|
|
|
The Black Rock Beacon Newspaper
|
Art Appreciation 2005
By Tony Tohono
|
Wednesday night I was invited on an art appreciation
walk. I arrived at my friend Tracy’s camp sometime
after dark, and she introduced me to most of her
friends as they congregated in the main camp area. 20
names I knew were going to be difficult, if not
impossible to remember. When we finally got off the
corner of Fetish and hit the road there were 22 of us;
21 Canadians and one
Californian;
We made a quick stop at the porta
potties and one dude, I can’t remember his name, but
he insisted it was something Greek God-like, possibly
Narcissist
suggested we all pick a partner to be responsible for.
I clung to the hand of the beautiful woman who had
pressed me into the fold.
Walking down 5:30 one rule was made: “Stay off the
Esplanade”. I felt strange as we crossed it, and I
made a point to tread lightly on the hard-packed
surface. Off to one side I looked over to where I knew
Mardi Storm’s Twilight Amina Rising, was located. I
wanted to suggest we stop and look at the unicorn
climbing out of the playa, at the bright and shiny
psychedelic eyes that were watching us pass, but I was
in fear of its proximity to the Esplanade. I kept
looking back over my shoulder, wanting to go back,
wanting to peer up at that translucent horn, wanting
to slip between those clawing hooves.
At the head of our group, Greek God-dude turned around
and started walking backwards, all the while rambling
on. Mildly entertained, I laughed when he said, “When
I say Shit, everyone must reply Show.” He paused and
then shouted, “Shit!” The entire group replied with
“Show.” From that moment on, at the oddest of
intervals, someone would shout, “Shit,” and the group
would reply “SHOW” through fits of laughter. After it
got out of hand (probably five or ten minutes later)
we agreed to do it only when we were ready to move
away from whatever piece of art we were observing.
After crossing the Esplanade the group walked in a
cockeyed line and rambled out onto the Playa. We
avoided whatever felt like touristy spots, the Dicky
Box and so forth, and a drew a wide berth around the
Man at the protest of a few of our members, who wanted
to enter the Maze at his base. The consensus was that
we would be lost one from another in a matter of
minutes. The protests were silenced. By that point, we
were spread out over the course of about 50 yards. I
kept glancing forward and back, wondering how long the
entire group could possibly manage to stay intact. I
was taking bets with myself and the odds were on Not
Long.
I gaped in awe at Angel of the Apocalypse by the
Flaming Lotus Girls. I watched as our group threaded
around the steel wings, convulsing when periodic
bursts of fire shot above their heads; their faces
ignited with colorful tendrils of light, and their
shadows jilted at their feet. The spectacle was as
beautiful as the art, and I soon accepted it as an
extension of the art itself. As we were leaving there
was a bus nearby trying to entice members of our group
with free drinks. Some contemplated the bartender as
he leaned out over the bar, trying to seduce us with
his glowing concoctions and the trickery of his
tongue; others walked away without hesitation and soon
the group was again moving en masse.
At the Dreamer the group peered at the darkened face,
parting and quietly strafing the head, as if he might
gather our sound with his giant pinnae.
We gathered in back, cautiously peeking into the
opening. There was a claustrophobic feeling analyzing
the size of that doorway and the small crowd scattered
within. I visualized the back of my head being open
and all of the different personalities darting in and
out like so many lifetime experiences. Time stood
still for what could have been eons, but dreams be
damned, we were again on the move.
There were times when Tracy wandered off to visit with
the groups of her other friends, and I was left
walking alone. It was dark and cold, and I felt like
an outsider to those I was with, but I felt an utmost
acceptance by the Playa, as if we were both
sequestered and being so we had an understanding
between us. I even considered going off on my own, but
always, just in the nick of time, I was drawn back
when my fingers were again laced within Tracy’s.
We stopped on the outskirts of the Temple, waiting to
become acclimated to the sensational aura that floated
within the perimeter. Others of our group branched out
and were absorbed into the surroundings. We eventually
found our way up onto one of the platforms and things
became introspective. Even though it was populated by
countless people, it was still quiet with an uncanny
reverence. Everywhere I looked I saw a person, a pair,
or three people writing, or reading some message that
was condemned to be burned, cleansed by flames. I came
across a binder, and my hands jerked away as I
realized the countless pages of unique names and
messages scrawled within were bound together with one
thing in common: suicide.
I stood off to the side and tried to accept that for
some, the will to carry on is far weaker than in most.
I flashed on a girl I knew in high school who I used
to flirt with in class, how she had a penchant for
always making me laugh. I thought of the lethal sound
of those two words whispered together. Leanne…
suicide. I wanted to add her name to that book, but I
couldn’t. So I kept her to myself, tucked away in my
heart. That place where I can tell her each and every
day that she made my days much brighter with all of
her smiles. I wondered if it would have tipped the
scales in the favor of life . . .
if only . . .
I was certain the group was separated beyond repair as
I glanced around the Temple and saw few I recognized,
but then somewhere off in the distance I heard the
shout, “SHIT!” A smattering of ‘shows’ answered and
soon we were reunited off to one side. Several of our
members were locked in debate on whether we should
board the Nautilus
and go for a ride. ‘Ping’. It
looked vicarious, vicious, and inescapable, and in the
end we decided against it.
As we took off in the direction of the trash fence I
expected we would run into the Rubber Horses, but I
believe we drifted like a scimitar to the north.
Something silver and shiny stuck out ahead of us. A
large set of uniform figures stood all pointing toward
the bright flood lights that were some distance ahead.
The piece was called MOB, and it was created by Mark
Woloschuk and the Mob collective.
Something about our
group filtering through the row upon row of two
dimensional figures I found intriguing in its
simplicity, yet fascinating by its complexity. So much
we all have in common, yet so much that sets us apart
as individuals. The scene was intoxicating.
We followed the light and as we came closer realized
there was a massive ladder. The Ladder was created by
Mark Griffin.
I wanted to climb it, but my arm was
dragged backward and I was denied, even if the man
sitting on guard would have permitted it. It was
frightening in its utilitarian design, and although I
was later told it was only 108 feet high, it seemed
exponentially taller as I stared upward into the
darkness that swallowed the rungs long before they
disappeared. I felt the same sense of awe I felt
standing between the Twin Towers one night 15 years
ago at 3 a.m.. I stared in wonder beneath a canopy of
countless stars until the guy wires led me back down
to Earth.
It was cold and we decided to try to find somewhere
warm, someplace with fire. We wandered across the
Playa in the only direction we had not yet been;
South. Occasionally, we stopped to make certain the
entire group was still together. Other times we passed
small installations with little fanfare, mostly due to
darkness; a ring of shoes and boots, an eye shaped
tower with a hole punched blindly through the middle,
other things mostly indiscernible. Some of those
things I wanted to see by daylight, but later, when I
would look for them, it would be as if they had
existed only in my mind.
There was something significant and mighty appealing
about open space; 22 people require a lot of real
estate. At the far reaches the Playa it felt as if it
was entirely our own, and the others who passed were
there only because we allowed them to be.
Suddenly, there was an asterisk of white lights
spilled before us. As we stepped gingerly and gathered
around it we noticed that there were six larger disks,
disks that resembled transporters… like those things
on the Starship Enterprise. Beam me up Scotty, I
thought. Obviously, someone had inadvertently stepped
upon one of these disks and lit the grid. “That’s not
art,” someone shouted in a voice cut from the shell of
cynicism. Several people laughed. I tilted my head,
wondering if a simple pattern of lights should be
called art. There didn’t appear to be much to it. At
least, not at first.
“Wait!” Someone gasped as they placed a foot on one of
the circles. The light beneath reverberated with color
and a sequence of lights pulsed away from it. We moved
around motioning light, some of us gravitating toward
those larger disks. As I moved toward the one closest
one to me, someone else met me there, the disk like a
flagstone between us. I traded glances with the man in
our group known as Baz, both of us not wanting to deny
the other the opportunity to occupy the space, and
then quietly, he whispered, “Let’s get on it
together.” I nodded. We were relatively sizable men
and the disk, probably only 18 inches in diameter, was
too small to hold us both without sharing personal
space. We faced each other and stood up on the disk,
body to body, appendages softly bumping, hands
circling our waists for balance.
Trying to rotate was awkward, but also entirely
satisfying. There was an intimacy I would have
expected only to share with a best friend, or a
brother. Those around us were ew-ing and ah-ing, and
cooperating together we made every attempt to see what
they were seeing. “Clockwise,” Baz hissed, and then at
the sound of “Whoa lookie!” he said, “Wait, go the
other way,” and we were instantly shuffling counter
clockwise. On the verge of laughter the entire time,
yet we never laughed. We did trade quite a few
pleasant sighs and smiles. It was beautiful, and
serene. And from that moment onward I felt accepted by
this group of people, who were mostly strangers only
hours before.
The light sculpture was called Sola, and it was made
by Sage Kochavi, Carl Gruesz, Ryan Wartena, and Cris
Wagner. And it was indeed art. I was given something
by it, and then to learn later it was based on the
Seed of Life, an ancient image of six interlocking
circles that induces the Alpha State. It certainly
induced the Alpha State in me.
The light sculpture was called Sola, and it was made
by Sage Kochavi, Carl Gruesz, Ryan Wartena, and Cris Wagner (for the entire team, see
www.growingarchitecture.org/SoLA.html). And it
was indeed art. I was given something by it, and then
to learn later it was based on the Seed of Life, an
ancient image of six interlocking circles that induces
the Alpha State. It certainly induced the Alpha State
in me.
Most of the group continued to complain of being too
cold as we walked away from the lights. I glanced back
and watched as they blinked in patterns and
disappeared into darkness as if we had never been
there. “Over there,” a voice shouted from ahead.
Off in the distance I saw David Best’s fire sculpture,
Tower of Memory,
which resembled the main tower of the
Temple of Stars, from 2004, except it was made out of
stenciled steel and lit from within by several urns of
fire. We made a beeline for the crowd gathered around
and threaded through the openings drawn toward its
warm fiery glow.
The chill was peeled away layer by layer and in a
matter of moments I was overwhelmed and high. Around
me everything seemed to go silent. People fell into
their own secreted worlds. Gradually, I backed away
and peered into the darkness beyond. I felt a gentle
tug at my arm. I looked over to see Tracy, half hidden
by darkness, half bathed by the light of the fire.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m out there,” I said to the darkness. I smiled and
then I kissed her. Her lips were cool and soft. “Wow,”
I whispered. I wanted to be alone with her.
“Me too,” she said.
“So can we go?”
“Yes,” she said. “We can.”
We disappeared into the night.
|
|
|
|
|
