get dressed faster than you can make it up all those
stairs. What have you been up to lately?"
Bethany
said, "I am on my way home from Foley's where I had two or three beers
and thought I'd stop by and see you for a minute. I've been really busy lately.
I'll let you know when I can plan going to New York. It'll be a while. I've been
feeling inspired and I'm getting into using ugly, rusty metal things that I find.
I'm getting out of town tomorrow and I'm working Sunday. I don't know yet what
I'll be doing Monday. Call me."
I
asked, "When should I call you? Sunday night?"
She
said, "I don't know. Well, I gotta go."
Bethany
left.
Saturday,
July 3, 1993
This
morning, I called the Middle East. The man who answered told me to call
back after 6:00. When I called back, a man answered. I asked him to let me speak
with the person who is in charge of the exhibitions. He seemed confused and handed
the phone to a woman. She told me to call Cindy. When I said that I'd heard that
Cindy didn't work there anymore she told me, "Cindy handled the bookings and should
know who she's turned it over to."
I
called Cindy and her machine said to leave a message.
I
did.