Incidentia

 

Hard Shopping

Home

 

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.