Today I paid a visit to San Francisco’s
Yerba Buena
Center for the Arts, where the main
exhibit explored the audience as a subject:
(photo courtesy of http://www.ybca.org/audience-subject-part-2-xl)
Photographs of swarms of bodies immersed in frenzy, films of
soccer fanatics turning to riot, of masses pulsating in unison, of hordes jeering
an empty ring from which the images of the boxers had been removed, of people
all over the world expressing their religious (without understatement) devotion
to a British punk band—and as I moved from piece to piece all I could think was
I don’t like crowds. Taken from their context and put on display, it all
seemed absurd and somewhat unsettling.
We all want to fit in, but we all want to be special:
For contrast, the other exhibit in the Center was a solo
exhibit about the experience of an artist, which was likened to that of a lone
traveler in the Arctic:
Pinned between the crushing anonymity of the audience and
suffocating isolation of the artist, I decided it would be best to go outside
to the Yerba Buena
Garden and lie in the grass:
As I lazily enjoyed the afternoon, someone mentioned
something about an eclipse. Of course, I had forgotten, I read in the paper the night
before that there would be an eclipse today! I set right to work:
Three-ring notebook doubles as pinhole camera:
A view of the sun through protective glasses (thanks to a friendly and
informative fellow lawn-occupier who works at the science center):
Obscured by the moon, the sun’s rays seemed devoid of warmth and contrast between light and shadow became harsh, creating a sense of
artificiality. I felt as though I was in a movie studio lit by spotlights and
at any moment a mob of stagehands would swarm in to rearrange everything at the cue
of the rotund director’s “cut!"
And the passing of the eclipse behind a building signaled my
move indoors for a concert by the Brad Mehldau trio. Suddenly, here I was: the
audience--the very anonymity I had scorned! Look at us self-righteous jazz fans, speaking
in code, talking as though we were the chosen people paying homage to our little-known but all-powerful god:
“Oh yes, let me make as many references to obscure jazz musicians
as possible.”
“Absolutely, not only do I own album on which the song you
just mentioned appears, I’ve seen him in concert twice.”
And the worst part of it all was I knew these references too.
Determined to have no part in this, I fought back the urge to respond with a comment to show that I belonged in this exclusive club as well and sought refuge in a book while we waited
in front of the empty stage for the band to finish looking at the eclipse:
It was astounding watching him at the piano, his movements,
contortions more like, so strained, so tense, so exaggerated, so forced, but
yet the sound he drew from the instrument—at times so pure and light and
delicate, and others complete exuberance and freedom. It was as though the
sonic world of music was his deliberate rebuttal to the physical realm of
objects and things and movement. After a few songs:
“Thank you. Thank you. We opened with “Hey Joe” made famous
by Jimmy Hendrix [applause] and we followed with a Charlie Parker blues, an
original composition, and a Sonny Rollins tune. I just looked at the sun. That
was really stupid.”
To be continued. . . .
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