Transitory Art

Last evening I journeyed out to Greenpoint to complete a little cycle of destiny (see

12/7/07

for my feelings about destiny [actually, I make a fine and utterly personal distinction between "fate" and "destiny," but that's for another time]), braving freezing winds and the G Train under the strong urge to bring closure to an experiment I didn't set in motion. I'll begin from the beginning.

In late October of last year--when this here 'blog weren't even a twinkle in my typing fingers--I was riding home on the subway one night when I looked up and saw something unusual adhered to the wall across the way from me. It looked about the right proportions to be a postcard, which is of itself not unusual. Before I ever knew a soul in New York, I used to use a sort of guerrilla advertising technique for my shows, propping a postcard for said shows up on every train I rode. (As I made friends, they would tell me they had spotted my littering advertisements on different trains, which is when I knew it was time to stop and just

give

the things to my friends.) I did not originate this notion. People do it all the time, often with business cards purporting to hold the secret to incredible weight loss and/or increased income from the comfort of your own home. This particular "card," however, looked like nothing more (nor less) than an abstract painting in miniature. Intrigued, I approached it for a closer look.

I was spot-on about its essential nature. There, mounted on fibreglass (which, in turn, was mounted by Velcro to the subway wall) was a miniature oil painting in sworls of red and eggshell. Attached to it was a slip of paper that invited me to take it. With a half a moment of hesitation behind me, the Velcro made its tell-tale sound as I pocketed the painting.

The next day at work, I mentioned my find to a coworker who comes in once a week to balance my boss's books. I knew she was a visual artist, and might appreciate this little project. "That's my friend Lori!" she informed me. Indeed, on the back of the painting was

a website for one Lori Hayes, artist

, and a note encouraging whomever found the painting to visit and tell the story of their discovery. So I did, making certain to include the strange coincidence of working in the same office as a friend of this artist. Lori got back to me, thanking me and marvelling at the synchronicity. She also informed me that she was hoping to, one day, have a showing of all the found pieces, and would be in touch to ask me if I could loan out #90 (of 100), "River," for that event. I told her that I would of course be thrilled.

I love this kind of interactive creation. Maybe it's just the actor in me, but this kind of project feels to me like the kind of gentle, subtle performance art that builds community. Friend Patrick did something similar not too long ago with his Traveling Muse project. He constructed three masks, paired them with a journal and access to a

'blog

and distributed them to myself and Friends Melissa and Kate, with instructions to keep the mask for a month and then pass it along. The idea is (and Patrick will I'm sure correct me if I'm inaccurate) to create something and send it on a journey of influence over different people, with the chance to even track some of that influence, or inspiration. (Oddly enough, Patrick began his project on the Autumnal Equinox, and Lori's spanned from the Summer Solstice to the Winter.) The elements of chance and personal interaction are great inclusions in any work of art. I still occasionally make a paper frog out of whatever postcard I've been handed and leave it conspicuous on a subway seat, just out of that urge to start something with a stranger. Rainer Maria Rilke offered an interesting observation on artistic satisfaction. He said the mother is the only completely fulfilled artist, accomplishing exactly what every artist dreams of: she creates something out of her own being, which goes on to exist in the world completely apart from her.

Last night, approximately a year from the end of Lori's cycle of placing sections of one giant painting on subway cars, she gathered what pieces she may and had a showing of them, as well as the original canvas from which they'd been cut, xeroxed copies of her journal and emails from various recipients, and photographs of each piece in its subway setting before it was taken. Out of one hundred, only four pieces returned to their maker for the night, and of those, only one had its new owner accompany it. I felt pretty conspicuous there, essentially a stranger, but one everyone there suddenly knew as having been a part of the experiment.

In spite of any self-consciousness (suddenly that term doesn't sound negative to me) there were also profound feelings of completion, inclusion and awareness. It reminded me of playing some street games a little over a year ago, the way they made me look at everything without taking any of it for granted. Those can be rare feelings in life in general, in this city in particular. I take great hope from the fact that Art is one of the things that can evoke them.

This is Private (Bears!)

When I was in elementary school, in

my county

(which I have since discovered was one of the wealthiest counties in all of this great nation [don't ask by what standards {'cause I don't know and will be forced to punch you rather than reveal my ignorance}]) they were very concerned in the public schools with students who might be "learning disabled" (LD) or "gifted & talented" (GT). I have come to adopt my mother's view (she worked as a teacher in the very same public school system for years), namely that the distinction was more a matter of public opinion than actual intellectual merit. In both cases, the powers-that-were were seeking out children who demonstrated alternative patterns of thought and recognition. I'm not saying they did their job poorly. I'm only saying the criteria by which they deemed "good" and "bad" were, at best, hypothetical. As a result and as you might imagine, some very bright and crafty kids ended up with the stigma of LD, and some good test-takers ended up elevated to the distinction of GT.

Was such the case with myself? Possibly. I tested three years in a row, each time at the recommendation of my teacher of the time. Each and every time I earned one point within the required intelligence quotient (141...at age 9, mind you) and the decision was made that the result was too ambiguous to signify my transfer to special GT classes or workshops. On the third try, they followed up with a personally administered, oral test. I frustrated the hell from that tester, I'm sure.

"In this picture, is the man walking toward the tree or away from the house?" "Both."

"How do you measure out 4 liters using these containers?" "You fill that one up one-third--" "You can't do that." "Why not?"

"How many prongs does

this figure

have?" "None. It's a picture."

Nevertheless, by fifth grade I was going to a school that catered to the alternative thinkers. It was certainly a better fit for me than plain ol' school had been, but in retrospect I just wish they could have extended to every student the same listening and consideration they did the "GT" kids. I'm sure there are reasons that this turned out the way it did, but it seems a shame to separate kids in order for them to learn better. I'm put in mind of the educational theories of

John Dewey

(whom I only know about because my Uncle John lent me his copy of this book when I asked for a good book on American History:

The Metaphysical Club

). It just seems like everyone is capable of critical thinking, but so few teachers appreciate the reward of encouraging it in their students.

Anyway. I'm getting a little off-point. Blame my excessively liberal education.

When I started this 'blog (back in ot-six, it was), I barely understood the concepts involved. (I was walking

away

from the

house

, or whatever the crap was the "wrong" answer.) I mean, I've read the press. I know this is the sort of sudden public publishing everyone was getting twisted up about when the interwebz started getting more accessible. I know that what I write gets out there and is open to an audience. In a sense, it's a further exhibitionism for someone who is already pretty obsessive in his need for an audience. I know this, and yet I've already accomplished a few irresponsible acts on this page o' mine. People who know me will read, or have read, things about myself that they don't like. Or, perhaps with more hazard, things they do like and take to heart in a way that wasn't intended. I'm being intentionally obtuse, and I beg your forgiveness.

Blame my religious upbringing (

Unitarian Universalism

).

In another sense, it's hard to say that such was not my intention all along. As an actor, I've had to confront the possibility on far more occasions than your

average bear

that my actions (and inaction) have more intention behind them than is initially apparent. I'm not a believer in the ethos that "everything happens for a reason." I just happen to practice a craft that makes every effort to mirror life with cunning verisimilitude, and that craft relies most often on the intention of a character for dictating how a scene should be played. In other words, we always want something. Sometimes we are conscious of what we're doing to achieve that certain something...and sometimes, we aren't.

One of my favorite

Rilke

quotes says something to the effect of: The mother is the only truly fulfilled artist, because she achieves what all other artists aim for--to produce something of oneself, to have it live in the world, independent of its creator. (Someday I'll find that exact damn quote again, I swear. It's prose. It can't be that difficult.) I aspire to this every day, I think. Call it a defect, a constant need for approval, or a compulsion, an essential insecurity that drives me to constantly prove to myself that I exist, or call it a calling. I don't really care what you call it; it's there and I get pretty dang miserable when I don't feed it. So of course, given the opportunity to publish my thoughts and ideas to the world-at-large, I'm going to do it. And I'm going to write words that will have effects beyond my control, no matter how safe I try to play it. So be it. It's not like I've spent my life up to this point trying to play it safe, and just maybe I'll learn a thing or two in the process.

Then again, maybe I won't. I am, after all, proudly

a bear of very little brain

. I just happen to test well.