By Autumn Hays
This past Friday I attended The Operature an exhibition by the collective ATOM-r (Anatomical Theatres of Mixed Reality) at the National Museum of Health and Medicine Chicago. This exhibition was held in two parts an interactive installation and 90 minute performance showcase. ATOM-râ€™s participants include Mark Jeffery (choreography), Judd Morrissey (text and technology), Justin Deschamps, Sam Hertz, Christopher Knowlton, and Blake Russell (collaborators/performers).Â The ATOM-r collective explores the application of forensic science and anatomical mapping, as viewed through the through the scope of performance, technology, and language. What struck me most about the exhibition was the poetic consideration of the body and the layering of segmented perspectives visually, technologically and through dance. This is especially true of the performance where the dancers bodies move like they are being examined for medical display, like they caressed with love or sex, like in battle, and like the ritualistic laying out of the dead all in one sequence. When combined the layers of sourced gesture seem not as if disjointed but in an embracing collaboration of movement. I feel my observation of this exhibition is like looking through a magnifying glass peeping in to catch glimpses at what is a large body of accumulated research.
The installation included a 15 monitors that displayed the interactive exhibitionâ€™s language poetry and digital art that seemed like entries dense with interconnecting references selected from an accumulation of archived materials. The Operature. Attendees are able to pick up cards with medical and anatomical imagery and show the QR-code to a camera provoking a response and changing the exhibited material as a corresponding text begins to dance across the screen blinking in and out. On other screens images of head cut into thin slices spin resembling the process of cross-sectional scans of bodies under anatomy study, or the presentation of anatomical evidence on glass slides. The dissection of slices is also seen in the exhibitions use of language fragmentation and the multifaceted perspectives created by technology that includes both in the installation and performance.
Upon entering attendees are prompted to download an app that allows them to interact using their smartphones during the installation and performance. Audience members found themselves taking on the roll of investigators drifting around the exhibition looking for signs, images, and codes that they could scan using their camera phone. Once scanned, these images display technological overlay ghost images and text that seem as if they had already been there, invisible, waiting for you to discover them. Often I find technological interactions to fall short but there is something consistent about the concept of a phone app that allows you to view an augmented reality layer in an exhibition based off anatomical theaters, where the audience becomes an investigator of anatomy. It was one of the best uses of interactive technology I had experience in an exhibition. This inclusion of the technological other worlds slips in and out of the subjective, pushing realties/non-realities together and is an integral interaction when used during the performance piece.
The collective stratum of reference is something you encounter in every aspect of ATOM-râ€™s performance. One can view the piece from multiple vantage points choosing to sit in pews, walking among the performers, or standing above the performance looking down on it as in an operational theater. As the performers dance Judd plays the role of conductor, controlling projected displays of text reiterating those used in the installation, and reading them aloud as he performs.
He also provides the attendees with a technological viewpoint, displaying his live video of the performance showing the virtual reality ghosts we first encountered in our own investigations of the installation. The spoken language of the piece was delivered in the same cold cut tone as a scientific manual but had the touch of deeply personal poetics of the struggle with the body. The text provides us with many concepts such as the examination of the body as house, the treatment of the dead, and the histories of anatomical theater. One of the most interesting sources is the text sourced from the â€œstud fileâ€ of writer Samuel Steward describing details and observations about his various erotic encounters with men. These excerpts when juxtaposed with the anatomical body texts create an interweaves narrative of the gay male body.
The expert choreography composed by Mark Jeffery and his collaborators holds the audience captive while working in correspondence the technological devices. The all male group of performers embraced, wrestled, fell, carried one another around the room like corpses, posed for examination, removed and readjusted each otherâ€™s buttons and zippers, each performer functioning simultaneously as the displayer and the displayed. Even the lights become dancers moving around the room and repositioned by performers. Observes peer into the dancers bodies, guided by the ever-present examiners lights. As the scenes are constructed I am reminded of the painter Thomas EakinsÂ and his paintings of medical theaters. The audiences enters ATOM-râ€™s The Operature like a crime scene, attempting to paste together all the clues given through the use of dance, poetry and art as evidence. To quote text from the exhibition, â€œthe evidence looked back at you awkwardly and defiantlyâ€, asking you investigate the margins of these clues. Your reward for your exploration is an involved and richly layered experience that speaks to the poetics of anatomy and left me feeling touched to the bone.
If you would like to see it for yourself the exhibition continues till March 29th. There will be two more shows this coming weekend on Friday and Saturday. The interactive exhibition is open at 6pm and performance begins 8pm. National Museum of Health and Medicine Chicago, 175 W. Washington, $15 at the door. Here for more info.
(images provided by ATOM-r. Photo Credit: Katie Graves Photography)
September 30, 2013 · Print This Article
Guest Post by Paul King
The most recent time I loaded up the game Dark Souls, my character unsheathed a sword from her back and drew her shield. And then I noticed a message, written maybe two steps away: â€œGrief.â€
The world of Dark Souls is, as the title would suggest, dark. Itâ€™s a classic, worn down fantasy world where everything is crumbling. Your character begins in a prison for the lost and undead; your default state is one of decay. Even as you continue to a city meant for gods, all is in dangerous, ruinous disrepair.
And most of the game is spent alone. Save a few neutral, stationary characters, any sort of dialogue is non-existent. Your hero never speaks, only grunts in the heat of battle, and these stationary merchants quickly run out of new phrases, things to sell you, or purposes to exist.
But at a certain point, your character may buy (or steal) a chunk of soapstone from one of these merchants. Once you obtain the soapstone, you may use it to write, coating the floor in incandescent orange scribbles that, upon interaction, reveal their text.
During the course of Dark Souls, no fix for the broken world emerges. At times, other characters hint that the universe has descended into darkness from a former glory, and your lone heroâ€™s quest might be the thing to restore it. But nothing you do on your journey really changes anything; felled enemies reappear upon your death and subsequent rebirth, and also upon the saving of your progress. But while your standard fantasy actions yield no change and are easily erased, the soapstone allows you to impact the gameâ€™s world in a singular, everlasting way: through writing.
Thereâ€™s a multiplayer component of Dark Souls that allows players to enter the world of another. One can invade or be summoned, and these are adversarial or cooperative interactions, respectively. Both are temporary.
Messages penned with the soapstone, on the other hand, are permanent. Quit the game and return days later, they will still be there. And perhaps more importantly, while invasions and summons are constrained to a single instance of the game worldâ€”that of the invaded or summoning playerâ€”messages, instead, are universal. Write a message on the floor of a chapel within your game, and the same message appears in the same chapel of another personâ€™s game.
And there they sit, for any other player who happens by it. But much like the world of Dark Souls, the system in which messages are created is opaque and difficult.
The soapstone may be used to write a variety of messages, but only from a template. You choose a formatâ€”for instance, â€œTry _____â€ or â€œBe wary of ______.â€ Once youâ€™ve chosen a format, you can then choose from a list of categories to fill that blank. Options here include orientation (â€œTry left,â€ â€œBe wary of rightâ€), objects (â€œTry sword,â€ â€œBe wary of chestâ€), and attributes (â€œTry fireâ€).
Because the messages are selected from a template, speech is limited, and as such, messages become muddied. As with the world, story, and mission of the game, the onus is on the player as a reader to determine the intent of a message. And as with the rest of the game, the system can be frustratingâ€”authorial intent easily becomes unclear, especially in the wake of present danger due to the gameâ€™s refusal to be paused. Pick the wrong moment to write a message, or linger too long on selecting the correct Mad-Libbian phrase and it might instead spell death.
And Dark Soulsâ€™ closed language system isnâ€™t immune to classic video game juvenility. At a certain point, my character encountered the message â€œAmazing chest ahead,â€ but instead of referring to what would make the most senseâ€”a treasure chestâ€”it was instead placed in front of a female character as an unfortunate reference to her anatomy.
While this example is depressing, itâ€™s fortunately rare. It also serves to underscore what is an even more important facet of the closed language: context. Not only may players choose what combinations of message to write, they may also choose where to place it within the worldâ€”for it to be a static element in the world of others. The same message becomes manifold depending on its placement.
A canned, writable phrase in the game is â€œPraise the Sun!â€ This is one of the only phrases that does not contain a mutable component (alongside â€œGood Job!â€ and â€œI did it!â€). Its placement is intended in relation to one of the gameâ€™s religionsâ€”meant to be written in a peaceful, brightly lit area upon which the sun shines. A prayer.
I found it once at the bottom of a sewer. Surrounded by the carcasses of massive, dead ratsâ€”think The Princess Brideâ€”here it was: â€œPraise the Sun!â€ In this context it served as an entirely different message, rife with a sense of irony not possible if placed in a different area. Though the text said differently, the message was obviously one of despair.
Just before an encounter with a massive, angry beast, somebody had written â€œtry jumping.â€ And after dying to the creature several timesâ€”an event that happens with most encounters of the difficult gameâ€”the message clicked. And indeed, it was jumping from a ledge and plunging a sword into the monsterâ€™s waiting back that proved to be the best strategy.
Elsewhere, I found the same message written on a set of uneven stone stairs, a crumbling railing beside it. â€œTry jumping.â€ I angled my view downward, past the railing, and saw only an endless descent, one that would surely kill me.
It did. After I learned a lesson about trust, I discovered another message, not far away: â€œBeware liar.â€
And what begins to emerge from identical phrases is a changing language, one dependent entirely on a static world. While some messages are incredibly straightforward (my favorite is â€œIllusory wall aheadâ€), others are incredibly vague.
One of the more interesting categories to choose a â€œblankâ€ from is â€œConcepts.â€ The category sits at the bottom of the list, beneath â€œCharacters,â€ â€œObjects,â€ and more, almost as if it were an afterthought. It is from this list some nameless stranger chose to pen â€œgrief.â€
What strikes me especially about the use of â€œgriefâ€ is that it is wholly unnecessaryâ€”the entire world embodies â€œgrief.â€ Though â€œhappinessâ€ is present on the list of concepts, the use of the word makes little to no sense in the context of Dark Soulsâ€”there is, ultimately, nothing happy within the game.
But within the constraints of the language system, these awkward, single words can be used in new ways that don’t necessarily pertain to the game. Before a particularly trying monster, instead of writing â€œTry lightningâ€â€”the monsterâ€™s supposed weaknessâ€”one could instead place â€œTry hope,â€ stepping outside of intended use.
Whatâ€™s interesting about these concepts is that they were placed in an otherwise interesting and well-thought out system; one that plays to the same difficulties and themes of the game. It is only when we as players make a conscious decision to write a specific message does the system break down, distancing itself from in-game tips and evolving into something poetic. When the system breaks, it allows players to leave an effective mark on not only their game world, but the game worlds of others.
Because while all messages might be eternal, the ones that conform to a useful fantasy systemâ€”tips, locations, or secretsâ€”ultimately interact with the world by blending into it, not changing it. The jumping tip about the monster led me to a strategic shortcut, while the deceitful note on the staircase created a new, interactive game experience. Those that reference nothing in the world but language concepts create new experiences entirely outside of the game.
Much of Dark Souls deals with the idea of immortality. Your character, like most video game characters, is seemingly tireless. Die, and be brought back again, and again, unceasingly until the game is done. The environments and enemies around you never change, and the latter is in seemingly endless supply. Even when your quest is over, the only option is to start over, either as a new character or the same one, this time in a harder difficulty.
Though the entirety of the game is caught up in this idea of perpetual fantasy, it promotes an unchanging stasis rather than an everlasting immortality. The player created messagesâ€”which ultimately exist outside of developer boundary or intentâ€”are the only things that truly seem to point towards immortality. While standard, intentional messages quickly blend into the context of the gameâ€™s world; those that break the mold escape the world and its shortfall. When a message references nothing external in the static game worldâ€”through the intentional or unintentional garbling of the closed systemâ€”it turns into a testament of itself. As a result, it transforms the writer from a player, into an author, leaving an indelible mark.
Â Paul King is a poet, writer, and video game enthusiast currently living in Chicago, IL. He grew up in Austin, TX and graduated from Bard College with a BA in Liberal and Written Arts.
J=o=u=i=s=s=a=n=c=e Knows Best
PS: I misread “you” instead of the “I” you have. How does this change the tone of the text? How does this change the idiomatic expression itself: â€œI break for strangersâ€ or â€œI will rock you like a hurricaneâ€ or â€œthe children are our futureâ€? How does this change the sense of a dialogue between a subject and an object of desire on the skintight highroad of language?
the words we use have a social effect
such as when a judge pronounces you â€œguiltyâ€ or when a matrimonial couple utters â€œI doâ€ or when land reform protesters scream
On May 11, the following event will take place in Bucharest, Romania at the cafÃ© called Tramvaiul Douazeci Si Sase:
Sweet Little Nothings: Contemporary Romanian Poets on Nihilism
Many recent poets have announced the death of postmodernism and the quick and subsequent births of Conceptual Writing, Fracturism, Flarf, Post-Avant Poetry, Slow Poetry, and so on. But is the age of deconstructing the metaphysics of history, god, and self indeed over in contemporary Romanian poetry? Otherwise put: what does it mean to write if nothing matters? What topics do self-conscious (and history-conscious) poets write about after the theory that the center does not hold no longer holds? Is Cioran still relevant when he claims that the most heroic thing for modern man to do is commit suicide? What kind of nothing do you believe in? What kind of nothing do your poems represent? Which nihilism represents you as a poet: Nietschean fecundity or confessional solipsism or another? Do you prefer toÂ lose your past, your faith, your self in the infinite music of the void through Dionysian excess or in puritanical minimalism with its hidden Apollonian authority or in some other direction? How do your poems â€œtake responsibility for their freedomâ€ as Sartre put it? Camus found relief when the Sisyphean bolder was rolling back down the mountain. Where do you find relief? Is finding relief and closure why you write your poems?
This roundtable invites 5-6 poets to offer a definition and a poem showing what nihilism means to them and to their poems in 5 minutes. After these brief provocations, the audience is expected to harass the poets with questions about how Romantic (see John Keatsâ€™ negative capability) they still are to think they can live in OR represent the nothingness of being. Bring your potato salad. The objective of these brief presentations and hoped-for audience response is not to make moral progress toward a True contemporary Romanian poetry but to make aesthetic progress by becoming more self-aware of our habits of mind.
Images courtesy of:Â 1280Â Ã—Â 1024Â -Â stilpu.org
Â A PDF version of the following post (with o so handsome formatting) is available for download here:
January 18, 2013 · Print This Article
I came on as the Managing Editor of the Bad at Sports blog about a month ago. It’s been an exciting turn and I hope to do well by it. A few people have asked what my vision going forward is, and I thought I might say something about it here.Â I hope to continue reflecting on the dynamic energy in Chicago’s contemporary art world while connecting to conversations and aesthetic agendas in other cities and disciplines. That agenda was set in place a while ago and I believe I can continue to guide and focus that intention. There is room for experimentation in that vision, which seems necessary to me. Bad at Sports has never presented a tidy, singular package and as such, I believe it would go against the nature of the project to filter content and tone through a single, editorial lens. Its roots in independent, DIY and Punk Rock collectivism remain at the heart of the project’s vitality and the blog is a platform for unique and individual voices that pass through the subject of contemporary art and culture. As such it becomes a nexus of concerns and responses to culture at large. That is something I hope to preserve under my stewardship. As an artist-run forum, Bad at Sports has the unique capacity to reflect on a host of subjects, exposing the intellectual, aesthetic and social networks that define and subsequently influence cultural production. I believe it is our job to explore and discuss the contexts we inhabit. In doing so, we further establish a living touchstone and future archive of contemporary discourse.
Some changes should be apparent already â€” others will fall into place like pieces of a puzzle in the coming months. The process is organic, but I’ve been trying to set up a casual, thematic architecture Â that unfolds over the course of a given week. Eventually, I hope to schedule two posts a day, one before 2pm and one after. Built in to this, is room for special occasions and guest writers â€” those posts would either go live in the evenings, or fill in existing gaps. To that endÂ I’ve been inviting a number of new writers, many of whom I have admired for a long time.
Here is something of a loose schedule:
Mondays: Essays and reflections from old favorites Jeriah Hildewin, Shane McAdams and Nicholas O’Brien â€” writers who have been posting with consistent dedication. In addition, I’m excited to announce a new bi-weekly column by Dana Bassett, whom you may know for her ACRE Newsletters.
Tuesdays are dedicated to three subjects: Performance, Social Practice, Language (or the performance thereof) and Object Oriented Ontology. Confirmed participants include longstanding contributor Abigail Satinsky and Mary Jane Jacob (Social Practice), Anthony Romero and JoÃ£o FlorÃªncio (performance), Gene Tanta (language), Robert Jackson (OOO).
On Wednesdays, we will read about artists and art in other cities. The following writers will post on rotation: Jeffery Songco is covering the Bay Area, Sam Davis continues to represent Bad at Sports’ Los Angeles Bureau,Â Sarah Margolis-Pineo is writing about Portland. Juliana Driever will be relaying posts, interviews and artist profiles about New York, and then we’ll bring it back to the Midwest with Kelly Shindler’s dispatch from St. Louis, and Jamilee Polson Lacy writing about Kansas City.
ThursdaysÂ herald our illustrious Stephanie Burke’sÂ Top 5 Weekend PicksÂ and a new monthly contribution from author/translator Johannes GÃ¶ransson whose writing you can also find here.
Fridays have been set aside for art reviews and artist profiles with contributions from Danny Orendoff, Monica Westin, Abraham Ritchie and myself.
WEEKENDS will feature a range and flux of the above, plus Brit Barton’s Endless Opportunities, cultural reflections and short essays by Terri Griffith, continued posts from Jesse Malmed, in addition to a monthly contribution from the newly confirmed Bailey Romaine and Adrienne Harris.
My last note is this â€” there is room in this schedule for additional posts, posts that would feature special events, festivals and conferences in the city. That space would also be available to, at times, connect the blog and the podcast. As a first indication of this, we will be highlighting IN>TIME, a performance festival that is going on as we speak, from January until March.
Otherwise if you have any comments, suggestions or, even guest posts you would like to submit, please feel free to contact me at: email@example.com
What follows is an interview with three voices. I only started asking questions at the end; the conversation â€” and introduction, for that matter â€” Â began with Angelo Spoto at &Now Books. Â The interview takes place with Gretchen E. Henderson, a writer (now based out of Boston) who published two books with different presses, almost concurrently. Both of Henderson’s books ask and explore artistic questions. Her first book,Â Galerie de DifformitÃ© (&Now Books/Lake Forest College Press), operates like a Â kind of text-based exhibition space with pages. Her second book, On Marvellous Things Heard, was published by my press, The Green Lantern, and examines the relationship between language and music. Â
Deforming Forms with Gretchen E. Henderson (an interview)
When I first read Gretchen E. Hendersonâ€™sÂ Galerie de DifformitÃ©, I approached it like Iâ€™ve always approached novels; start on page one, continue to page two, then page three, etc. But even before page sixteen, the book called me out on my traditional approach. â€œDo not read straight through this catalogue from start to finish!â€ it said or, it seemed, yelled at me. At this point, I realizedÂ Galerie de DifformitÃ©Â is nothing like any novel Iâ€™ve ever read. Itâ€™s a chose your own adventure story meets poetry meets the essay meets art catalog, all mixed up behind the cover of what appears to be a novel.Â GalerieÂ is comprised of â€œExhibitsâ€ created by â€œSubscribersâ€ (who, on theÂ GalerieÂ website, posted deformed versions of Hendersonâ€™s writing) as well as Hendersonâ€™s own poetry, prose, and essays.Â GalerieÂ focuses on deformity, and a deformed version of Danteâ€™s Beatrice is the readersâ€™ guide. (OR, ask â€œTell me aboutÂ Galerie de DifformitÃ©â€)
Angela Spoto:Â What was the genesis ofÂ Galerie de DifformitÃ©? Why did you want to write the novel in such an unusual way?
Gretchen Henderson:Â The novel began as an essay, which did not want to be an essay.(1)
AS:Â What is an exhibit?
GH:Â An â€œExhibitâ€ is a prose poem, more or less, narrated by one of my main characters: a deformed reincarnation of Danteâ€™s Beatrice.(2)
AS:Â Why did you choose to write about deformity? Usually, beauty is a more common theme.
GH:Â Exactly. (3)
AS:Â Beatrice is a reoccurring character/guide in the novel. She is typically associated with beauty, but you chose to focus on her deformity. Do you thinkÂ GalerieÂ challenges the reader to question traditional concepts of beauty?
GH:Â If we look at representations of Beatrice across art history (see â€œExhibit Aâ€œ), they appear wildly different in a way that makes me wonder: Are these differencesÂ beautyÂ orÂ deformityÂ in action?(4)
AS:Â How do you go about writing a novel so unlike traditional novels? Was it difficult?
GH:Â In some ways, it was strangely easyâ€”not to say it didnâ€™t involve logistical acrobatics, extreme labor and patience over time, while the â€œbaggy monsterâ€ of the novel slowly (re)generated its form.(5)
AS:Â You have a blog that is a virtual extension of the novel. Why did you create this website and what can readers find there?
GH:Â The website isnâ€™t a blog, per seâ€”more a virtual gallery that documents and suggests how the book grows in and out of itself through collaborative (aesthetic, cultural, social) deformation.(6)
AS:Â You invite everyone and anyone to create their own exhibits on your site and some of those creations (or deformations) have been included in the published book. Why did you decide to open up the novel to outside â€œSubscribers?â€
GH:Â By opening up the project, I as so-called Author(ity) of my book donâ€™t know how it ends, either in form and contentâ€”among other elements, evenÂ thatÂ expected teleology has the capacity to change.(7)
AS:Â What emotions do you hopeÂ GalerieÂ evokes in its readers?
GH:Â Readers will get out of theÂ GalerieÂ as much as they put in.Â (8)
AS:Â Is there any author that inspired you to createÂ Galerie?
GH:Â Many more than those indicated by the 28 printable pages of single-spaced, electronicÂ endnotes.(9)
AS:Â Why do you write?
GH:Â I never intended to be a writer and fell into it as a high school teacher, now thinking that itâ€™s my attemptâ€”in some small wayâ€”to invite (re)perception of our vulnerable, culpable, and capable place in this world.(10)
AS:Â How has writingÂ Galerie de DifformitÃ©Â changed you as a writer?
GH:Â I gave up trying to fit a book inside its inherited box, or body, to let the novel (and other projects) be what each wants to be, engaged and engaging with this moment in time.(11)
AS:Â There seem to be two Gretchen Hendersons. Gretchen Henderson the writer (whose name appears on the cover of the novel) and Gretchen Henderson the character/narrator/Undertaker. Why two Gretchens, and are they really different at all?
GH:Â Yes, they are different: among other aspects, I never was struck by lightning, neither of my grandfathers had a secret family, nor was either a medieval scholar (rather, a mailman and a chemist), and I confess to being an academic (of sorts).(12)
AS:Â The novel is almost like a game, but it has a serious side, too, touching on real-life issues of deformity and self-understanding. How do you want your readers to approach theÂ Galerie, and what do you hope they take away from the experience?
GH:Â Notions of self and authority are constructs as much as the BOOKâ€”all of which have changed across history and will continue to change within and through their (our) deforming bodies.(13)
AS:Â You wrote, â€œBy the time this book is printed, it already will be outdated.â€ What do you think (or hope) lies in store for the future deformation of theÂ Galerie?
GH:Â As more sensibilities and perspectives and media come to bear on â€œdeformityâ€ (and â€œbook,â€ for that matter), I hope the more static definition starts to vibrate and take on a kind of reanimated life.Â (14)
Caroline Picard:Â You have another book,Â On Marvellous Things Heard, that we recently released through my publishing house, The Green Lantern Press. This essay, which you write is a â€œdeformation and reformationâ€ on the traditional, explores the relationship between literature/writing/language and music/silence. Was this essay at all influenced by your work withÂ Galerie de DifformitÃ©?
GH:Â The two projects were written more or less simultaneously, albeit separately, so there may be loose links threading in and out of one another, through echo effect.(15)
CP:Â InÂ On Marvellous Things Heard, you again return to the classics, playing off of Aristotleâ€™s book of the same title. Can you talk a little bit about the work you do using old works and characters, and recombining them into new compositions?
GH:Â Itâ€™s being done all the timeâ€”Iâ€™m just making visible (or asking readers to make visible) otherwise invisible traces.(16)
CP:Â OMTHÂ seems to study and expound upon musicâ€™s resistance to language. What was your process like, writing this book, when the tools you had to address your subject were admittedly inadequate from the start?
GH:Â Therein lies a timeworn questionâ€”to arrive back where we started, changedâ€”not unlike sonata structure: exposition, development, recapitulation.(17)
CP:Â Or too, what would musicâ€™s ideal description look like? Do you feel like musical notation is more successful than grammatical text?
GH:Â It depends on the formÂ forÂ the contentâ€”there are different literacies involved with reading language versus music, and it takes time to learn and notate (to write into, to write against) those literaciesâ€”to then suggest the right notation for any given project (disclaimer:Â I donâ€™t believe in a singular ideal).(18)
CP:Â How would you describe the relationship between poetics and music and sound? Do these facets of expression belong in a family?
CP:Â What are you working on now?
GH:Â Ugliness: A Cultural History.(20)
(1) Â Galerie de DifformitÃ©, began as a critical essay exploring aesthetics of deformity in eighteenth-century British visual culture. This was back in Fall 2004. As I wrote and organized my arguments around particular works of artâ€”engaging an era dense with nationalistic enterprises, archaeological excavations of fragments, seeking and fashioning Ur-origins, outgrowths of private into public museums, varied notions of exhibitionâ€”the essay itself began to fragment into a kind of pseudo-exhibition. The final version retained the rhetoric of scholarship, if structured as a collection of curated micro-essays, each of which was prefaced by an image and captioned as it might appear in a museum or catalogue. EntitledÂ Galerie de DifformitÃ©,Â that scholarly essay barely resembles the novel that came to be. That said, traces of the original remain in occasional sections titled â€œDeformity asâ€¦â€ (Curiosity, Misrepresentation, Caricature, Sa(l)vage(d), Sublime, etc.), heavily treated through constraints. Once the initial essay was completed, deformed aesthetics kept appearing in other material that I was readingâ€”across literature, art, music, the gamut of disciplinesâ€”and the essayâ€™s intermediate white spaces begged to be expanded through and into fiction and poetry, a kind of chorus, lulling and leading me to c(u)r(e)ate â€œExhibits.â€ The novel just grew from there: suggesting missing parts, characters, narrative strategies, echoes, seams to stitch and loosen and tether together into this â€œbaggy monsterâ€ (to borrow Henry Jamesâ€™ characterization of the Novel).
(2)Â â€œExhibitsâ€ are so-named because they inhabit the largerÂ Galerie de DifformitÃ©Â (as in a museum) and also suggest a kind of evidence (as with exhibits in a legal trial). Adopting alphabetic identities and allegiances, they are labeled â€œAâ€ through â€œZ,â€ also archived thematically. (For instance, â€œExhibit Câ€ treads aroundÂ colorÂ andÂ chronology,Â and also might be classified asÂ contortionÂ orÂ corporealÂ or _______ [fill in the blank]). A reader can bring their own sensibilities to bear on varied possibilities. As prose poems, â€œExhibitsâ€ resist neat summarization. In the book they donâ€™t appear alphabetically sequenced, nor do they congregate together, rather alternate with other genre elements (epistles, definitions, faux scholarship, images, etc.). Some even appear outside the body of the bookâ€”like â€œExhibit Q,â€ which exists only in an endnote, and â€œExhibit E,â€ which translates as a QR code on page 250 (the final page, where the colophon should be) and remains to be written (as a kind of End).
(3)Â Apart from beautyâ€™s overriding positive connotations that often get attention, history has witnessed many cults of beauty where the nature of beauty (footbinding, corsets, etc.) changes. Beauty can be skin-deep, deceptive, even dangerous. Kathleen Marie Higgins writes: â€œ[W]e cannot see beauty as innocent when the sublime splendor of the mushroom cloud accompanies moral evil, that aesthetic appeals congealed Hitlerâ€™s rallies, that beautifully embellished clothes and jewelry currently motivate teenagers to murder.â€ There are many examples that stretch this question into different periods and fields. (For instance, in 2005, it was estimated that Americans spent at least $12.4 billion on cosmetic surgery, which was more than the total gross domestic product for over 100 nations, including Albania and Zimbabwe, totaling over 1 billion people!) Beyond the usual binary that pits deformity against beauty, I am interested in muddying both waters. Deformity is fraught with historical baggage (see footnote 4 below) but also takes on positive connotations in different sociocultural contexts (like the Japanese concept of â€œwabi-sabi,â€ or asÂ Kakuzo OkakuraÂ describes inÂ The Book of TeaÂ a â€œworship of the Imperfect,â€ or as occurs in certain traditions of rug and other weaving, where a pattern is deformed deliberately at a certain point, to allow the soul to move in and out, to leave something unfinished for the imagination to complete, or so the weaver does not compete with a larger creator, or for other reasons). I am interested in deformity as a kind of investigation of these practices and priorities, not to mention the litany of terms that have kept company with deformity across history:Â grotesque, monstrous, ugly, asymmetric, crippled, handicapped, disabled,Â etc. Like Umberto Eco claims, â€œBeauty is, in some ways, boring. Even if its concept changes through the ages, nevertheless a beautiful object must always follow certain rulesâ€¦ Ugliness is unpredictable and offers an infinite range of possibilities. Beauty is finite. Ugliness is infinite, like God.â€
(4)Â Deformity carries historical baggage, seemingly negative and static, but full of kinetic potential: deforming. In process. Within the word itself literally lies formâ€”de(form)ity, dif(form)iteâ€”evolving. Everything deforms around us: seasonal cycles, aging bodies, changes of all types. Beyond that, â€œdeformityâ€ becomes an aesthetic backdoor to the politically fraught term â€œdisabledâ€ and many types of â€œothernessâ€â€”like Aristotleâ€™s claim that â€œthe female as it were a deformed maleâ€ (or, in other translations, â€œa mutilated maleâ€).Â Galerie de DifformitÃ©Â is packed with as many historical notions of deformity as possible, within a choose-your-own-adventure structure where a reader has agency to follow or break rules, calling attention to how we read books, bodies, and our perceptions.
(5) As mentioned in Footnote 1,Â Galerie de DifformitÃ©Â began as a very different project and for many years was a side-side-side project. It took time, too, to grope my way into my own redefinition of the Novel, first studying the long and rich history of that genre, then writing a first novel, wanting to offer homage and invitation through my reinterpretations.Â Rather than write into the too-strict triumvirate of fiction/poetry/nonfiction, I found that source material from different periods (alongside changing notions of genres and of deformity, mixed up by myÂ background in music) encouraged a multifarious and malleable sense of form(s). Major life changes coincided and intervened along the way, some of which could easily have curtailed this project and more.Â I realized that, like life and all else, my novel had the potential to deformâ€”physically, psychically, and otherwiseâ€”even to perform its deformity and be co-created as an aesthetic and sociocultural entity. This has encouraged me to chase down various paths, intellectually and technologically. The project tries to provide multiple access points, so any number of different readers can meet the chimeric creature on their own terms.Â Over a decade of teaching at different levels and in different environments indirectly influenced the interactive nature ofÂ Galerie de DifformitÃ©, andÂ Iâ€™ve enjoyed working with the book in different classes to consider its pedagogical dimensions. Future documentation of the project will take on its own life, as the book will retreat into the background, as the larger collaborative deformation will swarm around it: slowly.Â Galerie de DifformitÃ©Â is like a creature that needs to be tended. I am constantly learning from it, as Subscribersâ€™ contributions give me cues about how to tend the projectâ€™s future.Â (By way of example of a collaborative influence: An early Subscriber added his own constraint to the projectâ€™s constraint, choosing to submit four deformations in order to spell out a word (TOMB: see visualized alphabet below). Since his submission was early enough to be considered to illustrate the book, I chose two of his deformations to spell an embedded word back in the published book (OM). His dedicated involvement also encouraged me to go ahead with my plan to build an electronic library of deformity-related collaborative chapbooks, and he became the first guest editor.) Other future stages are planned, but along the way, plans will evolve based on collaborative interactions.
(6)Â The onlineÂ Galerie de DifformitÃ©Â (sharing the novelâ€™s title, since they grow in and out of one another) is a growing installation dedicated to deformity. It includes instructions about how to collaboratively participate. The site hosts â€œExhibitsâ€ as downloaded documents (which were first mounted after they appeared in literary journals, to interface with contemporary print culture): materials that visitors can deform through whatever medium and concept. Deformants have chosen a range of approaches: from erasure and cut-up, to treating â€œExhibitsâ€ as a canvas or freezing text in ice, carved in beeswax and soap, to more conceptual installations and videos, even floated away by balloons. The book is laced with QR (Quick Response) codes that can be scanned with mobile devices like iPhones to link to various parts of the online gallery and offshoots (a short film, an e-volume of archival papers of Ye Ugly Face Club, and other paraphernalia) that will change as more people participate in the communal deformation and bring their own sensibilities to bear on its constraints. Also online is the growing electronic library of collaborative chapbooks, broadly engagingÂ deformity, both in content and form. The book is slowly being unbound, growing in and out of itself, bridging material and virtual realms, calling itself a book, functioning as a book, engaging the vocabulary of the book (i.e.,Â What is a page?): to make visible that this technology-that-is-the-book has a long and rich history and is not at its apocalyptic end.
Â (7)Â I am only one person, and to engage the questions that I wanted to ask, I needed to appeal to and consult many voices, bodies, sensibilities, perspectives, and approaches. Writers, artists, musicians, and other creators never work in a vacuum.Â Galerie de DifformitÃ©Â makes that process visible to work against the notion of Romantic genius, against Author-ity, even as it plays up and into the notion of Authorship. I call myself the author while also postmodernly twisting my authority (including a Gretchen Henderson who is not me), undercutting and duplicating and triplicating questions about my authority, culling sources and source material from across centuries, putting these in conversation with one another, threading my voice through different genres and appropriations, so the narrative(s) occur between genres, between the lines, into margins, beyond the bookâ€”tracing and illuminating reading strategies where the reader is invested with agency and co-creates meaning with the presumed, authoritative â€œoriginal.â€
(8) Whatever a reader wants or needs, I hope they find.Â Galerie de DifformitÃ©Â is many books in one: a book that can be read quickly and superficially, or slowly and deliberately, even over the course of years (given the choose-your-own-adventure and growing paraphernalia that is tethered to the project). Each reading experience should be different, both because the book and the reader are changing.
(9) Where to begin? Where to end?
(10) As John Cage described his motivation for composition: not for self-expression but for self-alteration. â€œHow do we change with the ever-changing world in a compassionate and graceful way? How do engage with a kind of impermanence?â€
(11) How does a writer adequately thank those who help to wing her words into the world? Iâ€™m ever grateful to &NOW and the Madeleine P. Plonsker Prize for supporting this process. To receive logistical and financial support to publish such an interdisciplinary, intergenre, intermedia project is a gift of immeasurable worth. I am especially grateful to Davis Schneiderman at &NOW and Caroline Picard at Green Lantern for advocating for my inclinations, when other editors might have tried to box up and down the work, to make it conform rather than deform, which wouldâ€™ve worked against its organic intent.
(12) In the novel, Gretchen is a construct as much as Bea as much as Gloria: the last of whose name doesnâ€™t double in the book (though admittedly, her surname isnâ€™t entirely unrelated to that of William Hay, an eighteenth-century hunchbacked member of British Parliament, who wrote an essay onÂ DeformityÂ in 1754). The narrators of theÂ GdDÂ exist as a sequence of diminishing mirrors, also reflecting and refracting readers as they get more involved in the labyrinth. But to return to your question: thereâ€™s also a triplicating of Gretchen Henderson, since both the fictional and real author, and Gloria, all share the same initialsâ€”G.H.â€”quadrupled with Clarice Lispectorâ€™sÂ The Passion According to GH, as quoted at the end of the introduction (page 8):Â â€œThis is a book just like any other book. But I would be happy if it were read only by people â€¦ who know that an approachâ€”to anything whatsoeverâ€”must â€¦ traverse even the very opposite of what is being approached â€¦ Over time, the character G.H. came to giveÂ me, for example, a very difficult pleasure; but itÂ isÂ called pleasure.â€Â By including multiplied Gretchens, Iâ€™m not only appropriating a common postmodern construct (see Footnote 7), but also trying to give readers spaces and license to multiply their identities, their selves, and resist whatever classifications they may be hemmed into at this moment in time. (See â€œApplication to be a Subscriber,â€ page 12). Essentially, the novel is about adaptation and change, whether engaging with the history of the novel, talking back to the identity movements of the last half century, taking a kind of Buddhist journey, or _______ [fill-in-the-blank].
(13)Â See Footnotes 8, 9, 10, and 19.
(14) â€œDeformityâ€ has a number of sub-definitions, as I have tried to unpack throughout the novel (see Footnotes 3 and 4, or page 237 of the book, for starters). Because theÂ Galerie de DifformitÃ©Â is a perpetual work in progress, partly based in new and evolving technologies, some parts of the story may become formally defunct along the way, unless translated into readable media. Additionally, the collaborative aspect multiples the potential ways this might evolve. What components ultimately remain, what parts mutate, and what else falls by the wayside will be part of the projectâ€™s larger documentation. To speak about one technology: QR codes were barely used when the book was planned, but now you see them on bus advertisements, in libraries, on real estate signs, almost everywhere. I am interested in textual and visual literacies, and how these combine, how technology is shaping our strategies for reading both old and new texts, where and how and why we create, classify, archive, and access literature.
(15) Each developing book suggests multiple possibilities, and my projects constantly cross-fertilize. I canâ€™t work on a single project alone. Many lead to dead ends, but the processes invariably influence varied products. I finishedÂ OMTHÂ beforeÂ GdD, but all of my work has taken a long time to find homes (i.e., publishers). More than theÂ GdD,Â OMTHÂ has more of a relationship with my musically-structured first novel,Â The House Enters the Street,Â which is coming out third in the line-up (in Fall 2012, thanks to Starcherone Books). If it hadnâ€™t been runner-up for the 2005 AWP Award Series in the Novel and received other nods, I might have chalked up that project as part of my learning process and shelved it away in a box. The suspension of a project across years lends an interesting sense of timeâ€”particularly if the book works against chronologyâ€”like a sign I once read in a subway (also quotedÂ in The House Enters the Street): â€œSometimes you have to go backward in order to go forward.â€
(16) Older works, characters, and motifs always lie at our threshold, at edges, beckoning to converse with the present moment, not to be forgotten, providing fodder to dream of alternative futures. In a project likeÂ OMTH,Â there are a number of recombinations of old and new. Aristotleâ€™s essay of the same title refers to â€œmarvelsâ€ more in the vein of Herodotus, so my appropriation of â€œmarvellous things heardâ€ makes a sensory shift into the context of music, sound and silenceâ€”an appropriation also indebted to translations of various types (across languages, eras, cultures, disciplines), needling what gets lost and found in translation. By way of another example: my replacement of â€œsheâ€ for â€œheâ€ in Aristotleâ€™s essay becomes a process of imagined restitution, as a way of talking back to the author who described â€œthe female as it were a deformed maleâ€ (see Footnote 4), shifting the peripheral â€œotherâ€ into the role of protagonist, to ask â€œwhat if?â€â€”in the way that Karen Armstrong describes myth:Â â€œMythology is not an early attempt at history, and does not claim that its tales are objective fact. Like a novel, an opera or a ballet, myth is make-believe; it is a game that transfigures our fragmented, tragic world, and helps us to glimpse new possibilities by asking â€˜what if?â€™â€”a question which has also provoked some of our most important discoveries in philosophy, science and technology.â€ Across time, how many stories share the same plot, retold afresh for each new generation, wolves in sheepâ€™s clothing, or sheep masquerading as wolves? Beyond the story or poem or essay, or intermediate genre, are its building blocksâ€”our living languageâ€”comprised of many languages, changing as we speak and write, malleable, deforming and interacting with other languages within our changing world. Etymological evolution is at work all the time. We live in a moment thatâ€™s rummaging through the scrapheap of history amid unprecedented change, trying to imagine possible futures, trying to figure out how to build into that process meaningful reflection, the art of listening, attention to conscience, and conscientiousness.
(17) Like theÂ Galerie de DifformitÃ©,Â whose content took awhile to find its interrelated form, the material withinÂ On Marvellous Things HeardÂ went through varied incarnations: from faux to scholarly essays to a pedagogical collection of music-inspired writing exercises, etc. (The poems that ended up in my cartographic-based chapbook, Wreckage: By Land & By Sea, also went through varied incarnations.) My first attempt to harness the musical material was a faux opera lodged inside my first novel,Â The House Enters the Street. The more that I tried to reduce something three-dimensional to two dimensions, it resisted that attempt, needed to breathe, needed white space, interaction, call and response, counterpoint of voices, where my voice became only one in a larger chorus (cacophonic as that chorus may be).
(18) The content of each project searches for its own form. Notation follows accordingly. Just because I read modern English doesnâ€™t mean I understand Old English, just as someone who can sing from the modern five-staff system doesnâ€™t mean they can make music from medieval neumatic notation (before block notes, essentially appearing as squiggles and dots above and below lines of text, denoting relative pitch and duration: monophonic, not polyphonic). Regardless of what gets lost in translation, traces remain, trails of breadcrumbs to follow, ways to educate ourselves to read backwards (so to speak). There are so many different kinds of literacies across disciplines, languages, historical periods, cultures. What feels generative to me is putting these different literacies in conversation with one another somehow, if only through sensibility, appealing to sounds and senses that shift us both outside and back into our skins.
As aside:Â Iâ€™ve been thinking for a while about a musical notational analogue forÂ On Marvellous Things Heard. If any composer might be interested in collaborating, please contact me.
(20)Â Â More important to me than creative writing is the enterprise of creative living: always a process in progress. Iâ€™m excited about the creative writing courses that Iâ€™m teaching at MIT, engaging interdisciplinary fields like book history and museum studies. But to return toÂ Ugliness: A Cultural History,Â this might be considered another deformation of theÂ Galerie de DifformitÃ©, growing out of a subplot involving Ye Ugly Face Club. (My faux introduction for the e-volume of this facetious societyâ€™s archival papers deformed into a scholarly essay delivered at the annual conference for the Association of Art Historians, forthcoming in an art history anthology, now deforming further into a cultural history of UglinessÂ for Reaktion Books.) While exploring ugliness, I will continue tending to the communal deformation of theÂ Galerie de DifformitÃ©. If youâ€™re interested in participating, please visit: http://difformite.wordpress.com. Thank you for reading. In the meantime, please listen to Footnote 19.