a book slutwalk for NINPHM33.3

Thanks to the ever amazing Mairead Case for a lovely interview she conducted w/ me for Bookslut's October edition.

I've been getting a lot of positive feedback about it, and am always happy to head whatever anyone thinks (musicwriting at gmail dot com). Also, Dan Cavicchi's book Tramps Like Us was a major inspiration for NINPHM33.3. I mailed him a copy hoping he'd enjoy it. Glad to know he did.


On a personal note, I am safely returned to my apartment after four months of travel and study in Pittsburgh, Bratislava, Prague, Portland, Black Rock City, and Asbury Park. I'm more than happy to be home, and to be returning to work. Expect more here.


hysterical machines

Bill Vorn's Hysterical Machines

The Wood Street Gallery, in lovely downtown Pittsburgh, is an awesomely awkward rhombusial early 20th century building with a T-station on the first/underground. There now is this Bill Vorn exhibit, Hysterical Machines.

From Vorn: "The aim of this project is to induce empathy of the viewer towards characters which are nothing more than articulated metal structures. The strength of the simulacra is emphasized by perverting the perception of the creatures, which are neither animals nor humans, carried through the inevitable instinct of anthropomorphism and projection of our internal sensations, a reflex triggered by any phenomenon that challenges our senses."

Initially, it can be intimidating. From the elevator, there is a wave of sound and deep red light, and the viewer can see nothing until she turns the corner into the main gallery space.

A group of robots hang from the ceiling in two tight rows, like factory models, assembly line workers, or, given an anthropomophic read, like bats in a cave. Naked, undressed in plastics, they are wires, pneumatic, LED-flashlights, aluminum rods. They remind me of nearly every "intro to circuit bending/robotics/building your own _____" final class project I've ever seen. A four channel soundtrack, mixed for maximum cinemographic effect, enhances the sound of the pneumatic arms as they snap. Like lobster claws, very percussive.This, to induce empathy, I wonder? The lighting–all purples and pinks–is cool and distopian. The machines react to human movement, but their actions are limited and quickly become demystified. They are soon revealed to be empty signifiers, vessels for projection. The staging seems to be working maximally to induce angst, but done so with the staging that feels like such recieved wisdom as to be kitsch. Know that deep synth sounds and deep purples equal sinister, know that an arm reaching towards you equals aggression. PS: There were no smoke machines when I was there, but if there, that would have been even more ridiculous.

And then there is the "hysteria" of the machines. A feminine sexual disorder, curable in 'pre-modern times' by pregnancy or manual stimulation. What of this for our machines - are they having somatic expressions of stress or trauma? Are we projecting our expressions onto them, or is the whole practice of reading machines as bodies the projection itself? How can we cure this - do we need to tame them somehow, to diagnose them, to educate them?

I wanted to feel this a question of what humanness is, given our world of low-intelligence, high effieciency  (human redundancy) machines. Are we indimidated because we are the redundant ones, we are hysterical?

I felt in Vorn's work a failure to address these more complex questions. The project was impressive but hollow. I got the feeling, as I did at the neighboring gallery SPACE for Eric Singer's musical instruments, that these were programming projects given context in a gallery. To call one's self a "robot artist," as Vorn does, seems to be an apology - why not just artist who uses robotic technologies in expression of something else? 

Perhaps that is the unintentional meaning of the exhibit's title. We are in perpetual technological hysteria, and it seems like fine art is one of the few places taking serious stock of the changes to our selfhood and living that have come from it. But this exhibit feels like a buy in, or at least collusion, of the mystification, not part of the critical inquiry.

A final thought: Bill Vorn's Hysterical Machines sounds like a hilarious post-human circus sideshow, but what would it be if it were a woman's name: Rachel Miller's Hysterical Machines? Juliet McCarthy's Hysterical Machines? Lola Hernandez's Hysterical Machines? That sounds like a 6th Avenue special. Maybe the Ellen Willis test can be applied to exhibit titles too.



She lost her cake shop, and her boyfriend in its closing. Her mother sees only her worst qualities, she lost her temp job, she suspects another bridesmaid of usurping her position in the friend cosmos - and its all obviously in her head. "Of course I opened a bakery in the middle of a recession" she says. So did dozens more. $6 cupcakes are still on sale elsewhere. No, I get the sense that Annie did it to herself, as the soundtrack to Bridesmaids reveals is the larger judgment. Fiona, Courtney, Britney, Ryan Adams - what does these people have in common? Self-sabotage of enormous possibility. And what did Annie do well? She baked.

This is a movie about Annie, Wiig's character, and it is in her moments of solitude that I found the most striking. They weren't about crushes, envy at the trophy wife, or loss of friendship, they were just the eerie quiet that comes into a life of 30 something woman. And so I found myself in that moment of movie magic where I hear an artist as if for the first time -- Fiona Apple -- and know forever that I will love the song because of the scene.

It is a scene where Annie sneaks into the kitchen when her Albino roommates are gone and there is a moment's solitude. Here the fuck-up, hurtful, desperate, and mugging loser is gone.  She is at her best: at work, absorbed in the creation of beauty. The sound is non-diegetic: the viewer is brought into her head, and the song is inside it. While it plays she bakes a single lavender cupcake, paints delicate fondant leaves and petals, and set the thing on her counter. She admires the creation for just a moment. As the song ends, she takes a bite.


She is first offered to bake after a one night stand with the "right guy," a good-natured cop who listens and laughs and twinkles and all those things the right guy should do. He sets out nesting bowls, ingredients, tools, and entreats her to bake. "I will be here to eat." She pauses, confused. "I'm not something you can just fix up," she says, then backs away and flees. The fear of love comes from knowing its end, I suppose, and as the audience thinks "go back" it is also with knowledge that we've all run the other way when someone stretched out a hand, fearful that it would be puled back just when we were getting steady.

Later we get the montage of her on the mend after a wrestling match with herself (everyone needs a friend willing to externalize "your shitty life" with a smack in the face), and in that montage we see her baking, but this time she whips up something big, too big for just one bite. It's an apology delivered in a pink box to the cop's door, which he finds, ignores, and leaves on his doorstep. She drives by daily to witness the progress. Her best, her desire: a tender and vulnerable thing, rejected and gone to trash, torn apart by hungry vermin no less.

And we hear in the final scene that the cop snuck out, fended off the raccoons, and grabbed a bite -- the stoicism let down away from her gaze, the essense of longing that brings him back. But what of this desire turned into cake -- does it end with the satisfaction of a kiss? In the sequel, I would be happier if the cop was gone, or at least settled, and her shop back in action. That is her true happy ending.


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