Bird & Schneller's Sonic Arboretum 22-12-11

If someone were to ask me to describe ideal pneumonia-inducing weather, I would probably draw upon last Thursday's in Chicago as the prime example. Luckily, I only had to endure a good half-hour while waiting in a rather disorganized and disgruntled line in front of the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art. Even if I am to potentially die from exposure, my experience one indoors was worth every bit of lung I may or may not cough up.

What I'd been standing in line for was a long awaited Andrew Bird show. I had attended one last year at the Fourth Presbyterian Church, which was quite good, but I hadn't gotten the Bird fix I needed. This year's show, which took full advantage of the Museum, was far more of a happy combination of both art and music.

As much signature to Andrew Bird as carefree head-shaking and performing barefoot, the Sonic Arboretum, as the installation is know, focused on Bird's idiosyncratic gramophone-like horn speakers (made by Ian Schneller), and how arrangement of sound can come to affect surroundings.

The show itself was quite good. Bird announced preemptively that he was a tad sick (I'd guess on account of the weather), and apologized if he had to turn to instrumental pieces only. Somehow, with the help of copious glasses of water, he pulled through, dishing out favorites like Skin Is My, Plasticities, Tables and Chairs, Lazy Projector, It's Not Easy Being Green, and something I deeply regret not to have recorded- Effigy. The open floor provided plenty of room to move around and, of course, to creep closer and closer to the stage. The horn speakers did their work as well, occasionally bursting with sound and surrounding the audience with Bird's crooning and layered instrumentals. It was a relatively short performance, but a great one. And Bird definitely deserved a full bottle of Nyquil for being able to squeeze out an encore.

The installation was rightfully stunning even long after the show had ended. As intended, the gallery of the MCA  was open to wander through as recordings of Bird playing vague instrumental tunes and harmonizing (recorded earlier by Bird in the same museum) seemed to both lead and accompany visitors through every room, while still retaining their own presence. A very particular effect was achieved. Bird himself puts it best:

"As a composer, I am interested in how one's environment and the scale of a landscape affect one's musical imagination; how seeing a storm approach, pass overhead and continue eastward can calibrate the mind to hear music beyond the 8 bar phrase. How the surrounding walls of sand stone at Zion National Park provoke their own frequencies, or the wind strumming through a field of prairie grass has its own phrasing. A steamy mossy forest in the northwest has a certain grain and texture." (Event Pamphlet)

This really did give a walk through the gallery far more dimension than one in silence, and seemed to seamlessly tie the installation in with the regular works. Schneller's speakers were a work of art on their own, serving both a stellar aesthetic and auditory purpose. If anything, the Sonic Arboretum was a sensory wonder.

(As a side-note, I strongly suggest a listen to a recording of Bird's live show at the Rio Theater earlier this year.)

Pedantic Social Commentary No. 2: “I was born in the wrong decade.”

It’s another epidemic among today’s sullen, pseudo-nostalgic plebeians to pine for life in another time period.

Somehow, many seem to be under the impression that, in the late 1800’s, life was entirely comprised of listening to Debussy and wearing frilly frocks to parties in the garden, the sole historic event of the 1940’s was the dress silhouette, and the late 1960’s were all about peace and love and John Lennon. And so on. Life was just better in the olden days. Who needs technology? Your Kindle is evil. Modern day is b-o-r-i-n-g.

Take what seems to be that uncontrollable, festering obsession with the 1940’s. Pinup bathing suits, cat-eyes, and victory rolls run rampant. Resurrected images of Casablanca, Rita Hayworth, and Rosie the Riveter reach every dark, damp corner of pop culture. 40’s vintage is chic. Go polio, war, and a myriad of various -isms! Wait, okay, maybe not that last bit. But hey, life in the 40’s wasn’t about that. It was about fashion, and victory rolls… and Casablanca.

For some reason, severe social inequalities, an overwhelming abundance of potentially deadly day-to-day situations, and crippling diseases have all been selectively omitted from our visions of history. Understandably, tuberculosis holds a slightly less pleasant connotation than Tchaikovsky’s Polonaise, but we still long to hop into a time machine and crank the lever to 1879.

We pick and choose certain aspects from history which appeal to us, creating a romanticized version of the past which we see in cinemas and old photographs and Marilyn Monroe t-shirts. Why? Because for some reason, we can never be content with what we have. For some reason, the far-reaching conveniences of the internet, modern transportation, and polio vaccines pale in comparison to the falsely constructed glamor of the past.

The eerie abundance of status updates phrased something along the lines of “I was born in the wrong time period” (oh, the irony) makes me wonder: given the chance, would half of these people last a day in 1776, 1879, or even 1969 without feeling the deep dark chasm lack of internet has left in their hearts? How could they possibly tweet about Napoleon’s comeback at Waterloo, or sitting around in a bomb shelter during the Battle of Britain?  More importantly, how would they feel about dying in their mid-forties?

Of course, I can’t say I wouldn’t gladly turn back the clock to 1918, 1815, 1720, or even 2000 B.C, but only on the condition that I partake as an observer, and preferably for a short amount of time. There’s nothing quite like experiencing history firsthand, but it’s another thing to live in it.

What I would guess to be my attempt at such an experience is collecting its relics. It’s no question that I’m fond of old things. Hell, I spent a week’s wage on a WWI Brodie Helmet. Antiques are how I get close to history without having to actually experience it (or seek out a time machine), while still retaining modern conveniences. I would never willingly transport myself to the Western Front (not out of lack of respect, but out of sheer self-preservation), but if I can own a fragment of it, it’ll do. It’s why I enjoy a good period drama, why I do listen to Tchaikovsky and Grieg and Satie, why I have a rather wide array of old, mismatched china gathering dust on my shelf. I enjoy these little glimpses of history, but I avoid living in the past. Frankly, I wouldn’t trade my current spot in the time-space continuum for any time period. Not even the Jazz Age. Sorry Hemingway.

Although very, very far from his chef d’oeuvre, Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris explores quite a good and relevant point- the prettily-painted versions of history we crave to live in were once someone else’s mundane reality. Chances are, people of the forties saw the 1800’s as far more glamorous than their own time, just as discontented youths several decades from now will be collecting I-Pods and yearning for the long lost days of the newspaper and of skinny jeans, seeking to experience the past just as we do.

This longing to have been born at some other point in history can be explained, but it is neither rational not practical. It’s just another episode of selective blindness, either to the problems of the past, or the conveniences of the present. 

Unintentionally Procured Wehrmacht Mail

One of the greater miracles of Eastern Europe is the overabundance of 20th century remnants, especially of the Second World War. Lithuania especially, due to its  role as the battlefield between Germany and the Soviet Union, tends to have gathered quite a bit of interesting trinkets. Thus, it's really no wonder that the flea markets there are a WWII fanatic's paradise. From Wehrmacht helmets, to Soviet fighting knives, to propaganda-ridden postcards, a good Lithuanian flea market is guaranteed to vacate wallets.

Last summer's damage at the Klaipėda Sea Festival's flea market turned out quite interesting. A loot of an old Cuban cigar case and a pocketful of Lenin-blazoning Soviet lapel pins already captured, I came across a Russian man who had splayed out countless German and Soviet relics on the sidewalk. Using only hand gestures, we managed to communicate price information quite well and, somehow, I ended up with an old German letter.

In the rush and fog of my purchase I had been oblivious to the fact that I was buying a specimen of Wehrmacht Feldpost.

Feldpost, as it was known, was meant for simple, inexpensive, and secretive communication with Wehrmacht soldiers and was used by Germany throughout WWII. Addressed to an R. Flöser in Wilhelmsfeld and postmarked August 13th, 1942, this letter is clear correspondence with a soldier of the front. I somehow had the luck of choosing the least legible one of the bunch, so deciphering the exact addresses and details has proven to be quite a challenge. Not to mention the letter itself, which can only be described as a cryptic scrawl. I could guess that the letter is meant for a soldier in Battalion 23191, but my finds are truncated there. Therefore, most of my purchase remains a mystery, possibly to my benefit.

And the letter itself. Have a crack at it.

Useless Yet Aesthetically Pleasing: Arms & Armor

Sadly I've neglected Artilleries these past few weeks, so I'll attempt to redeem my absence in the coming month.

One of my favorite things to rummage through online museum collections for has got to be metalwork, especially arms and armor. The intricacy in the design of medieval and Renaissance armor is simply fascinating.

Of course, most of the armor found in museums today is flamboyant for a reason. Glitz and glam were not very necessary on an actual battlefield, so most of the armor used in combat was not quite so elaborate as it was practical, and most did not survive to present day. Further, following the explosion (forgive the pun) of firearms use following the Hundred Years' War in the mid 15th century continuing through until the early 1600's, metal armor slowly became obsolete. It failed to protect against modern weapons, and was unreasonably cumbersome (most suits of armor weighed 30kg or more). Thus, armor became a type of formal or ceremonial dress wear and was eventually considered bygone in practical use (don't tell the Swiss Guard).

Armor of Henry II of France, ca. 1555.

Shield of Henry II of France, ca. 1555.

Shaffron of Henry II of France when Dauphin,
Romain des Ursins, ca. 1490-1500.

Gorget, French, ca. 1600-1625.

Burgonet, Italian, Filippo Negroli, 1543.

Reinforcing Buffe with Tilting Targe,
 German, 1560.

Shaffron and Crinet, Franco-Italian, Romain des Ursins,
ca. 1480-1495.

Gorget, French, ca. 1660-1610.

Burgonet, Italian, Lucio Piccinino, ca. 1575.

Swept Hilt Rapier, English, ca. 1600.

Dress Sword, English, Matthew Boulton,
ca. 1790.

And a bit of modern "dress" armor from
Dior's Fall 2006 Couture collection.

Who is this Guy anyway?

Unfortunately, The Gunpowder Plot is yet another textbook case of a cultural phenomenon being misinterpreted as a social statement piece. I’d imagine a casual remark to November 5^th would be something along the lines of “Bonfires! Those cool looking masks from V for Vendetta! Rise up against the machine man!” In reality, Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot of November 5^th represent far more than a goatee and a few anarchical tendencies, so here’s the full story.

Guy Fawkes, or Guido Fawkes as he is also know, was born in 1570 to a family which regularly attended the Church of England, yet had strong Catholic history. In 1591, after selling his father’s estate, Fawkes fought for a very Catholic Spain, a country which had lost its armada to England only five years prior, in the Eighty Years War. Fawkes soon rose in ranks and became a junior officer, later travelling through Spain to recruit supporters for a Catholic rebellion in England, with little success.

In 1604, Fawkes joined a group of thirteen pro-Catholic conspirators in England seeking to rid the throne of King James, a prominent protestant. Meeting in an inn in London’s Strand, the group devised a plan to use gunpowder to blow up the House of Parliament. Urban legend dictates that the original plan was to dig a tunnel beneath the House of Lords, but this was never proven. Instead, Fawkes and his fellow conspirators leased a room in an undercroft beneath the House of Lords, filling it with 20 barrels of gunpowder. Fawkes’ task was simply to light the fuse, then escape to mainland Europe.

Fawkes with some fellow Gunpowder Plot conspirators.

However, in an attempt to protect Catholics in parliament, the group sent an anonymous letter to Catholic-friendly Lord Monteagle, warning him to keep away. Monteagle showed this letter to King James, who ordered a search of the cellars below the House of Lords, where Fawkes was discovered, holding nothing but a match and a watch.

Fawkes was detained and tortured (on the rack) extensively, eventually revealing details of the Gunpowder Plot and admitting he had wished to blow up the House of Lords. The trial of Guy Fawkes and eight other conspirators took place in early 1606. All were found guilty and condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered, and otherwise mutilated. During the day of execution on 31^st January, 1606, Fawkes was the last to be hanged. However, Fawkes jumped from the gallows, breaking his neck and avoiding the pain of the process of his execution.

In celebration of King James’ narrowly escaped assassination, Londoners began a tradition of lighting bonfires with effigies of prominent Catholic figures or Fawkes himself. The tradition quickly evolved into Guy Fawkes Night, also known as Bonfire Night, and continues today far outside of London.

Several notable rhymes concerning the Gunpowder Plot exist, most notably this one:

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.Guy Fawkes,
Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent
To blow up the King and Parli'ment.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow;
By God's providence he was catch'd (or by God's mercy*)
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holla boys, Holla boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
And what should we do with him? Burn him!

Although only part of the Gunpowder plot, Guy Fawkes became its figurehead. Anywhere from T.S. Eliot to Harry Potter, Fawkes has left his mark. He most notably appears in David Lloyd’s 1982 graphic novel, V for Vendetta, in which the main character, V, seeks to represent the anti-establishment mentality of Fawkes, and imitates both his appearance and plot. Fawkes surged again in popularity following the 2006 release of the cinematic rendition of V for Vendetta. Both the graphic novel and subsequent film consisted of a rebellion against a dystopian society (rather than Fawkes actual mission, which was far more along the lines of religious extremism), turning Guy Fawkes into an image of fighting against tyranny and giving him what can only be described as a cult following.

The mask as it appears in V for Vendetta.

Thus, the Guy Fawkes image used in V for Vendetta became a staple of numerous protest movements and organizations, most recently OccupyWall Street and the hacking group Anonymous. In fact, it is so widely used that it is the top selling mask on the internet. Ironically, Time Warner profits from every one of these masks sold due to copyright claims stemming from V for Vendetta.

Occupy Wall Street has been quite keen on the Fawkes mask.

Let’s face it, the real, rather sadistic objectives of Guy Fawkes are largely masked (da dun tss) by the image propagated by V for Vendetta today. T.S. Eliot had it right in his Hollow Men; Fawkes may have not had overwhelmingly benevolent objectives, but he fought for a cause. This is the core, and seemingly sole message Fawkes transmits today. Through selective omission and the blurring of history and cinema, Fawkes somehow no longer represents religious extremism, but a fight against tyranny. And sitting around bonfires.

Condensed message here: Use the mask all you’d like, just make sure to remember [remember] Fawkes’ original intentions.

Halloween (somewhat): Old Prussian Cemeteries

Growing up in rural ex-Prussian Lithuania had its advantages for my father, especially when, this past summer, he provided me with an all-expense-paid all-inclusive tour of the small fishing village of Rusnė and its surrounding area.

We set of on a horridly soggy and equally early morning, aboard a rather old borrowed car of a brand I’d never even known existed (Proton? Is that even a real company?). Very fortunately for us, the rural Lithuanian roads where nowhere near paved. In fact, they were more along the lines of unceasing rivers of vaguely red sludge upon which our poor vehicle groaned dolefully.

Stopping briefly to chase around a herd of very talkative newly-weaned calves and to scope out the Curonian Lagoon from a watch post, we continued on to a secluded patch of trees that, had I not been told otherwise, I would’ve mistaken for an ideal setting for a gruesome homicidal wood-creature film of sorts. There, I was informed, was the setting of an old Prussian cemetery.

Not knowing what I’d see, I zealously expected some sort of grandiose burial plot complete with granite tombstones, bouts of vigil candles, and an eerie statue or two. The works. The reality was quite, quite different. In fact, the cemetery, if you could call it that, was no more than a plot of dauntingly overgrown vegetation scattered with fragments of broken headstones and iron railing. It was beyond vandalized, it was virtually non-existent.

Fortunately, I was subject to a brief history lesson from my father. Apparently, following the Soviet occupation of Lithuania in 1944, the Russians had sought to eagerly erase every trace of Prussian culture from the nation, especially in the west, where it was most prominent (the west was already the badly battered doorstep between Nazi Germany and the USSR). This involved both the destruction of Lutheran churches, exile of German nationals, and methodical demolition of Evangelical Lutheran burial plots such as the one I was treading upon. The Russians even went so far as to unearth most of the traditionally crafted Prussian ironwork and stick it under the ground several kilometres away to rust.

Names can only be made out on one or two tombstones, and most crumble slowly into the ground in this isolated patch of greenery seemingly exempt from the surrounding agricultural work. Surely, in a few decades, what’s left will be overwhelmed.

I attempted to sift through some of the greenery in the hopes of finding more headstones, or, admittedly less likely, some tremendous historical artifact. My hunger, however, and the prodigious abundance of insect life in the area successfully chased me back into the car a short while later.

I spent the remainder of the evening chiselling mud from my shoes and about the next four weeks recuperating the blood I’d lost to mosquitoes.

It reads L. Girth 4 Jan 1812 - 21 April 1880
and L. Girth 29 Dez. 1863 - 35 Febr. 1895

And here are some gratuitous images of unrelated objects in the area.

Belated Birthdays: Oscar Wilde

We’ll pretend Oscar Wilde’s birthday wasn’t four days ago because I am in need of a solid excuse to wax poetic about his existence.

If I attempted to pinpoint the moment I fell madly in love with Oscar Wilde it would be in vain. It might have been sometime around my reading of excerpts from his plays ages ago, during which I was cackling madly to myself, and also likely subject to the worried gazes of onlookers. A dry mix of Victorian humor and social commentary, shaken not stirred, is side-splitting, all right? Don’t judge. And Wilde is formidable at it, if not the very best. Peppered heavily with sneering commentary of Victorian culture, Wilde’s work, whether farce or earnestly (pun somewhat intended) pensive, does not lack relevance. From the Harry Wottons to the Cecily Cardews all, often regrettably, exist today.

And yet, Wilde isn’t just some extraordinarily glib well-worded satirist. Quite far, in fact. The dimension to his work is astounding (and what makes his writing, most notably Picture of Dorian Gray, so effective). Especially poignant are Wilde’s writings following his exile, which actually turn rather depressing. Nevertheless, whether Wilde is pictured reclining on a chaise lounge and noting caustically the flaws of his society, or scrawling away solemnly to Robbie Ross, either image is that of both a quintessentially Victorian aestheticism, and universal literary magnitude.

Simply put, there’s quite a reason as to why my Complete Works of Oscar Wilde has essentially been beatified on my bookshelf.

The complete text of Picture of Dorian Gray, plus a myriad of other texts can be found here. A wonderful archive of manuscripts and letters by Wilde (it's quite amusing to see the process of his work- just compare the draft and final versions of The Artist from Poems in Prose) is offered over here. Another online manuscript archive, with a bit of analysis included here. Enjoy.

Here are a few favorite Wilde-isms:

"When good Americans die they go to Paris." (A Woman of no Importance) 

"The difference between literature and journalism is that journalism is unreadable and literature is not read." (The Critic as Artist)

"The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast." (Lord Arthur Savile's Crime) 

"The public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius." (The Critic as Artist)

"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." (De Profundis) 

"Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!"

(The Ballad of Reading Gaol) 

Lippincott's original 1890 version of The Picture
of Dorian Gray

A bit of Wilde comic relief from Kate Beaton.

Handwriting of Famous Dead Folk

I adore aesthetically pleasing and/or innovative signatures. I won't delve into psychoanalyzing the fact that an "i" is dotted slightly to the left, and that such a thing represents some sort of childhood trauma, or any of that hyper-analytical pseudo science. Frankly, I just think signatures are interesting, so here are a few from notable historical/literary/artistic figures.

John Hancock

John Keats

David Lloyd George

Albert Einstein

Franklin Delano Roosevelt

Adolf Hitler

Joseph Stalin

Thomas Alva Edison

Queen Victoria

Andy Warhol

Kurt Vonnegut (note the asterisk)

Jean-Luc Godard (who is, thankfully, not deceased,
but I enjoy his signature)

Vincent van Gogh

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Ernest Hemingway

Napoleon Bonaparte