A Word from the Professor - "The World Exists!"

It's becoming increasingly clear to me that there is a very small but very vocal group of people -- most of them young and geeky and fairly inexperienced -- who like to think that the world did not exist before the Internet and who therefore frequently make outrageous claims about technology and the world it's creating.  I preface this by saying that I am not a Luddite -- and for those of you who have forgotten that words mean things and therefore don't know what a Luddite is, that's someone who fears and hates and rejects technology.  I am not one of those.  I like technology.  I use technology.  (I will have more to say about the word "technology" in a bit.)  But as someone who's not so young anymore, but who is still about as geeky as it's possible to be and still function semi-normally in the world, I'd like to try and make a few things clear.  

1.  The invention of the microwave oven did not destroy the ability of people to cook and, y'know, eat.  People still eat.  And people still cook.  And bake.  On stoves and grills and in ovens.  With pots and pans.  The microwave is a cooking tool.  One of many.  But people still have to eat.  Technology is not a replacement for things, it just sometimes makes things easier.

2.  The invention of television did not destroy radio.  Or cinema.  Just as the invention of home video did not destroy television or cinema.  Just as the invention of cinema did not destroy theater.  And the invention of the Internet has not destroyed television (so-called Reality TV, on the other hand....  But I digress).  The one thing you can count on when it comes to people and entertainment is that more than anything else people want OPTIONS.  That's something else you should know about technology:  it's about choices.

3.  The inventions of the telegraph and the telephone and the cellular phone and text messaging did not destroy the ability of people to talk (though they did in some ways destroy the distances between people).  I mean, the human body still comes equipped with a larynx, and pretty much everybody still uses it, pretty much all the time, whether they're talking long-distance or not.  So unless we evolve ourselves out of a larynx (and yes, people did and do evolve, despite what the Christians and the Republicans say), people are gonna talk.  And while I'm on the subject of the human body and the things it comes equipped with:  

4.  The invention of digital porn and its proliferation by means of the Internet has not stopped people from having sex with each other.  And it NEVER WILL.  Even though the Internet's primary purpose for existing is now and pretty much always has been the efficient distribution of every kind of porn imaginable, that porn has not taken the place of real live physical sex between real live physical people.  Anyone who's ever actually had sex with another living person knows this, and why.

5.  Art still exists.  People still paint.  I mean with paint, not numbers.  People still draw.  People still sculpt.  People still make art, with their hands.  The invention of digital technology has not destroyed either the ability or the desire of people to do these things.

6.  People still play sports and games.  The invention of video games has not interfered with this in the slightest.  All you need to do is check how much your favorite athlete gets paid per year and you'll see just how true this is.

7.  People still make music.  They still sing and play instruments.  The invention of recording and digital distribution has not destroyed these things, if only because you have to have something to record and distribute.  Anyway people have been making music for as long as they've been making anything.  I feel pretty confident in saying that they're going to keep doing it.

8.  Handwriting still exists.  I mean, people still write.  By hand.  On paper.  With pens and pencils and markers.  These things aren't going anywhere; they are necessary things in the universe -- which, I should mention, exists (see below).  Which brings me to:

9.  Paper still exists.  It isn't going anywhere.  It is far too useful, practical, and (most importantly) sustainable for it to go anywhere.  Stop going on about this mythical paperless society that I've been hearing about since roughly 1982.  It isn't coming.  And it shouldn't.  You know why?  Because computers (and by computers I mean not just your desktop CPUs, your laptops, and your notebooks, but your iPhones and iPads and iWhatever-the-fuck-Steve-Jobs-comes-up-with-nexts, your smart phones and Droids and Blackberrys and MP3 players and Kindles and Nooks), which are made mostly of plastics (petroleum and natural gas, folks, which I'm sure I don't need to remind you are fossil fuels and which we ARE running out of despite what the Christians and the Republicans say) and precious metals, are neither green nor sustainable.  Paper is both.  Which brings me to:

10.  Digital texts have existed for pretty much as long as computers have.  That's roughly, what, 30 or 40 years, give or take?  Physical printed books have existed in one form or another for roughly 5,000 years, give or take.  They aren't going anywhere.  You know why?  Well, point the first, see note on "Paper," above.  And point the second, no one in all that time has managed to come up with anything better.  "But but but," I hear you say, "digital texts, ebooks, Kindle, Nook!"  Blah, blah, blah.  Those things are different, not better.  And they're good for archiving, if your only goal is to get as much text as possible into as little space as you can get away with.  So that's fine.  But please stop confusing digital texts with books.  They are NOT the same thing.  And they are not better because (and here's a key point to which I will return; see below) THEY DON'T ACTUALLY EXIST.  See, here's the thing:  people -- all people -- are physical beings, animals really, that live in a world of things.  I know your English teacher told you that you shouldn't use the word "things" like this because it's vague and wishywashy and these are things (!) you should try to avoid being, at least in your writing, but I'm an English teacher too and sometimes it's really kind of a good word.  Anyway, the point is that people are physical creatures that live in a physical world and -- important concept here -- need to interact with that world.  "But but but," I hear you say, "I interact with my Kindle and my Nook and my iPad.  They're physical."  Why, yes, yes they are.  That doesn't make them books, in the same way that your ability to interact physically with a tree doesn't suddenly make it the same as a person.  And if you like them, fine.  If they're useful for you, lovely.  Mazel tov and Mwa! I blow fond kisses in your general direction.  Have fun, bubbi.  You should know that they're making you dumber (there's even real data to back me up on that, but I don't have time to cite any of it -- go, look it up, that's supposed to be one of the things the Internet is good for).  But whatever, that's your business.  Just, please, accept the fact that your Kindle and your Nook and your iPad are not books.  They're computers.  And yes there is a big difference.

So what is the point of all this?  In a nutshell, it's this:  THE UNIVERSE EXISTS.  Now I know you all have grown up watching The Matrix, and you probably think that its boneheaded reliance on the empty-headededness of Baudrillard and other postmodernist I guess we'll call them "philosophers" for lack of a better word somehow has something to do with actual, y'know, IDEAS, but you really need to get your heads around the concept that (I'm going to shout it again now to make sure you all can hear me) THE WORLD EXISTS.  I shouldn't have to tell you that because if you're like most people you actually live in it and interact with it pretty much constantly.  And I'm sure some of you are thinking of Ray Kurzweil right about now, but let me just clear something up for you, Ray Kurzweil writes science fiction.  I know, that's not what he thinks it is, but I'll remind you once again that I'm an English teacher and you can trust me when I tell you that what Ray Kurzweil writes is science fiction.  The virtual immortalilty that Kurzweil is promising you is as flimsy and unreal as every other kind of immortality the human race has fantasized about since it first evolved an awareness of the fact that it would someday die.  You're never going to live in a virtual space inside a computer.  You're not going to get your brain mapped and uploaded into a computer where you will live blissfully for the rest of eternity.  And even if you could, do I really have to tell you that it wouldn't be you, any more than a clone of you would be you (a clone would be your twin, not your self)? Technology (Oxford Dictionary of English definition:  "the application of scientific knowledge for practical purposes; machinery and equipment based on such knowledge") is only useful to the extent that it does things for us in the real world.  As I mentioned earlier, I love technology, I use it all the time, and most of the time it makes my job, if not my life, better and easier.  But it is not an end in itself.  It should not be a way of denying the world -- which, once again, in case you missed it the first time, EXISTS.  There's a real world that's even better than the one inside that computer.  Just calm down and live in it for a while.

Professor Malvolio Q. Merriman

Epic of Gilgamesh

Tablet 11 ("Utnapishtim tells the story of the Flood")

Cuneiform writing on stone, 7th Century BC

Gilgamesh

The giant Humbaba, from the Epic of Gilgamesh

Terracotta mask, c. 1800-1600 BC

And speaking of Permanence...

Head of a King from Nineveh,

c. 2340-2284 BC
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Been reading several different translations of Gilgamesh, because I like to teach the poem in my literature classes whenever possible.  And every time I am struck by the way students react to it:  they forget that the earliest versions of it are 4000 years old and they treat it like a completely contemporary story.  Despite the alien names and the genuine remoteness of the world brought to life by the poem, the experiences of Gilgamesh and Enkidu really resonate, and it becomes a poem about us, right now. 

I guess however much the world changes, human nature doesn't.

A Song for the Dying

by Kathleen

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 Music is one of those arts that has been made highly schizophrenic by the digital age:  witness this exploration of composing music for the theater.  The music and sounds in this case are created electronically and are often meant to mimic acoustic orchestral instruments, but they are intended not as underscoring for film or something similarly static, but for live theatrical performances, which as we all know are never precisely the same from moment to moment.  So what you have here is an interesting example of digital culture being created and applied in order to enhance material culture, written by a composer with extensive experience in both realms.  Here's what she had to say about herself:  

"Kathleen Dooley is a musician, singer, composer, playwright, and recording artist.  She has been involved with music for theater productions or video productions for over twenty years.  Musical contributions have included:  The Glass Menagerie, Painting Churches, A Streetcar Named Desire, Frankenstein, Night of the Living Dead: The Musical, Misery, Dracula, Sweeney Todd, The Cat and the Canary, While You Were Out, The Good Doctor, and 10 Rue De L’Amore.  She has also occasionally performed duties as a vocal coach or musical director for various choirs, ensembles or actors in theater or corporate productions.  She likes to work with local artists to provide arrangements or music for their albums.  Most recently, she co-wrote the title track with Tracylyn Lendi for her country rock album, Close the Door.  She is currently also in an acoustic trio, Acoustic Alternatives, which plays regularly in the Chicago suburbs.  She plays piano, keyboard, guitar, conga drums, harmonica, and has performed as a solo artist since the age of fourteen."

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One of the strange and unusual skills I have had to tap into over the years as a composer is to write something to emulate dying or creation on stage.  You might think this to be a pretty simple task – find some angelic instruments, throw in a little repetitive wind chime, and call it a day.  However, it has never been that easy of a decision for me.  If one was to try to imagine what the birth of a being would sound like, would it take a spiritual tone or more of a science-fiction Frankenstein fantasy?  Would the first movements of a now ensouled have the sounds of gears starting up for the first time, or would it rather take on the sound of breaking rock from a shift in the earth’s plates?  Would and should all of this just start in silence followed by a new baby’s cry piercing the air with a shrill scream of terror?

All of this went through my mind when attempting to find a way to underscore an 8 minute scene in the play, Golem by David Morris being produced at The Riverfront Playhouse.  The script tells the story of an alchemist Rabbi in the 1400’s who is obsessed by the mystery of life and is frustrated by many failed attempts to create it.   As the stars and planets align, he is visited by a mysterious stranger who holds the knowledge for the mystic rituals allowing the Rabbi to finally create a life;  to create a Golem.  

One of my tasks in all of this was to underscore that eerie scene as he performs the ritual to create the man of clay into a living breathing being.   The director/playwright described to me something that included noise, moaning, and that would build to the grand conclusion.  

My hope when composing music and effects for a stage show is that the cues be more than vehicles to get the actors in and out of scenes.  I’m always striving to create another character with the music so that the audience has an extra little insight for what they have seen or are about to see in the unfolding story.  The greatest compliment I ever received on a score was actually overheard at a show from a random audience member at a thriller for which I’d composed a score.  He remarked at intermission that he kept getting tense at the beginning of scenes.  He couldn’t understand it since he knew the story, he knew that there was no significant action happening right away, and there were no actors on stage doing anything of significance.  He then realized that it was due to the pulsating background music.  

That has set the bar for me with musical scores.  If the scene is tense, so must the music be.  If the actors must fall in love, they must do it with a beautiful melody.  If there is a subtle punch line that must be reiterated, the music must comply.  This may all seem obvious, but not as easy as it may sound.  As a musician and an artist desperately wanting to be liked at all times, much like many of my artistic friends, it is my first instinct to do something that people will like and appreciate with applause.  “Oh, how lovely that was and you were a GENIUS to create that out of thin air!  Bravo! Bravo!”  Similarly, it is often my first urge to write a score that will appeal to the audience musically first and match the scenes second.  However, this never works – no matter how many times I fall into that trap – as I first did with Golem.  

I went with my comfort zone and not with the vision of the play.  I presented a wonderfully tense but melodic five minute piece of orchestra music only to be met with a negative response from the director.  As  a matter of fact, it was the only piece he took notice of because it was so very wrong.  I instantly realized what I’d done and agreed to rerecord a more appropriate piece.  When I went back into the studio, I concocted the most wonderfully uncomfortable series of noises that included a synthesized wind chime, an electronic voice growling low, simulated thunder, my voice through three different filters, and the random nonsensical sinister whispers to name a few.  Simply put, it did NOT have a good beat, NOR would you dance to it, but if you wanted to know what it sounds like to open the gates of hell, I suspect this is it.   

The creation of this single piece suddenly opened up the inspiration I needed to complete the rest of the score.  Every scene lead in and underscore either guides the audience to this mystical moment, or hurdles the observer into a darker and deeper world as a result of it.  

I have discovered over the years that I really have to let go of my artistic ego and sense of writing those conclusive endings that bring me comfort in order to capture the director’s vision and move the story along.  In this case, I stepped out of that comfort zone by choosing instruments that I am not particularly fond of:  the oboe, the harpsichord, etc.  They were the best pitch, and tonal quality to match the writing style of the show and the performances that are emerging from the actors.  

So, there you go.  I thought I’d just put together a little note describing the evolution of this particular musical score.  Perhaps you are now thinking of what your birth or death might sound like if it were acted out on stage, eh?  Oh, come on, sure you are…

 

Permanence

by Professor Malvolio

Perhaps the most unintentionally absurd moment in Aaron Sorkin's excellent The Social Network comes when our fictive Mark Zuckerberg confronts his fictive ex-girlfriend in a fictive tavern and she says to him, "The Internet's not written in pencil, Mark, it's written in ink."  This is both funny and poignant because it strikes me as exactly the sort of idiotic thing a thoughtless member of the digital generation would say.  Because from where I'm sitting, the Internet is the living definition of Impermanence -- written not in pencil or ink but air.

You want to talk about permanence?  Or, at the very least, durability?  The following are photos of paleolithic cave paintings that are among the very first examples of material culture in human history, ranging from roughly 15,000 (Lascaux) to 30,000 (Chauvet) years old.  Real human hands (and mouths too -- it's believed that some of the effects were created by holding the paint in the mouth and blowing it onto the wall) painted these -- and no one knows exactly why.  Just looking at the photos is enough to cause goosebumps, but I'm told that the experience of actually standing in the caves before the actual paintings is one of the most awe-inspiring and humbling experiences imaginable.
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Chauvet:

 

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Lascaux:

 

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These ones are my favorites.  They come from Rouffignac and those, my children, are mammoths.  Drawn and painted by hands that were attached to living people who had eyes that had seen the real thing....

 

You wanna talk about goosebumps?

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Of course the great irony of the Caves is that their rediscovery by humans in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and their inevitable opening (for a while) as tourist traps, has resulted in serious damage to some of the ancient environments as well as the paintings themselves.  Some of the most awesome of the caves -- Altamira, Lascaux, I think Chauvet -- have been rightly closed to all but authorized visitors (who are admitted under very tightly controlled conditions) and rebuilt in elaborate replicas so that people can have something approximating the experience of seeing them while still protecting and preserving the real sites.

If the Internet (let alone the human race) is still around in 30,000 years I'd be surprised.  But only then, I think, will claims of permanence be justified.  In the meantime, wrap your brain around this:

That's a 30,000-year-old human handprint from Chauvet.

I've got goosebumps....

KIN: A Day in the Life (of a New York Stage Manager)

by Katrina
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If there is any art form that completely exemplifies the idea of material culture, it's theater.  Theater is a profoundly human art -- and by that I mean a physically human art.  It's about bodies.  Human bodies with all their mess and imperfection.  Spit and sweat and, yes, tears and blood.  And though we tend to associate all this physicality primarily with actors, no theatrical artists are more immediately aware of the physical demands of creating theater than the members of the backstage crew.  Our first post, then, gives us a glimpse into the world of New York theater from the perspective of a professional stage manager, who had this to say of herself:

"Katrina hails from western central Illinois.  After attending the Illinois Mathematics and Science Academy, and surviving the jungles of BC Calculus, she decided theater was the career for her, and went on to become a stage manager.  She is now the assistant stage manager on Kin at Playwrights Horizons.  Her life experiences include (in no particular order): a sleepless night in Australia due to a snoring brother, walking all over Paris looking for a crepe place simply to find a stand on the street by her hostel, watching the penguin parade at the Edinburgh zoo, reading Harry Potter 7 in less than a day, running up and down hills in San Francisco in an attempt to get her van out of a locked parking facility, playing the oboe for 6 years, and dissecting a cat named Maleficent in Human A&P."

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Theater conveys emotions and ideas through images.  It is a spoken, visual medium.  In that way, it mirrors my job.  A stage manager doesn’t do anything.  I can’t point to something onstage and say “I did that.”  I convey knowledge, double-check, communicate.  I never see the final product because I’m backstage, listening, counting people and items, communicating in whispers and facial expressions.

6:03pm – I arrive at the theater.  I drop my coat off, turn on the computer, grab my “Beauty and the Beast” coffee mug, and head to the green room for some tea.  I chitchat with the crew, all of whom are early, and then head back to the office to cruise Facebook.  Er, I mean, do very important work.

6:30pm – Official crew call.  I go to the green room, brief the crew on what needs to get done today (nothing new), and send them upstairs to test the mist and mop the stage.  We test the mist before the show to A) make sure it works and B) get the stage wet without having to bring up the mop bucket.  After misting, the crew gets out the squeegee – a vacuum that sucks up the water onstage.  For future reference, do not skip down the hallway, punching into the air, humming “Eye of the Tiger,” while the actors are napping. 

6:34pm – I go back to the office to chat and gossip with my stage manager.  We look at cute pictures of wallabies and alpacas.  What does this have to do with the show?  Nothing at all.

6:50pm – I go upstairs and check to make sure spikes are still on the floor where they are supposed to be.  There are 43 different sets of spikes on the floor.  Checking them requires walking in circles looking at the floor and muttering to myself.  It highly resembles acting like a crazy person.

7:00pm – Spikes are all in place, and I proceed to checking props and costume pieces. 

7:10pm – I finish pre-show check.  Today, this includes breaking the plastic sign-holder and sassing the house manager when he sasses me. 

7:20pm – It is calming to lie on an empty, preset stage for the ten minutes before opening the house.  Almost everything is done, and I am waiting for the house to open, breathing and thinking and listening.

7:25pm – My PSM and I check the cue-lights and do a blackout check.  I hand the stage over to the stage manager who gives the theater to the house manager.

7:30pm – The house is now open, and I head to the office to change into blacks.  I hate blacks.  With a passion.  Black socks are depressing and make me hate my life.  Unfortunately, white socks look stupid with black pants and black shoes. 

7:35pm – I hang out in the green room with the crew.

8:00pm – One of the actors enters the green room to wait for places.  He and I have worked out a sign, so that he can always call places seconds before my SM calls it over the loudspeaker.

8:04pm – Places.  I head up the spiral staircase, and as soon as everyone is lined up stage left, I let my SM know we’re set stage left.  Stage left is always ready before stage right. 

8:07pm – Scene 1 - I walk behind the wall, hidden from the audience.  There is no backstage on this show.  There is just onstage and offstage.  There are two staircase entrances, stage left and stage right, and an elevator upstage center.  There are two major set pieces: a frame and a wall.  There is storage in the wall for a few props and costume pieces.  Both wall and frame are on wheels and extremely heavy, requiring a strong push to get them moving.  Two actors, two crew members, and myself stand behind the wall until the next transition. 

The wall is cranky today; it is hard to move.  This happens because tinsel from the Christmas Tree gets caught in the wheels.  Fucking tinsel.

Scene 5 – This is the longest scene in the play.  I stand behind the wall and do arm circles. 

Scene 6 – The crew is so comfortable with the show that they lie on the ground and play with their phones.  Even the cast has their phones out, just chilling “backstage.”

Scene 7 – One of the actors spritzes himself down during the scene, so he appears “sweaty” during the gym scene.  There’s a look of beatific peace on his face as he spritzes away.

Scene 8 – There is a “Rock Your Body” dance party around the lift.  Most of the show I stand like a bouncer at the edge of the lift, dressed in black, arms crossed.  My headset and apron make me feel badass, but probably make me look like the person badass people beat up.

Scene 12 – A loud, rumbling noise comes from the back wall.  It’s distracting and scary.  I’ve heard it before, but it’s never predictable.  I used to think it was the dumpsters being emptied, but today one of the cast tells me it’s dynamite from the construction work on the 7 subway line extension.

Scene 13 – It’s warmer than usual onstage, so one of the cast takes the spritzer bottle and spritzes her face to cool down.  This leads to a whispered conversation about Vanessa Redgrave spritzing herself daily, and how she might be coming to see the show.  One of the cast members and I play dots.  Usually a game lasts 3-4 shows; I won the last round.

Kin is a quiet play.  This is a problem when Christmas trees and treadmills and noisy office chairs need to be set.  Or when crew members have coughing fits.  Some of these things we can make better – different wheels on the office chair, perhaps.  But some things, like coughing fits, happen.  We can’t ban bacteria or scratchy throats from the theater. 

Part of doing live theater is rolling with the punches.  Some things can be dealt with during the show – spills onstage.  Some things are after the show problems – stuck wheels on treadmills.  Some things are both – the squeal on the lift pulley gets greased during the show, and then looked at before the next show during crew call.  That’s why people like theater.  Because it happens and you have to deal with it.   The show goes on. 

Scene 15 – This is my ninja hanging-off-the-stairs move.  I hug the center pole of the spiral staircase, one foot on the stair, one foot hanging into space in order to let a cast member go past me on his way downstairs.  Then I cue the wall, wait for the lights to go dark, grab the Christmas tree, wheel it over to the lift, and watch the Bear ride the lift to the stage.  The best part of the whole show is watching the Bear sit in the trap room before her entrance, just sitting and waiting along with the other actor and two crew members.  There’s a bear just chillin’.  In the trap room.  Like you do.

Scene 16 – It’s amazing the things you can get used to.  There’s a bear.  There’s a gun in the show.  It goes off.  And every day it’s “now’s the time to plug my ears because the gun is loud.”  This is how the human race survives.  Because no matter how weird or awful or great something is, we just get used to it.  It becomes normal.  And then we continue on with our days.

My crew is drawing on the inside of the wall with Sharpies.  Graffiti is tolerated when your workplace is a theater, and the architecture changes every 4 months with the show.

Scene 17 – There are forest panels that get put on the front of the wall.  They look like the forest of Endor as Luke and Leia race through on speeder bikes.  There are circular fog vents that come out of the floor.  When they pop up, they look like aliens and dispense fog so the stage ends up resembling Dagobah with Endor off to the side.  The fog is a beautiful grey sea, slowly undulating as it spreads across the stage and wafts down the stairs.  There is an air current upstage right that always twirls the fog into a slight hurricane.  The sea is beautiful, unless you’ve read far too many sci-fi/fantasy novels and envision the ethereal fog covers a swampy bog filled with unknown dangers.  Or the fog is the danger, a mist that creeps into your lungs and soul and takes your life without realizing it.  And then you shudder and try not to think about the torments in your own mind.

At the end of the night, I know the frame and the wall and the treadmill and mist and fog and bear combined to say something big about the human experience through a combination of little moments.

Raising the Curtain

Digital culture is great, I get that. But there is a real world and it has real stuff in it. Stuff that doesn't just look but also feels and smells and tastes. Stuff that has substance. I mean like physical substance. I'd like to celebrate that stuff. So yes, I decided to do it... in a blog. Ironic much?

The name of the blog is a bit of old-school whimsy, a little gesture acknowledging the irony of a digital archive celebrating material culture, but you shouldn't take that to mean that we don't take ourselves seriously.  We are all people who have interests and expertise that take place in and touch on the real world and encompass a lot of that physical real-world stuff I'm talking about. Books. Printed ones. Made of cloth and paper and leather and ink. Music. Made with real instruments that involve things being plucked and banged and scraped and, y'know, blown. Art. Made with paint and wood and cloth and paper and ink and clay and light and salt and oatmeal and just, well, everything. Theater. Made in front of a living audience, with living actors breathing and spitting and sweating and bleeding all over that living audience. Things that, in short, have been made. Out of real, living, breathing people-stuff.

That sounds kinda gross. Let's move on.

If any of this sounds even a little interesting to you then hang about because I have no idea where it's going to go.  The next several posts are going to start introducing the cast and crew of this little production.  I may be the director and curator here, the virtual Master of the Revels, but in the end I'm only the name at the top of the blog, or possibly the Man Behind the Curtain.  You'll be hearing from me a lot, but you'll be hearing from a lot of other people as well.  Book people and art people and music people and theater people and, well, mostly just people who have not forgotten that culture is a living thing. And it has feelings.

Tangibly Yours,
Professor Malvolio