Listening to art. Playing with audio. Sounding out technology. Composing in code.

Tag Archives: installation

The Pendulum and the Letterpress

An essay to accompany the work Competitive Swinging by Paolo Salvagione

The artist Paolo Salvagione has been principal engineer on the clock of the Long Now Foundation since he joined the project in 2000 (or, as they count over at the Long Now, the year 02000). In his spare time, his own artwork fuses the conceptual and the mechanical, to varying relative degrees. He asked me to write an essay to accompany an installation he debuted yesterday, April 17, at the Headlands Center for the Arts in Marin County, just across the Golden Gate Bridge from the Richmond District, where I live in San Francisco.

Salvagione’s work is titled “Competitive Swinging,” and it resulted from an invitation he accepted to use the historic gymnasium, building 952, at the Headlands, which is based in the decommissioned Fort Barry military grounds, the structures on which date from 1907. “Competitive Swinging” consists of two sets of five swings set facing each other. The hardware from which each swing is suspended was reproduced by Salvagvione, who based the design on that of the original (and long in decay) equipment in the ancient facility. (When asked, on the phone, how they are doing, whereas most people will say “well,” Salvagione tends to respond “welding.”)

His invitation to me to contribute an essay came with an enticement: it would be printed on A5 cardstock on a letterpress by Rocket Caleshu of the San Francisco Center for the Book (sfcb.org), from a design by Brian Scott. (That’s Scott of Boon Design, boondesign.com, which among other things created the “cover” art for the Disquiet.com compilations Our Lives in the Bush of Disquiet and Anander Mol, Anander Veig.)

Here’s the text I wrote:

“Addressing the Competition”

The gymnasium is the art gallery of physical activity. The room is Spartan: bare floor, tall ceiling. The room is Platonic: an expansive blank space. The room is Euclidean: its markings an elegant geometry that has survived well into our quantum era. Those markings, circles and straight lines, set down rules by projecting the contours of human motion.

The gymnasium sits empty for extended periods of time, in between instances of intense, sweat-inducing competition. There is the sweat of the competitors, and the musk of the anxious audience. The sweat lingers.

There are two human competitions at work in the gymnasium. There is the one between athletic opponents, and there is the one between athletes and audience. The latter is between those who have what it takes to participate, and those who watch. The latter competition pits floor against bleachers, action against inaction.

Paolo Salvagione’s “Competitive Swinging” seeks to address the disparity. It lifts the curvilinear markings from the floor and renders them in space. And it renders them with the weight of the seated human body. It sets five of these bodies against another five, two rows of nearly invisible bleachers suspended in the air. Each body traces a pendulum in the air, ten flesh clocks marking time.

The pendulum plays with the whole notion of physical exertion. As Salvagione explains, “The thing about a pendulum is that its period, the time it takes to traverse its course, is constant. We’ve known this since Galileo. Even as you go higher and higher on a swing, it still takes the same amount of time to cross the same point. The weight of the bob at the end of the pendulum doesn’t matter, even if that bob is a person.” Each participant swings at his or her own pace. Sweating is optional.

There is a third competition as well. It’s a matter of time, but time whose measure is longer than the arc of a pendulum. It’s the competition of a building against the elements. It’s the matter of a gymnasium that, like the bodies that long ago sweat on its floors, eventually reaches the point of physical decline. The gymnasium is an art galley of physical activity — until it is simply an art gallery.

Images of the letterpress version of my essay:

Unrelated, but this mass of sonorous rust is the bell in the communal kitchen at the Headlands:

The three installation photos by Andria Lo (andrialo.com).

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Ai Weiwei on Ai Weiwei (MP3)

Sun Studio: Listen to the sound of Ai Weiei’s Tate installation of millions of handmade sunflower seeds.

Following up yesterday’s entry on Susan Philipsz, another recommended entry from the Tate Museum’s extraordinary podcast series: Ai Weiwei is by no means categorized as a sound artist, but he is a protean figure in contemporary art, and sound is neither an inconsequential nor an infrequent aspect of his creative work. In the past on this site, I’ve noted the soundscape aspect of his video work “Beijing: Chang’an Boulevard” (2004). And here in an extended conversation dating from last October, Weiwei engages an interview with Katie Hill, starting off with the famous piece involving 100 million handcrafted ceramic sunflower seeds in the Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall (MP3).

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The podcast appears to have been recorded before visitors to the Tate site were cordoned off from the installation due to health concerns. The sound of footsteps in those seeds had been noted in reviews and other coverage of the exhibit. And once the exhibit was closed off from public interaction, its silence became an unintended yet intrinsic part.

More on the podcast at tate.org.uk.

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Susan Philipsz on Susan Philipsz (MP3)

High Tide: A brief video document of Susan Philipsz’ Turner Prize–winning work “Lowlands”

Like those of many major (and, for that matter, minor) museums, the podcasts of the Tate are both archivally inspiring and digitally (information-architecturally?) puzzling.

For example, they tend to pop up in large batches, hours upon hours of art-related lectures and panel discussions that appear simultaneously in your RSS feed in a way that is more overwhelming than enticing, making for what may best be described as institutional tantalization.

The experience can be a bit like receiving one of those film festival flyers so packed with a month of rare movie-going opportunities that the end result is you see no films at all, and just stay home reducing your TiVo and Netflix queues.

To some extent, the Tate’s batching of lectures is emblematic of the museum’s outsize ambition, which may have its closest rival in the Getty, at least in terms of online audio of art history and criticism. (I write that previous sentence eager to be proven uninformed, so I can add even more rich feeds to my RSS reader.) One recent batch of Tate podcasts included several dozen individual recordings, and those dozens included among them such multi-part events as “Urban Encounters: Routes and Transitions,” “Museums and Mobiles in the Age of Social Media” (this is England we’re discussing, so “mobiles” means phones not Calder scupltures), and the alluringly alliterative “Sexuality and the Surrealist Sensorium,” together consisting of a dozen lengthy MP3 files.

But the batching is also seemingly unnecessary. These MP3s invariably date back several months, and could more palatably be rolled out evenly and sequentially.

For example, recently popping up was a talk from November 26, 2010, by Susan Philipsz (MP3), who a week later would win the Turner Prize, the first ever such award for a work of sound art. (It was in defense of her winning that I organized the Lowlands: A Sigh Collective response album, and wrote about her work for BoingBoing.net.)

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The talk is a solid overview of her work, explaining in detail the various historical threads that led to the development of “Lowlands,” the piece that won her the Turner, and other of her works. Included are extended sequences of various pieces, including one where her live singing voice was played in a Tesco supermarket. (There’s a Tesco subsidiary, Fresh & Easy, opening in my San Francisco neighborhood soon. Perhaps we can stage an American installation of her piece?)

One final peculiarity about the Tate feed. The URL leads to a page (tate.org) that appears to offer tickets for sale for an event that has already passed.

And should you wish to subscribe via Google Reader or any other feed reader of choice, the URL for the Tate feed is: tate.org.uk.

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Bill Fontana on His SFMOMA “Sonic Shadows”

Bridge Work: Bill Fontana on the site of his Sonic Shadows

The January 2011 edition of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art’s “artcast” (née podcast) includes a sequence on Bill Fontana, the sound artist. At the 10:40 point, he talks about “Sonic Shadows,” his installation that is currently running at the museum. The work involves reactive triggers on the SFMOMA’s famed bridge, which runs atop its vertiginous atrium. However, the sounds that one hears are not entirely from the visible portion of the site. Instead, they are drawn from various places, many of them beyond the public’s mental image of the museum, such as deep in its boiler room. Fontana explains that “all the sounds you are hearing are actually happening,” though he allows there is a bit of “alchemy involved” (MP3).

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There’s also an M4A version of the artcast that includes embedded images related to the various segments.

More on Fontana’s bridge-work at sfmoma.org (from which the above photo, by Don Ross, is borrowed). “Sonic Shadows” is scheduled to run from November 20, 2010, through October 16, 2011. If you’re in San Francisco this Thursday, February 3, there’s a lecture scheduled on the Fontana work at 6:30pm: sfmoma.org.

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Cardboard & Fire: Zimoun & Jim Haynes, Live (Swissnex San Francisco)

In the city’s Financial District, there is an institution called swissnex San Francisco, which bills itself as a science/education/art/innovation platform. Last Wednesday, January 19, it welcomed Zimoun to town for a performance, just prior to the opening of his solo show at Gray Area Foundation for the Arts on Saturday, the 22nd. He was paired with local innovator Jim Haynes, each playing solo. Haynes played with fire, Zimoun with cardboard. And ping pong balls.

Zimoun, who hails from Bern, has gained deserved renown for his precise, mechanically implemented installations, in which myriad tiny devices combine to suggest a robotic mix of sound and motion that verges on the life-like — not necessarily sentient, but resembling simple and vibrant animals or natural environments: insects, blades of grass, amoebas. They are vibrant to the point of chaos, chaotic to the point of ecstatic. I was delighted that GAFFTA had featured a paragraph I’d once written (“Maximum Effort for Minimal(ist) Impact “) about Zimoun’s work in its exhibit announcement:

“Zimoun’s primary instruments are entirely of his own making, each a large-scale installation of small mechanical devices — tables lined with whipping little bits of tubing, small sets of fetishistically situated mini-motors. They are architecturally precise and their beauty is forged by that precision. The meticulous engineering of Zimoun’s work is a set-up — not an end unto itself, but a staged step toward its end result, an orderly step enacted so as to let chaos flourish. His chaos takes place in close settings, in carefully defined spaces, in systems as thoroughly considered as a laboratory experiment. And the sound emitted by them is not an after effect, or an afterthought. It’s a core principal of his practice.”

I wrote that (and some earlier appreciations) as a long-time admirer of Zimoun’s work, and as one who had only experienced it thanks to Internet-sourced videos and some audio recordings. This concert was my first opportunity to see his work in person. Particularly of interest was how the setting blurred the line between installation and instrument.

The swissnex San Francisco show took place in the rear room of its ground-floor space, a large white rectangle with a few support columns, the walls lined with acoustic tile. The head of swissnex San Francisco’s Interdisciplinary Programs, Luc Meier, introduced the evening with one of the most polite admonitions ever directed at a concert audience: “Please turn off or at least down your phone.” He spoke briefly of a scientific component of Zimoun’s work, and thanked Haynes and his 23Five collaborator, Randy Yau, for helping set up the evening.

Bankers Beatbox: One of Zimoun’s quintet of carboard music-making devices

Zimoun played for 20 minutes straight, his instrument being a set of five apparently identical devices of his own design. This notion of hermetic, parallel procedures is quite characteristic of his work overall, which takes a systems-oriented approach. To witness a Zimoun work generally involves watching and listening to a batch of similar automatons. The appearance of machine-produced similarity initially masks and eventually reveals a machine-produced cacophony. And then the work takes another turn, as from the cacophony emerges something that a sympathetic ear will liken to a musical experience.

Motor City: While the constructions differ, the materials and sonic effect in this Zimoun video are similar to those employed at the swissnex San Francisco concert.

Each of the devices was a plain, brown-cardboard banker-box cover, on top of which a long, stiff, thin wire was attached on one end to a motor and the other to what seemed to be a ping-pong ball. He started up one initially, the vibration of the ball echoing in the box below, resounding off the hard surface of the table and summoning up a low level frenetic effect. (I confirmed with Zimoun after the concert that no audio processing was employed, other than equalization.) The percussive sound was like that of some distant drum corps, like a Brazilian Carnival parade right through Dr. Seuss’ Who-town.

In time, a second and then a third box was added to the mix, eventually all five thrumming at once. Zimoun achieved this combination by maximizing the chaos yet somehow minimizing the sense of accrual. The noise was increased so slowly that only when, toward the end of the performance, he began to turn off individual boxes did it become apparent just how energetic the work had grown since he had initiated it.

Balls to the Wall: Zimoun in performance at swissnex San Francisco

Jim Haynes could not have provided more of a contrast, his table looking more like something from a laboratory, packed with various devices, including a matrix of speakers in a piece of dark wood, and a crusty suitcase that wouldn’t be out of place in a production of Death of a Salesman. After an unfortunate bit of unintended ear-rattling, arm-hair-raising feedback, he moved into a sinuous haze whose fluidity and ether-like quality contrasted with the rough collection of materials from which it was made.

Key among those tools was flame, an item under-utilized by electronic musicians. As the smell of candle smoke and spent matches filtered into the room, flames flickered coyly from behind some beaker stands (which would later, it appeared, pour sand near a contact microphone for what must be the most literal interpretation ever of the phrase “granular synthesis”). The sound of these flames then emerged from the swissnex speakers as that peculiar noise that seems, contradictorily, at once like water and fire, and crumbled paper. There were sounds of irregular radio signals, and raw and filtered field recordings. In time the source material became less recognizable, subsumed as it was in Haynes’ real-time production of a lingering near-hush that complemented, in a kind of theater, the way the smoke had made its way through the room. (A look at the mad-professor table after the show revealed a tape recorder, a Dr. Sample machine, an MP3 player, an effects pedal, and more.) The flames notwithstanding, the strongest impression came from an ambient torque, the sense of a sound being contorted in real time like a piece of bent metal.

Have Sampler …: Jim Haynes’ set-up from the swissnex San Francisco performance

More on swissnex San Francisco at swissnexsanfrancisco.org, More on GAFFTA at gaffta.org. More on Zimoun at zimoun.ch. More on Haynes at helenscarsdale.com/haynes.

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