Dreams of Mezland

MEZのYUME'S

DREAMS OF MEZLAND

 

The latest album by Canadian electronic composer mezのyume

 A dream landscape in crayon, a collection of mystical lullabies, a cotton-candy covered meditation on death.

"Dreams of Mezland is indescribably good. A mish-mash of cutesy Nintendo sounds, fractured beats, modern classical meditations and existential musings on the nature of life and death." - VapoUrban writer Doktorb

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Appreciating Satie’s Mysticism: Erik Satie and the Convergence of Mysticism and Humour

 

Appreciating Satie's Mysticism: Erik Satie and the Convergence of Mysticism and Humour

Forest Muran

Truly, the man is a problem. Solution will come, but the time is not yet.
W. Wright Roberts

From his essay “The Problem of Satie”, 19231

Satie has always been considered an anomaly, and it has been notoriously difficult for many to assign him a place in music history. Was Satie a humourist who repurposed whimsical cabaret techniques for the purpose of composing “serious music”? Was he a third-rate composer who shoved his way into the musical canon through his cynical humour? Or was Satie perhaps a martyr for true art, who sacrificed public acclaim and a comfortable life in order to pursue his own creative whimsy and unique artistic vision? Of particular difficulty has been the activity of trying to reconcile Satie the “humourist” with what has been called Satie the “mystic”. It has often been difficult for many taking part in the discussion on Satie to discern whether the often reticent composer was composing his so-called “mystical works” in earnest, or simply testing out a musical joke. Many commentators even demonstrate a hesitancy in taking Satie's oeuvre too seriously, possibly out of fear of learning they have been duped by the old jokester.

The more I have looked into the question of Satie's humorous style, the more it has become clear that it is a mistake to try and lock Satie into the category of either “mystic” or “humorist”. Indeed, the great bulk of Satie's creative career was spent playing with the boundaries between these concepts, testing their limits. To try and define Satie's work as either a genuine product of artistic expression, or as an ironic commentary on the nature of European art is indeed to miss the point. Satie deliberately blurs the lines between the comic and the serious, the profane and the sacred. Satie plays with religious and musical conventions in a way that, by making light of hundreds of years of historical forms, allows him to open up the possibility of an original, creative expression which takes place beyond the iron qualifications of mere mysticism and humour.

The Satie Problem

Many writers have been puzzled, and some perhaps even annoyed, by the ambiguities found in Satie's work. While there are many who saw Satie as a figure of mystery, writing compositions that harnessed a unique kind of musical mysticism, many also considered him to be a mere musical joker, doing his best to mock a world of serious art, into which he found it so difficult to break. For example, after attending a concert featuring some of Satie's music, believed by Orledge to be the notable Ravel performance of Le Fils des Étoiles, Satie's friend Koechlin wrote that he was “at last able to appreciate the value of Satie's mysticism”.2 Gillmor, however, among others, has called Satie's religious mysticism “naive”.3 Satie's younger sister, in contrast, wrote, “my brother was always difficult to understand. It doesn't seem that he was ever perfectly normal. And he was a spiritist rather than a true mystic.”4 Chennevière, however, believing that Satie's feelings of inadequacy led him to try and escape engaging with the world by ridiculing it, argued that “from the pseudo-mystic [Satie] seemed to be at the beginning of his life, he soon became a mere mystifier”.5 Harsher still, Roberts, in the same essay quoted at the beginning of this paper, mentions how, “in England the chief idea current about Satie is that he is a musical humorist of a childish and affected type.”6 It is difficult to find two sources which agree on the character of Satie's work, even at the most general level. He is always portrayed at some ambiguous point along a scale spanning “mystic” on one end and “humourist” on the other. But in general, it seems that the world is unable to make up its mind whether to take Satie seriously or not.

Naturally, attitudes toward Satie have evolved, and he is in many ways treated far more as a serious composer today than he was during the first half of the 20th century. Even so, the current respect for Satie the composer is qualified by a lingering suspicion that, even at his seemingly most profound, Satie might still be trying to dupe us – and for good reason, too, since Satie was notorious for mistrusting music critics, and it is unsurprising that he should create his works in such a way that anyone undertaking a serious analysis should soon find themselves the object of the composer's ridicule. This cautious attitude has led to mixed approaches to Satie's music, even today. For instance, Gillmor writes how Satie's infamous work Vexations may be “one of Satie's greatest leg-pulls,” and that it is “ironic that the little work's contemporary champions - most of whom come from the ranks of high-culture experimental music - should approach this most mystical of Satie's pages with a pious reverence of almost Péladanesque fervour”.7 I argue, however, that to agonize over whether Satie is trying to fool us or not, is to fundamentally misunderstand Satie's stylistic world, which disregards the boundaries between the sacred and the secular, the mystical and the humorous, the serious and the popular. Satie's originality lies in how he paves the way for a style of Western art music that is allowed to play with these conventions. Indeed, Satie's work derives much of its charm through its illumination of the arbitrary aesthetic distinctions within the musical culture from which they have been created. Satie is a master of parodying the musical system that laid the foundations for his own.

It is important to note that Satie, despite his tendency to play the clown and revel in biting satire, nevertheless entertained a life-long interest in religion, and in mysticism. That said, Satie's originality - “in full anarchy, in entire originality”8 - was not limited to his music, and it is obvious that his relationship with religion was also far from typical. Gillmor writes about how Satie, in his early twenties, began “to effect a pseudomystical posture. He spoke a great deal at this time of 'his religion' and began to assume an air of such great humility that his companions nicknamed him 'Monsieur le Pauvre'.” He also began to embark on a devoted study of Medieval plainsong and Gothic art, “spending hours of each day ... meditating in the gloom of the Notre-Dame Cathedral.”9 Satie's religious interest was individualistic, and potentially more based on a fascination with the aesthetic world of Medieval Christianity than on any deep sense of devotion. Later in his life, during his Rose-Croix period, when Satie served as the official composer of the Parisian mystic Joséphin Péladan's revival of the Rosicrucian Order, Satie composed his Messe des pauvres, a liturgical work for mixed choir and organ. Gillmor calls the mass “perhaps the fullest realization of the composer's carefully cultivated Gothic dream.” Gillmor goes on to describe how, within the same Catholic-occult periodical in which fragments of Satie's mass were published, his brother Conrad Satie wrote a celebratory article claiming his brother to be “a Christian idealist” who “professes only disdain for the realism which has clouded the intellect of his contemporaries.” Conrad also mentions how Satie chooses to live in poverty, and writes his music, in true bohemian style, “solely for art's sake.”10 While we can only take Conrad Satie's words as a reflective of his own image of his brother, his impression does seem to reveal a version of Satie who long harboured an interest in religious matters, however unconventional. In any case, it seems clear that religious thought held an integral position in Satie's creative imagination.

Satie's Sonneries de la rose+croix, originally composed as accompaniment for Péladan's Rosicrucian rituals.

It's difficult to gauge exactly where Satie stood in relation to the Catholic Church. Though Satie had a clear interest in the Gothic, it is difficult to say whether his Christian piety dug much deeper than a fascination with the rituals and architecture of the Medieval Church. That said, the religious climate in Paris at the time was undergoing surprising changes, and Satie's own ambiguous relationship with the Catholic tradition fits in perfectly with his artistic contemporaries. Goldman draws attention, for example, to Debussy's musical opportunism which led him to explore many of the spiritual practices in vogue at the time, in order to “develop his own 'esoteric musical language'.” Although Debussy was associating with practitioners of the occult and, at the same time, the Benedictine monks at Solemnes, Goldman cautions against seeing Debussy “as either a quasi Satanist or devout Catholic.”11 Debussy was far more curious about ideas than practising religion. At that time, exploring the different religions known to the Parisian public was seen as an opportunity to get a taste of the larger world, and harness new creative forces, and was undertaken not necessarily out of a desire to seek a kind of “communion with the divine”.

Satie's Danses gothiques, composed in a polyphonic style reminiscent of medieval plainchant.

Satie was invited by the mystic Joséphin Péladan to become the official composer of his revival of the Rosicrucian order, a position which gave birth to what is known as the Rose-Croix period of Satie's oeuvre. It is during this period that Satie composed much of what is considered to be the most mystical of his compositions, including the already mentioned Messe des pauvres.12 Although it is possible that Satie entered into Péladan's occult organization with something of an amused sense of irony, Satie's initial association with Péladan nevertheless suggests that Satie had an interest in the ideas of the charismatic mystical leader. After all, in Péladan's Rosicrucian order, art was an essential vehicle for spiritual experience, and he saw “dans l'art un vecteur idéal pour éloigner ses contemporains du matérialisme et les sensibiliser à la spiritualité.”13 That Péladan felt that Satie's music possessed something of this power to “sensibiliser à la spiritualité” suggests something of Satie's contemporary status of either a mystic, or a mystifier. As for Satie's involvement with the Rosicrucians, given Satie's character, he likely would have enjoyed being associated with the mystery of the order, even if with a certain measure of ironic detachment. Moreover, Péladan's revival of Rosicrucianism also reminds us just how significant occult interests were in Paris at the time. This interest in mysticism and the occult was by no means limited to Satie alone, and his creative environment played a significant part in shaping his own artistic vision, despite how particular it was soon to become.

Satie's musical imagination developed in an artistic environment which sought its sense of meaning through mysticism. Fellow composer Chennevière, attempting to explain something of the obsession with mysticism at the turn of the century, writes that the artists of the time, “weary of the 'grand gesture' of romanticism, saddened by national defeat, incapable of understanding the meaning and grandeur of a civilization of the future ... took refuge in the Past, in the mysticism of the Middle Ages.” Satie was certainly not alone in his interest in the aesthetic world of the Medieval past, and in his obsession was engaging with a trending nostalgia for Europe's spiritual roots. Chennevière continues: “They allowed themselves to be lulled to rest by the religion of their childhood, by all that it offered them in the shape of atmospheric distance and revery, seeking to find the well-spring of this faith shrouded in the mists of passing centuries ... to lose themselves voluptuously in the oblivion of its waters.”14 For Chennevière, the artistic climate at the turn of the century was characterized by an introspective turn, an action motivated by a disappointment with the external world. While it certainly seems possible that the turn of the century could be characterized by a kind of national insecurity and obsessive nostalgia, and while it may even be true that this was the initial sociological phenomenon which drove Satie to his own interest in Medieval mysticism, what is really interesting is the way in which Satie took this initial sense of introspective nostalgia, and transformed this ancient mysticism into a distinctive musical language and world view within his compositions.

No matter how earnest, and perhaps naive, Satie's initial mystical leanings may have been, as time went on they gradually began to mature alongside his music. One of the important ways that Satie separated himself from contemporary purveyors of this “vague mysticism”15 was precisely through that aspect of his work which has left commentators everywhere confused – his sense of humour. Mystified by Satie's liberal use of ambiguous musical markings, Chennevière asks, “whom or what is he ridiculing? Is it Péladan? Is it mysticism?”16 To Chennevière, Satie's sense of humour makes little sense, and is seen as an product of impotence and inadequacy. Satie mocks the mystics because he cannot find it in himself to take anything seriously. But where Chennevière missteps is in his idea that there are only two paths to take - that of a trivial humourist, and that of a third-rate mystic. Satie's music cannot fully be appreciate, however, when we tug and pull between Satie the mystic and Satie the humorist. Rather, it is in Satie's play within the boundaries between humour and mysticism, in his play with parody, that we can come to see Satie in his full originality as a musical thinker. It is, indeed, a defining quality of Satie's music that he does not feel the need to distinguish between mysticism and humour.

Mysticism and Humour

Before continuing, it may be useful to examine these two terms. Mysticism is, unsurprisingly, often a very mystifying word. It often was, and is, thrown around without any clear sense of what is being referred to. There is good reason for this, of course, as the word's history itself is full of obfuscation. In Schmidt's review of the history of the word, he observes how it began to be used in the 17th century in the context of a devotional branch of the Church known as “mystical theology.”17 Later, the word “mysticism” came to be thought of as referring to a particular sect of Christianity, and was associated with the practices of “French Quietists and their misbegotten English successors.”18 At least in the Anglo-American world, mysticism began to take on a new meaning in the mid-19th century, where it was considered to be a universal category, and was spread to extend beyond the realm of merely Christian thought to include ideas found in all the spiritual traditions to the world. Much of this was the result of, firstly, the Anglican theologian Thomas Hartley who, in his Short Defence of the Mystical Writers, wrote that the mystics were the “guardians of the spirituality of true religion,” and that they transcended sectarianism and separatism, instead seeking a more introspective, direct relationship with the divine.19 The second major shift in the definition of mysticism came from Robert Alfred Vaughan's Hours with the Mystics published in 1856, in which the writer argues how varieties of what he calls “mysticism” are to be found in all the world's spiritual traditions, at different times. That is to say, all traditions have their branches concerned with a direct communion with the divine. Thanks to Vaughan, mysticism began to take on meaning in the larger context of world religions, and he is known as being responsible for opening “the way for the popularization of 'mysticism' as a conduit into 'the highest form of spirituality'.”20 It is through writers like Vaughan that mysticism in its modern usage first came to be.

Later, through the influence of writers like Ralph Waldo Emerson and Margaret Fuller, mysticism, through a transcendentalist filter, came to be even further separated from its association with Christianity. It began to take on a new meaning as something “loosely spiritual, intuitive, emancipatory, and universal.”21 Mysticism had started to become a kind of catch-all term to describe spiritual experience, sufficiently vague enough to apply to a variety of practices. What began as a term denoting a certain practice of christian worship soon came to represent a universal type of experience supposedly found in all religious practices.

Today, the Merriam-Webster English dictionary defines mysticism as, “the experience of mystical union or direct communion with ultimate reality reported by mystics.22 Restraining the definition to the experience of those who call themselves mystics is a good way of clearing away some of the ambiguity. More relevant to Satie's own time may be this definition of “mysticisme” found in the 1873 Dictionnaire de la langue française: Néologisme. Croyance religieuse ou philosophique, qui admet des communications secrètes entre l'homme et la divinité.”23 As with the more contemporary English definition, the central feature in this definition of the French word is found in its reference to a communication between the human and the divine. The current definition and etymology of the word is sufficiently vague enough that a literal communication with a particular Christian divinity does not need to be assumed, and the Christian association was often purposely avoided in order to encourage a view of spirituality with a wider, non-denominational reach. That said, this egalitarian spirituality was also propped up as a kind of shield against the contemporary positivist trends. The 19th century mystics wielded the word as a defence against the scrutiny of the sceptical scientific eye, in an effort to protect their hopes for divine experience.24 Nevertheless, despite the term's later ambiguity, it continued to be used, and is still often used today, to describe some type of experience, or abstraction of an idealized experience. Whether the “mystical” describes a genuine experience, or is merely a place holder term for “seekers by seekers, for those who longed to be firsthand prophets but who mostly remained secondhand observers,”25 the fact that the term was ascribed to the music of Erik Satie tells us a lot about how his music was received. Mysticism is something vague, but it also points toward the most profound kind of experience the human mind can conceive. There is a mysterious, ambiguous, and deeply profound quality to the mystical, and it is significant that this strange term should come to mind when listening to Satie, a composer mostly known for his bizarre sense of humour.

The idea of mysticism as a kind of divine experience echos Huizinga's ideas on the origin of rites and rituals, which he suggests may result from a kind of “'seizure' – being seized on, thrilled, enraptured ... the thrill of 'being seized' by the phenomenon of life and nature is condensed by reflex action, as it were, to poetic expression and art.” Huizinga suggests that profound experiences with nature are the original sources of religious creation. The end result of our contact with these powerful experiences is considered to be a “meta-logical” understanding of reality which results in the creation of myths, rituals, and indeed art as a way of making sense of reality. According to Huizinga , in the realm of religion we deal with these profound experiences through the act of play.26 For Huizinga, one of the main qualities of human society is its play-like characteristics. For example, Huizinga describes myth making as an attempt to “account for the world of phenomena by grounding it in the Divine. In all the wild imaginings of mythology a fanciful spirit is playing on the border-line between jest and earnest.”27 For Huizinga, all the larger social institutions found in human society are fundamentally indistinct from the games that children occupy themselves with on playgrounds, in the sense that both are constructed around the principles of the play element in human society. Huizinga also stresses that play is fundamental to human nature, as it reveals that “we must be more than merely rational beings, for play is irrational.”28 The drive to interact with the world in a creative way, in an aesthetic way, seems to be fundamental to what makes us human, no matter how irrational it seems to be. We enjoy what is beautiful and what is fun, seemingly for its own sake. Although many theories exists as to the practical, psychological functions of play, manifested in everything from hopscotch to orchestral performance, play ultimately transcends any practical value and must come to be viewed from an aesthetic perspective, much like how a numerical analysis can't be used to reveal the value found in a Beethoven symphony. The same is true with religion as an extension of play. Though the Marxist interpretation as an “opiate of the masses” is one possible reading of religion's function in society, ultimately rational explanations fail at assessing the entirety of the phenomenon, which is largely mythic, aesthetic, and essentially playful. Religion, just like music, is often engaged in for its own sake, for its own sense of excitement in play.

According to Huizinga's model, mysticism – the direct communication of human beings with the divine – would then describe the experiential origin of the drive toward religious creativity, and the creation of games that are able to capture and, to some degree, transmit a “cosmic emotion struggling for expression.”29 In other words, the game of religion, just like art, is an expression of that which we feel we must express. Huizinga emphasizes, however, that not all games have their origin in such lofty sources, and that even without what we might call “mystical experience,” games and play would still be abound. The contrast emphasized here between the original mystical experience and the games constructed around them is significant. We might suggest that all religions and spiritual practices have their origin in something like “mystical experience,” in a very personal, moving experience of life and nature. That said, were religions all founded on the basis suggested by Marx, as a means of exploiting the naive – a view Huizinga criticizes as ignoring the reality that many religions in simple societies operate under the consciousness of things “not being real”30 - then the developed form of a complex religion would not look much different than if it were founded upon a genuine mystical experience. What is important is that, no matter what triggers the original drive toward ritual and creative expression, the ends result is that games begin to develop, and rules, goals, and ludic environments are formed. For example, while the initial mystical experiences of someone like Paul the Apostle may have led to a desire to repeat them through church ritual, they were eventually codified – or “gamified”, to use more contemporary terminology - through the creation of church hierarchy, salvation doctrines, and specific places of worship. Similarly, the mystical experiences of the Buddha, which are said to have led to an awakening to the realities of worldly experience, were soon gamified in the form of the Noble Eightfold Path, an increasingly complicated conception of nibbāna, and the establishment of fixed monasteries and shrines. There is always a clear dichotomy at work between the original experience, and the creative products which arise from the initial impulse. It is thus difficult, if not impossible, to follow the history of an institution and discover something like the true, “mystical” motivation behind its inception. All we have are the games, with no access to the forces which compelled their creation.

That said, whether mystical experiences, or a deep communion with nature, can be found at the heart of a tradition or not is not significant whatsoever. It is not the origin of the tradition which matters, but how it is lived today. What is significant is how one plays the game. In order to make sense of this, let us consider the role of the charlatan. Writer and filmmaker Alejandro Jodorowsky recounts his time studying with the “so-called charlatans and curanderos” of Mexico City, out of an interest in developing his own understanding of the relationship between unconscious symbols and their potential healing properties. Jodorowsky writes, “every neighbourhood has its own witch or wizard. Thanks to the faith of their patients, they often achieve a cure ... the charlatan develops very personal techniques with great creativity, I compare them to painters ... some have more imagination or talent than others, but all are useful if faith is placed in them. They speak to the primitive human that still lies inside each and every one of us.”31 During his studies, Jodorowsky didn't learn any magical powers which would help him cure the sick, but he did learn the healing power of trickery. Though trickery can be a dangerous thing, and is doubtlessly coloured by some deeply negative connotations, trickery in this sense that Jodorowsky describes it can be found in everything from psychoanalysis, law, and even art itself. We indeed trick ourselves into believing that the therapist knows a cure, that the judge embodies the law, or that words on a page can come to represent real characters and powerful human emotions. Whenever the mind and emotions are involved, we enter an irrational mode of being where we are subject to the whims of psychological forces beyond conscious control. The way we deal with this unpredictable aspect of human nature is of course through myth, ritual, and art, what we saw Huizinga refer to as “playing on the border-line between jest and earnest.” What is important is not whether there was every an original mystical experience underlying a religious practice – how could such a thing ever be verified? What is important is that we realize the value in “sacred trickery”, in the realms of play created by the imagination, as this is the true, ambiguous source of mystical feeling. The real mysticism comes from the way the game is played, not from how it was created.

We have spent a lot of time discussing the idea of mysticism, but so far I have not said much about humour. The reason is that it doesn't seem to me that the two are as distinct as might initially be supposed. Granted, when discussing the play element in culture, Huizinga does stress that “the mimic and laughter-provoking art of the clown is comic as well as ludicrous, but it can scarcely be termed genuine play.”32 The example is odd, however, as Huizinga elsewhere emphasizes how other forms of performance are, in fact, examples of play – the performance of a Bach prelude, for example.33 What Huizinga's intention seems to be is to express the distinction between humour and play. “In itself play is not comical either for player or public.”34 This appears to be evidently true. We hardly burst into laughter when watching a baseball game, and while Pacman may be absurd, it doesn't provoke fits of giggling in itself. But while play isn't necessarily funny, is humour not necessarily play? The clown and mimic, too, play within ludic parameters, with their own goals, rituals, and magic circles (pulling off tricks, traditional routines, the circus ring, etc,.) While this isn't the place to discuss the place of humour in Huizinga in any real depth, for our purposes it suffices to recognize the ludic element in mimicry. There is play in parody. Humour is indeed a kind of play with what elements have already been given – humour can only exist as an act of playing with culture. Of course, whether something is actually funny is subjective. But parody, as a formal construction, is not. Moreover, parody does not necessarily need to be funny – it can be ironic, it can be instructive, or it can merely be formal for the sake of convenience. Parody is also, significantly, one of the main ways that humour is conveyed through musical composition, particularly in the work of Satie.

While it would be facetious to claim that there is no difference at all between mysticism and humour, there is nevertheless a clear connection between the two, when viewed from a ludic perspective. Mysticism and humour are both aspects of play, and must exist within a context of games and institutions in order to be imbued with any sense. Christian mysticism, for example, would make no sense outside of the the rules of Christianity pertaining to belief in the resurrection and the notion of original sin (a justification for needing to pursue the goal of salvation). Zen mysticism on the other hand would make no sense outside of the rules of Buddhism pertaining to the idea of impermanence (aniccā) and no-self (anattā). Conversely, Mozart's famous Ein musikalischer Spaß could make no sense to us outside of the context of the classical music tradition with its many rules of counterpoint and orchestration. And, naturally, Satie's own notorious Embryons desséchés (Desiccated Embryos) is lost on those unable to place it within the context of the tradition of romantic music – within the rules of the romantic sect - with its idolization of Chopin's bursting sentimentality, and celebration of Beethoven's cadential bombast.35 The connection between mysticism and humour (or, more specifically, parody), then, is that both require a social institution in order to be given form. Without the context of human society, there can be no mysticism and there can be no humour. Both have their being only as elabroations of the given rules.

Mozart's Ein musikalischer Spaß, K. 522, one of the classic examples of humour conveyed through the medium of a shared musical grammar.

The Parody Principle

Parody is often erroneously conflated with humour, but it can actually serve many purposes. Parody can of course mimic and mock, but it can also be used as an educational tool. In sacred traditions, parody has most often been used as a way of transforming tradition. What is interesting is that Satie's own use of parody resembles the tradition of sacred parody quite closely, as a method of playing with the old tradition in such a way that a new one is established. Musical parody and quotation is not always used for the purpose of humour, and we shall see how Satie's own use of parody further highlights the ambiguity between mysticism and humour found in his work.

Referring to his solo piano work Embryons desséchés Satie had this to say:

Cette oeuvre est absolument incompréhensible même pour moi.
D'une profondeur singulière, elle m'étonne toujours. Je l'ai écrite malgré moi, poussé par le destin.
Peut-être ai-je voulu faire de l'humour. Cela ne me surprendrait pas et serait assez ma manière. Toutefois, je n'aurai aucune indulgence pour ceux qui en feront fi.
Qu'ils le sachent.

(This work is absolutely incomprehensible even to me.
Of a singular depth, it always surprises me. I wrote it despite myself, pushed by destiny.
Maybe I wanted to make a joke? It wouldn't surprise me, and would suite me quite well.
Nevertheless, I will not stand for others ignoring it.
Let them know.)36

Satie's Embryons desséchés is considered to be one of the pinnacles of his work as a humourist. Nevertheless, in this amusing, if somewhat ambiguous, statement left by Satie, he remains characteristically reticent about his intention behind the work. Was it really written as a piece of comedy? To what extent can we even claim works of parody and musical quotation to be “comic”? Some examples of parody are evidently intended to be funny, such as the comically grotesque Tristan und Isolde quotation appropriated in Debussy's Golliwogg's Cakewalk. But how can we place Berio's symphonic pastiche Sinfonia, comprised almost entirely of quotations from composers across the concert canon from Bach to Stockhausen, along a scale of mysticism and humour? It seems that the closer music came to the postmodernism of the likes of Cage and Berio, the less obvious the distinction between seriousness and non-seriousness became, which is of course only natural as postmodernism sought to break every traditional boundary it could. For example, Berio's Sequenza V for solo trombone was composed as a tribute to the performance of a clown named Grock which the composer had witnessed as a child, and is often performed with the trombonist dressed in a clown costume.37 Were Satie to have attempted something like this, it would of course have been used as more evidence of the composer's status as a “musical humorist of a childish and affected type.”38 Nevertheless, when we listen to Berio's Sequenza, we typically do not laugh (though perhaps some do, out of its absurdity). Even if we do laugh, we still understand, however, that Berio is aiming at something different from simple humour. Despite the clowns, a Saturday morning cartoon Sequenza V is not. Is there a mysticism to Berio's Sequenza? Perhaps, but it seems more likely that the work operates on a level beyond a distinction between the two. There is no confusion over Berio the mystic and Berio the joker. No one is worried about Berio “pulling their leg” and being made a fool of. This is why Gillmor's observation on the potential irony behind Vexation's celebration amongst the experimental elite does not hold up.39 Satie is not celebrated by contemporary composers for being a “serious mystic” who neatly separated his humour from his profundity. He is celebrated for the opposite reason, for being someone who showed that we do not need to chose between just one or the other. He eschewed the difference between the light and the profound.

Berio's Sequenza V, inspired by the composer's experience of a performance by Grock the clown.

Moreover, the idea that important ideas and profound emotions must at any cost be separated from humour and parody is a fairly arbitrary concept which has little to do with the history of religion, philosophy, and mysticism. For example, much work has been done looking for humour in the ancient religious traditions, revealing that parody and comedy were often used as a way of illustrating moral, social, and doctrinal lessons. This much should be obvious from a brief glance through popular folk stories and myths, but we in the western world can often forget this when viewing history through the heavy lenses of two thousand years of Christian tradition. Nevertheless, even in Biblical scriptures we can find examples of humour, often used for the purpose of illustrating wisdom and doctrine, as suggested by Radday's study of the old testament40 as well as Macy's study of the new and old testaments.41

Perhaps more so than Christianity, the early Buddhist canon is rich in humour and parody. Buddhist monk and writer Thanissaro Bhikkhu, more instance, claims that the Pāli Canon is rife with humour, and that it can be divided into two kinds. The first kind, which we will focus on here, is used to “develop a sense of detachment toward things that people all too often dream about and fall for,” usually by demonstrating amusing stories of people acting foolishly as a result of their greed and desires. Another important facet of early Buddhism, however, was the ways in which it contradicted contemporary Brahmanic ideas – thus one thing that early Buddhism cautioned against was a fanatical reliance on the Brahmanic gods. Thanissaro refers to one story found in the Kevatta Sutta which involves a monk bothered by an existential question. He enters into a meditation so deep that he finds himself manifested in a heavenly realm filled with Brahmanic devas. He poses his question to the heavenly beings, but none seem to know the answer. They direct him to yet a higher heavenly realm. No matter how high this monk goes, however, none of the Brahmanic gods seem to know the answer to his query. Finally, the monk appears before Lord Brahma himself, the ultimate god figure in Indian religious thought. The monk poses his question to Brahma, but this all-powerful god, too, avoids offering a clear answer. Eventually, after being asked the same question three times, Brahma leads the monk out of earshot and admits that he doesn't actually know the answer, and that the monk better go back to earth and ask the Buddha.42

In this amusing early Buddhist story, a parody of Brahmanic beliefs is employed as a way of reinforcing Buddhist teaching, while also connecting new ideas with the old thought already maintained by tradition. In Buddhism, of course, one of the essential ideas is that all things are flawed and impermanent, including the all-powerful gods. To strengthen the case for parody in the early Buddhist canon, Gombrich has argued that a large amount of Buddhist teachings are really parodies of ancient Brahmanic practices which were in vogue at the time.43 Whatever the extent to which early Buddhism parodies Brahmanism in the foundation of its own teachings, it serves as an elegant example of the sacred and the humorous coming together fluidly in historical literature.

Huizinga also acknowledges the importance of this kind of extrapolation of existing religious ideas in history, referring to the figureheads behind these developments as “spoil-sports” who refuse to play by the rules of the old religious game. Instead, these spoil-sports “in their turn make a new community with rules of their own.” Huizinga emphasizes how “heretics of all kinds are of a highly associative if not sociable disposition, and a certain element of play is prominent in all their doings.”44 An essential aspect of the religious game is found in those who come along and change it, as soon as the play aspects begin to fall away in the face of rigid, inflexible tradition.

We are reminded here of Satie who, after leaving Péladan's Rosicrucian order, began a church of his own, which he referred to as L'Église Métropolitaine d'Art de Jésus Conducteur.45 Satie's church, however, was more of a parody of Péladan's than a genuine attempt at reforming corrupt doctrine and moving closer to a mystical union with the divine. Nevertheless, it may be of some value to consider the similarities between Satie's break with Péladan's Rosicrucianism and, for example, Luther's break with Catholicism, or even the Buddha's break with Brahmanism. In each case, the founders were using a preexisting cultural tradition with its own set of rules, rites, and vocabulary, in order to steer the public mind in a new direction, to rewrite the underlying myths and metaphysical assumptions which governed their concept of their existential situation. Moreover, there was in each case, as Huizinga might point out, an element of play. Formally, all the elements of a new religious sect were present in Satie's L'Église Métropolitaine, but it was perhaps the composer's own lack of commitment and religious charisma which prevent it from gaining momentum. It seems likely that Satie thought of his own church as just another whimsical experiment. Nevertheless, Satie's amusing project of an introverted, one-man church reveals much about his interest in, and attitude toward, religion, and how, as Huizinga would say, he was so naturally able to play “on the border-line between jest and earnest.”46 Satie felt perfectly at home playing around within the field of the sacred. It is also worth mentioning how Satie's own mass, the Messe des pauvres, was originally to be called his Grande Messe de l'Église Métropolitaine d'Art.47 It would certainly suit Satie's strange parody religion to have a kind of half-serious, half-joking “parody mass” written in its name. In fact, Satie's mass is the perfect symbol for his own religious life – roughly modelled on Christian tradition, but thoroughly infused with Satie's unmistakable individuality and heretical wit. Perhaps in the sense of Satie's nonconformist, highly personal religious attitude, Satie truly was the model of the classical mystic.

Mes de pauvres, Satie's most overtly religious work, was originally composed as a mass for his self-created church.

Vexations, the Sacred Comedy

Composed during his characteristically unusual romantic relationship with Suzanne Valadon, Vexations was only published after the composer's death, most notably in 1969 by Robert Caby in a collection of three pieces called Pages mystiques. The title of the collection was of course selected by Caby, and there is no reason to believe that Satie considered Vexations to be of a mystical character. The closest suggestion we have may be found in the cryptic directions written at the head of the score, “Pour se jouer 840 fois de suite ce motif, il sera bon de se préparer au préalable, et dans le plus grand silence, par des immobilités sérieuses.” (To play oneself this motif 840 times in a row, it would be good to prepare oneself in advance, in the most profound silence, by serious immobilities.)48 Nevertheless, it should be obvious that this absurd opening direction fits perfectly in line with Satie's typically odd, whimsical performance directions, whether they imply mysticism or not.

Vexations, one of Satie's most enigmatic compositions, had a significant influence on many 20th century composers, most notably John Cage.

Vexations itself is a vexing, short work written as a dissonant muddle of sharps and flats, seemingly designed for the purpose of bothering the performer, or at least making the work difficult to memorize. That said, Vexation's possibly facetious character has not stopped the piece from being regarded as an example of musical mysticism. As Gillmor relates, “performers and audiences who have experienced 'Vexations' in its entirety have reported some form of expanded consciousness akin to the spirit of Zen.”49 Potter draws attention to the “stoic, prayer-like attitude required of the performer,” which suggests Vexations as being something of a “grotesque hymn.”50 And, of course, in putting together his collection of Satie's works, Caby saw fit to associate it with the term “mystique”. Something about the piece's mysterious ambiguity and fearful symmetries has inclined many listeners to interpret it more as a mystical experience than as a mere musical joke.

Nevertheless, the anxiety again arises that Satie may just be pulling our leg. In discussing the performance directions in Vexations, Potter qualifies her very sober analysis by acknowledging that that, of course, “with Satie one can never rule out the possibility that the expression is simply a provocation or a joke.”51 Moreover, Gillmor draws attention to Henri Sauguet, who said that he “considered Vexations a joke and claimed that Satie himself did not take it seriously.”52 No matter how serious it appears that Satie is trying to be, he is never quite trusted. But, if not Vexations, what exactly can we suggest that Satie did take seriously? Did he take his time as the official composer of Péladan's Rosicrucian order seriously? Did he take the creation of his own church seriously? Did he take his own role as a composer seriously? When speaking about Satie, we cannot get very far by trying to divide between what the composer considered “serious” and what he considered to be “a joke”. In his exploration of Satie's days as a composer and pianist in Paris's cabaret halls, Whiting quotes Robert Orledge, who observed that “Satie managed to convert popular music into a serious art and break down the barriers between the two.”53 In the same way that Satie did not care much for a distinction between popular and serious music, Satie did not distinguish between his “serious” and “humorous” works. For him, mysticism and humour seemed to merge together naturally, and could coexist easily without any stylistic dissonance.

Although the idea of a sacred comedy might seem incongruous, as we have already seen, parody and humour have been tools in religious traditions from the beginning. Few religious traditions illustrate the role of humour in spiritual practice more strongly than Zen Buddhism, and in the Zen tradition no one stands out in this regard more than Sengai Gibon (仙厓 義梵). Sengai, a Japanese monk from the late 17th century known for his lighthearted paintings depicting parodies of Zen and Japanese culture, must remind us of Satie in the way that he blurred the lines between mysticism and humour. Although, as we have already seen, Buddhism has never been a stranger to the use of humour in order to pass down its teachings, with Sengai the practice is taken even further by, in a rather Satie-esque way, poking fun at the Zen tradition itself. One of Sengai's sumi-e paintings depicts the well-known single-stroke dark circle, the ensō, a Zen symbol of the void, of impermanence. The ensō holds a profound significance in Zen thought and art. Unexpected, however, is the text accompanying Sengai's painting, “これくふて / 茶のめ.” (Eat this and have a cup of tea.)54 Sengai makes light of the revered Zen symbol, by revealing that what might initially be considered a Zen ensō is, in fact, merely a tasty snack. Elsewhere, Sengai parodies the meditation practice he devoted his life to with a painting depicting a squatting frog, accompanied by the text, “If a man becomes a Buddha by practising Zen meditation.”55 By comparing the devout meditator to an unpretentious frog, Sengai makes light of the practice of Zen, bringing the nature of its “mystical” insights closer to the everyday lives of his audience. Discussing the mundane humour in Sengai, Kuroda writes, “in these everyday scenes [in Sengai's work], a gap seems to open up – a door to the truth or to another world, which invites the observer to reflect on the meaning of life.”56 In the same way that Sengai's humour invites us to contemplate, Satie's own musical humour could be said to invite us to a state of mystical feeling, a state which transcends the confines of mere laughter or serious contemplation.

Of particular interest to an interpretation of Sengai as a Zen iconoclast is his depiction of the classic Zen koan known as “Nanquan and the Cat.” The story traditionally depicts two monks quarrelling over a cat. Hoping to resolve the argument, Zen master Nanquan comes by and picks up the cat, threatening to kill it unless the two monks say something to dissuade him. The monks remain silent, and, sadly, the cat is slain. Sengai, however, expressed his disapproval at this rather violent story by painting a parody of the scene, accompanied by a text which questions why the cat had to be killed - why not the humans in the story?57 Not only did Sengai employ parody as a way of questioning the tradition of Zen, but he also used humour as a way of deflating the pretension that can build up around religious practice when a lack of playfulness starts to paralyse it with blind doctrinal obedience.

In a similar way to Sengai's use of humour, Satie often explored parody as a way of humanizing art and religion, bringing the often bombastic world of “serious European culture” back to earth. Satie notoriously loathed pretension. In one surviving fragment of writing, Satie emphatically states that “il est d'usage de croire qu'il y a une 'Vérité' en Art. Je ne cesserai de la répéter même à haute voix: 'IL N'Y A PAS DE VÉRITÉ EN ART'.”58 Satie refused to buy into the idea so common in his age that there was some ultimate spiritual goal associated with the communion with music, that experiencing art allowed a person to get closer to an essential truth. Satie saw art not as a pursuit of truth, but as a cultural game, often a humorous one. Moreover, in an amusing statement on Bach's chorales, Satie claims that, “mes chorals égalent ceux de Bach avec cette différence qu'ils sont plus rares et moins prétentieux.59 Just as Sengai mocked his tradition of Zen in order to bring it closer to everyday life, so too does Satie mock the works of celebrated composers, refusing to believe that they are essentially any different from him. For a ninteenth century composer, calling into question the value of the music of Bach was a heretical act perhaps comparable to that of a ninteenth century Japanese Zen monk painting parodies of the teachings of classical Zen masters. While Satie may often have aimed at something profound in his work, he was not convinced that music contained any inherent meaning. There is something of an unpretentious nihilism at the heart of Satie, an attitude not without its own mysticism. For example, we could easily make a Buddhist of Satie by rephrasing his expression to, “there is no truth in LIFE.”

In music, a classic example of Satie's own brand of humour can of course be found in the second movement of his Embryons desséchés, where Satie quotes and parodies the “Marche funèbre” from Chopin's Piano Sonata No. 2 in B-flat minor, along with the hilarious performance direction, “Citation de la célèbre mazurka de SCHUBERT.”60 The quotation is obviously not of a Schubert work, and, again, Satie's attitude serves to bring the achievements of the great masters closer to everyday experience. His lighthearted treatment brushes away the conservatory's reverential cobwebs. Similar to Sengai, Satie is playing with the materials of the existing tradition to suit his own personal vision, and perhaps trying and discover some value in it beyond what has merely been conventionally passed down from the previous generations. Like Sengai, Satie deflates in order to recover value. Satie acts as a musical heretic by breaking with the musical tradition, and, similar to the Buddha's sacred parodies of Brahmanic belief, uses humour as a way of constructing something new by playfully parodying the old.

Second movement of Embryons desséchés, featuring a quotation from the "celebrated Mazurka of Schubert."

Here is the "Schubert Mazurka" for reference (quotation starting at 14:41).

It may occur to us to wonder from what source Satie's conflation of the serious and the comic derived. Certainly, Satie could be argued to have come out of a spiritual tradition, like Sengai, which led him to repudiate a distinction between the sacred and secular. We could read Satie as being a kind of Christian Sengai Gibon. More grounded options are available to us, however. Rothschild, for example, draws attention to how the cabaret style, which was such an influence on Satie and his contemporaries, was characterized by “quick shifts, discontinuity, course jokes and puns,” and that “it was not unusual for serious poetry readings to be interrupted by a boisterous song or joke.”61 In the entertainment world of the Parisian cabaret, the pathos of the evening did not feel disturbed by drastic disjunctions between high and low art, what was serious and what was only in jest. It is also possible that Satie's early experience in the Parisian cabarets helped establish his distaste for putting on pretentious airs. It only seems natural that this attitude would accompany Satie as he embarked upon his more “serious” concert works, and that he would perhaps intuitively, in conjunction with his own iconoclast spirit, begin to compose in a style which did not see it as strange to juggle both mysticism and humour at once.

With this in mind, the question of how we should approach Vexations becomes clearer. Satie's wry witticism wasn't meant as a way to impose his superiority over the musical tradition, as a result of his feelings of inadequacy, as Chennevière has suggested62, but as a way of interacting with the tradition in a way which enable him to break down boundaries and achieve more creative freedom. Satie of course thrived in an atmosphere of freedom. Rowley reminds us how “Satie tended to avoid traditional musical forms ... this did not mean that form was an irrelevant concept to him - far from it. He simply did not wish to subjugate his musical material to traditional forms with their invocations of centuries of musical tradition and instead took great delight in creating new forms of great complexity.”63 Satie never enjoyed merely tracing the footprints of tradition, and instead always strove to parody it, developing new creative pathways from the process. Similarly, Satie did not care to adopt the antiquated division between “high” and “low” art, and composed in a way which disregarded the distinction between what European society considered serious, and what it considered merely to be a musical joke. It is indeed likely that Satie meant for his famous performance direction in Vexations to be taken both as a joke, and as a serious invitation to enter his strange, unique world, in the same way that Sengai Gibon's paintings were meant to evoke laughter, while at the same time provoke deeper thoughts on the nature of reality. As we saw in the already quoted statement on his Embryons desséchés, Satie wrote that “cette oeuvre est absolument incompréhensible même pour moi.”64 Even to himself, Satie's creative world was a mystery, and he couldn't be sure whether he was trying to be humorous or not. Similar to Zen master Sengai, Satie's entire creative project involved mystifying the boundary between the binaries of the European musical tradition. As his friend and fellow composer Koechlin wrote in reference to Satie, he was “the living embodiment of the proverb that many a true word is spoken in jest.”65 Why then should we be afraid of taking seriously an absurd composition like Vexations, a work which should instead demand even more of our attention for so effectively transcending the boundary between “divinity and jest,” and for demonstrating the possibility of a sacred comic style in Western art music? If anything, Satie teaches his listeners the profound lesson which was to be well recieved by the likes of John Cage and his contemporaries decades later – that a joke is not to be treated too lightly.

Conclusion

The 19th century was not accustomed to musical ambiguities, and much preferred a clear demarcation between rhetorical intention. “We admit that music need not always be striving and yearning,” writes W. Wright Roberts in his essay examining Satie as a humorist from an English perspective, “that a serious composer may unbend, as Beethoven did in his scherzos. Perhaps we have still a superstitious reverence for humour of the fierce and angry kind, and for bitter humour, with tragedy round the corner. Good humour, gaiety, joy in life.”66 The contemporary concert hall audiences of Satie's time were accustomed to a clear musical rhetoric, where the emotional intention of a work was forceful and evident. A classical master such as Haydn, for example, would never pause to wonder whether the intention of his work was meant to be humorous or not – it was indeed the entire craft of the classical composer to unambiguously manifest a particular musical intention. When Haydn intended to be comic, he left no room for doubt. Satie's humour, suiting the increasing complexity of his age, was far more nuanced. Through parody and ambiguity, Satie challenged listeners to approach things beyond their habitual way of thinking, to open themselves to a new artistic ambiguity. In a way not unlike the postmodernism of Cage and Berio, Satie played with the forms handed down by tradition as a way of breaking through them into original territory. He drew inspiration equally from his fascination with traditional religion as from his interest in repudiating tradition, leading to a musical style that took on a “pretended religiosity”67 which was not afraid of exploring the comic and mystic at once.

The situation of an artist alienated from his contemporaries is of course not limited to Satie alone. To take a more recent example, rock musician Frank Zappa, despite coming from a more sophisticated musical background than most in the rock tradition was, much like Satie, often labelled as a mere musical humorist. When an artist's work does not fit comfortably within the current rules of the tradition, one way to ease the cognitive tension is to assume that the artist's intention is merely comic – often at the expense of the depth and richness found just beneath the unfamiliar surface.

In the same way, commentators have spent much ink discussing Satie's supposed shortcomings, criticizing his flippancy and naivite. While attitudes have certainly shifted since the celebration of Satie amongst composers like John Cage and the minimalist school, the respect that is afforded to Satie is still extended cautiously, out of a fear of taking too seriously something intended as a joke. Just as contemporary audiences laughed at Satie's not particularily funny Socrate, fearing “not being in on the joke”68, so too do many modern audiences and commentators hold Satie's body of work at a distance, not wanting to appear foolish for taking Erik Satie too seriously. But despite the frivolous image he projected, there is indeed something very serious in Satie. The serious in Satie is found in his style of sacred humor, in the ways he transcended the classical assumptions of the Western musical tradition and, by parodying them, crafted an original musical vision unlike anything else found in his contemporary musical world. Reading Satie as either a naive mystic or an out of place humorist will only ever a yeild fragmentary picture of the immense creative world of this composer. In order to begin to seriously deal with the problem of Satie, we need to first approach Satie's unique worldview on its own terms, and meet it in the place of play found beyond mere mysticism and jest.


Citations:

1William Wright Roberts, “The Problem of Satie,” Music & Letters, Vol. 4, No. 4 (1923): 320.

2Robert Orledge, “Satie, Koechlin and the Ballet 'Uspud',” Music & Letters, Vol. 68, No. 1 (1987): 27.

3 Alan M. Gillmor, Erik Satie, (Massachusetts: Twayne Publishers, 1988): 28.

4 Alfred Cortot, “Le cas Erik Satie”, La Revue musicale, No. 183, (1938): 248.

5Rudhyar D. Chennevière and Frederick H. Martens, “Erik Satie and the Music of Irony,” The Musical Quarterly, Vol. 5, No. 4 (1919): 472.

6Roberts, “The Problem of Satie,” 313.

7  Gillmor, Erik Satie, 105.

8 Chennevière, “Erik Satie and the Music of Irony ,” 470.

9 Gillmor, Erik Satie, 33.

10 Ibid., 104.

11 David Paul Goldman, "Esotericism as a Determinant of Debussy's Harmonic Language," The Musical Quarterly, Vol. 75, No. 2 (1991): 132.

12 Christian Rebisse, “Érik Satie, maître de chapelle des rose-croix,” Rose-croix.org, https://www.rose-croix.org/erik-satie-maitre-de-chapelle-des-rose-croix/ (accessed January 11, 2020).

13 Ibid.

14 Chennevière, “Erik Satie and the Music of Irony ,” 471.

15Ibid., 470.

16 Ibid., 472.

17 Leigh Eric Schmidt, “The Making of Modern 'Mysticism',” Journal of the American Academy of Religion, Vol. 71, No. 2 (2003), 276.

18 Ibid., 280.

19 Ibid., 281.

20 Ibid., 283.

21 Ibid., “The Making of Modern 'Mysticism',” 286.

22 “Mysticism,” Merriam-Webster Inc. https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/mysticism (accessed December 30, 2019).

23 Émile Littré, “Mysticisme,” Dictionnaire de la langue française, (Paris: Hachette, 1873).

24 Schmidt, “The Making of Modern 'Mysticism',” 288.

25 Ibid., 294.

26 Johan Huizinga, Homo Ludens, (Boston: The Beacon Press, 1955): 17.

27 Ibid., 5.

28 Ibid., 4.

29 Ibid., 17.

30 Ibid., 23.

31 Alejandro Jodorowsky, The Dance of Reality: A Psychomagical Autobiography, trans. Ariel Godwin, (Rochester: Park Street Press, 2014): 293.

32 Huizinga, Homo Ludens, 6.

33 Ibid., 25.

34 Ibid., 6.

35 Caitlin Rowley, “Satie the Neoclassicist,” Erik Satie's Crystal Ball. http://www.minim-media.com/satie/final4.htm (accessed January 11, 2020).

36 Nigel Wilkins, “The Writings of Erik Satie: Miscellaneous Fragments,” Music & Letters, Vol. 56, No. 3/4 (1975): 292.

37 “Grock: And the Berio Sequenza 5,” Osborne-conant.org, http://www.osborne-conant.org/Grock.htm (accessed January 11, 2020).

38Roberts, “The Problem of Satie,” 313.

39 Gillmor, Erik Satie, 105.

40 Athalya Brenner-Idan and Yehuda T. Radday, ed., On Humour and the Comic in the Hebrew Bible, (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1990).

41 Howard R. Macy, Discovering Humor in the Bible: An Explorer's Guide, (Eugene: Cascade Books, 2016).

42 Matthew Gindin, “(En)lighten Up! Uncovering the Buddha’s Wit,” Tricycle. https://tricycle.org/trikedaily/buddhas-wit/ (accessed January 11, 2020).

43 Richard Gombrich, What the Buddha Taught, (London: Equinox, 2009).

44Huizinga, Homo Ludens, 12.

45 Rebisse, “Érik Satie, maître de chapelle des rose-croix.”

46 Huizinga, Homo Ludens, 5.

47 Gillmor, Erik Satie, 278

48 Caroline Potter, Erik Satie: A Parisian Composer and his World, (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2016), 139.

49 Gillmor, Erik Satie, 105.

50 Potter, Erik Satie, 141.

51Potter, Erik Satie, 142.

52 Gillmor, Erik Satie, 273.

53Steven Moore Whiting, Satie the Bohemian: From Cabaret to Concert Hall, (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999): 4.

54Katharina Epprecht, ed., Zen Master Sengai, (Zürich: Scheidegger & Spiess, 2014), 97.

55John L. Tran, “A master of Zen wisdom and dad jokes,” The Japan Times. https://www.japantimes.co.jp/culture/2018/10/02/arts/master-zen-wisdom-dad-jokes/#.Xgv9_vx7l7N (accessed January 11, 2020).

56Taizō Kuroda, “Contemplating Sengai – Deepending Our Thoughts,” Katharina Epprecht, ed., Zen Master Sengai, 13.

57“Sengai and the World of Zen: Food for thought at the Idemitsu,” Metropolis Japan. https://metropolisjapan.com/sengai-and-the-world-of-zen/ (accessed January 11, 2020).

58Wilkins, “The Writings of Erik Satie: Miscellaneous Fragments,” 301.

59Ibid., 292.

60 Rowley, “Satie the Neoclassicist.”

61 Deborah M. Rothschild, Picasso's Parade, (London: Bloomsbury, 2003), 87. Quoted in Potter, Erik Satie, 77

62 Chennevière, “Erik Satie and the Music of Irony ,” 472.

63 Rowley, “Satie the Neoclassicist.”

64 Wilkins, “The Writings of Erik Satie: Miscellaneous Fragments,” 292.

65 Orledge, “Satie, Koechlin and the Ballet 'Uspud'”, 26.

66 Roberts, “The Problem of Satie,” 313.

67 Chennevière, “Erik Satie and the Music of Irony ,” 472.

68 Potter, Erik Satie, xiii.


Bibliography:

Aviman, Galit. Zen Paintings in Edo Japan (1600-1868): Playfulness and Freedom in the Artwork of Hakuin Ekaku and Sengai Gibon. Farnham: Ashgate Publishing Ltd., 2014.

Brenner-Idan, Athalya and Yehuda T. Radday, editors. On Humour and the Comic in the Hebrew Bible. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1990.

Chennevière, Rudhyar D. and Frederick H. Martens. “Erik Satie and the Music of Irony.” The Musical Quarterly, Vol. 5, No. 4 (1919).

Cortot, Alfred. “Le cas Erik Satie.” La Revue musicale, No. 183 (1938).

Epprecht, Katharina, editor. Zen Master Sengai. Zürich: Scheidegger & Spiess, 2014.

Gillmor, Alan M. Erik Satie. Massachusetts: Twayne Publishers, 1988.

Gindin, Matthew. “(En)lighten Up! Uncovering the Buddha’s Wit.” Tricycle. https://tricycle.org/trikedaily/buddhas-wit/ (accessed January 11, 2020).

Goldman, David Paul. "Esotericism as a Determinant of Debussy's Harmonic Language." The Musical Quarterly, Vol. 75, No. 2 (1991).

Gombrich, Richard. What the Buddha Taught. London: Equinox, 2009.

“Grock: And the Berio Sequenza 5.” Osborne-conant.org. http://www.osborne-conant.org/Grock.htm (accessed January 11, 2020).

Huizinga, Johan. Homo Ludens. Boston: The Beacon Press, 1955.

Jodorowsky, Alejandro. The Dance of Reality: A Psychomagical Autobiography. Ariel Godwin, translator. Rochester: Park Street Press, 2014.

Littré, Émile. “Mysticisme.” Dictionnaire de la langue française. Paris: Hachette, 1873).

Macy, Howard R. Discovering Humor in the Bible: An Explorer's Guide. Eugene: Cascade Books, 2016.

“Mysticism.” Merriam-Webster Inc. https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/mysticism (accessed December 30, 2019).

Orledge, Robert. “Satie, Koechlin and the Ballet 'Uspud'.” Music & Letters, Vol. 68, No. 1 (1987).

Potter, Caroline. Erik Satie: A Parisian Composer and his World. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2016.

Rebisse, Christian. “Érik Satie, maître de chapelle des rose-croix.” Rose-croix.org. https://www.rose-croix.org/erik-satie-maitre-de-chapelle-des-rose-croix/ (accessed January 11, 2020).

Roberts, William Wright. “The Problem of Satie.” Music & Letters, Vol. 4, No. 4 (1923).

Rothschild, Deborah M. Picasso's Parade. London: Bloomsbury, 2003. Quoted in Caroline Potter. Erik Satie: A Parisian Composer and his World. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2016.

Rowley, Caitlin. “Satie the Neoclassicist.” Erik Satie's Crystal Ball. http://www.minim-media.com/satie/final4.htm (accessed January 11, 2020).

“Sengai and the World of Zen: Food for thought at the Idemitsu.” Metropolis Japan. https://metropolisjapan.com/sengai-and-the-world-of-zen/ (accessed January 11, 2020).

Schmidt, Leigh Eric. “The Making of Modern 'Mysticism'.” Journal of the American Academy of Religion, Vol. 71, No. 2 (2003).

Tran, John L. “A master of Zen wisdom and dad jokes.” The Japan Times. https://www.japantimes.co.jp/culture/2018/10/02/arts/master-zen-wisdom-dad-jokes/#.Xgv9_vx7l7N (accessed January 11, 2020).

Weber, Max. The Sociology of Religion. Ephraim Fischoff, translator. Boston: Beacon Press, 1993.

Whiting, Steven Moore. Satie the Bohemian: From Cabaret to Concert Hall. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999.

Wilkins, Nigel. “The Writings of Erik Satie: Miscellaneous Fragments.” Music & Letters, Vol. 56, No. 3/4 (1975).

 

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A House of Last Witnesses By Erich Barganier Album Review

A House of Last Witnesses

Album Review
By Forest Muran

(A House of Last Witnesses Album Art)

A House of Last Witnesses (bandcamp page)

Introduction

The last album I reviewed for Vonyco was a release on people places records featuring two contemporary composers, Cassie Wieland and Erich Barganier. Now on the Belts & Whistles label, one half of the duo returns with his first solo release, titled A House of Last Witnesses. After being contacted by the label to write an article, I decided to frame the review as a collection of a few small thoughts that came to mind when listening to the new release. So in this article, as we step into Barganier's spiralling noise environments, we'll also find an opportunity to discuss the nature of the human body, drugs, Japanese experimental music, and the inevitability of death as represented by musical form.

A wide range of influences are evident in Barganier's A House of Last Witnesses. From the first track on the album, “Shame Loops”, recalling the expansive noise abstractions of Ryoji Ikeda, to the busy, Nancarrow-esque tension of “Speaking in Tongues,” A House of Last Witnesses guides us through a variety of intense musical spaces. As a work of contemporary music, Barganier's album requests that we pay close attention. As with a philosophical treatise, in order to get the most out of Barganier's work, we will try to unravel some of the ideas incarnated within it, and in turn hopefully also unravel something about ourselves.

It's probably obvious that many  of the ideas I've collected in this article come from my recent research into the religious and ideological background behind music creation and listening. It was impossible not to frame my listening experience in terms of it. That said, while many of the connections I form may be purely coincidental, I hope they may help provide some deeper insight into the music, insight which might even surprise the composer himself.

Shame Loops: Laughter on the Other Side of Shame

At times, composers seem condemned to a world of mute abstraction. Compared to a poet, what can the musician say? A poet can easy bring clear images to mind – a moon, an ear, a cake. Composers, however, are limited in their vocabulary to abstract sounds. It is certainly a large, potentially limitless, vocabulary, but it lacks the capacity for concrete signification that language is privileged to possess.

The one space in which composers get to tinker with the tools of the poet is in their titles. For this reason, composers throughout the Western tradition, since the dawn of Romanticism, have took eager enjoyment at the opportunity to name their work. “L'isle joyeuse,” “Symphony Fantastique,” “Poppy Nogood and the Phantom Band,” are just some examples of the creative liberties taken by composers when playing at the poet, in order to add a certain linguistic grounding to their creation. That said, it's important to consider why a composer may have chosen the name that they did, and to reflect on how the linguistic element might affect our experience of the non-linguistic.

In Barganier's “Shame Loops,” we are immediately exposed to a musical environment of rough digital noise, sickly melodic synths, and distorted samples of the human voice. The piece is clearly reminiscent of the noise music of Ryoji Ikeda, but Barganier emphasizes that he in no way sought to replicate the exact effect of the Japanese artist's music, saying that “the best works are filtered through the individual ... to create a truly honest, intimate piece.” Barganier may take inspiration from the tools of the masters, but he uses them to craft something unique which is true to his own experiential background. In this first piece, the title would suggest that Barganier is trying to evoke something of the emotion of shame. But what does that mean, musically?

(The Transfinite by Ryoji Ikeda. Ikeda is a significant influence on Barganier's
music, though Barganier's interests seem to lie within, while Ikeda seeks inspiration from
the overwhelming complexities of the outer world - a composer of hyperobjects, in
Timothy Morton's language)

Shame doesn't seem to have a specific musical correlate, but by evoking the concept in the title, Barganier encourages us to interpret his musical elements in terms of it. What is shame? Shame is the other side of laughter. We of course laugh at what is foolish, and at what is absurd. When something is “wrong,” we often react by laughing. Shame is a negative reaction to that judgement. In that sense, shame is a negative reaction to Alexander Pope's observation that “to err is human.” In “Shame Loops,” Barganier, through an anxious, blood-pumping drone, chizzles out the mental experience of shame as a reaction to the imperfections of reality, the raw Real which bubbles beneath the surface of social signifiers.

Reality, after all, is the realm of shame. There is often something incredibly uncomfortable about the removal of the mask, the displaying of our flawed, raw forms before the crowd. It is embrassing to have someone read our private journal, and we typically like to keep our bathroom door closed. When raw reality leaks out from behind the mask, when the hard shell of our carefully cultivated persona begins to crack, when we are exposed as the ultimately powerless biological beings we are, we tend to react with a certain shame. This is a necessary biproduct of our nature as social / fantasy beings.

There is also a certain sense of shame in the experience of musical harmony. Atonal music, for examples, can make us feel guilty about the enjoyment of our harmonic fantasies. In many moments found in A House of Last Witnesses, we can hear a kind of desperate dissonance, a cacophony of crunching noise and disjunct melodic movement. We are kept far from conventional consonances. Barganier explains how he often composes based on memories of past experiences, and how, “trying to force consonance on these memories seems dishonest to the way I experienced these memories and events.” For Barganier, the abstraction of the atonal idiom is much more effective at capturing a “huge variety of bittersweet shades of experience.” In other words, Barganier composes music which attempts to confront the complex realities which lie hidden beneath conventionally defined cultural cliches. He avoids taking the easy route toward self expression. It isn't too difficult to take advantage of our harmonic instinct which has been bequeathed to us by millions of years of biological evolution, in order to create a catchy tune. But just as there is so much more to a human being than a pleasant smile and a ravishing head of hair (to quote Eliot: “Webster was much possessed by death / And saw the skull beneath the skin”), there is also more to the experience of music than the pleasant combinations of consonant sounds.

We are like pro wrestling fans, shamed by fans of “real sports” for finding joy in a fantasy. If harmony is an experiential illusion for us human beings, then atonal music is a reminder of what the true nature of sound really is. It's difficult to wrap our minds around, since we romanticize everything. Fantasy is a function of human cognition. We romanticize everything, from harmony to actual romance. For many it is unpleasant to think that beyond the fantasy function of the human brain, chords are really just meaningless noise, and that our lovers are merely animated bags of meat and bones. In a sense, atonal compositions can be seen as a kind of musical Dvattimsakaro - the Buddhist text which monks meditate on in order to develop an intimate understanding of the reality of the human body as an entity composed of “hair of the head, hair of the body, nails, teeth, skin, flesh, sinews, etc,.” In this sense, music which eschews traditional tonality inevitably forces us to confront the fantasy function of the human brain, encouraging us to question why we like the things we like. We are forced to confront the degree to which our entire lives are dictated by pleasure-fantasy mechanisms beyond our control.

When we are confronted with the raw reality beneath the mask, we do sometimes feel shame. We don't like to feel weak and valueless. The entire purpose of the persona is to construct a sense that we are more important than billions of lightyears of unsympathetic, largely empty time and space might lead us believe. The cracking of the persona can indeed bring a sense of shame – but it can also be really funny. The shame which is portrayed in “Shame Loops” is a negative reaction to reality, an adrenaline-filled, nightmarish response to the feeling that nothing is right. It is the anxiety that beneath our cultivated fantasies is a reality which contradicts them in every way. Barganier's expression is notably raw and honest, seeking to depict his vision in a way unencumbered by artifice and irony. But I think it's also important to recognize the joy that can be found in the uncomfortable facts of reality. Our reaction does not necessarily have to be shame – there is also something incredibly hysterical about the weirdness of Being. The nature of existence is, after all, organized like a three-part joke: We emerge from the void, struggle for a while, and - here's the punchline - end up right back in the void after all. That's kind of quirky and strange, isn't it? If we realize that the problem isn't with us - it is with the nature of existence itself - then how can there be said to be a problem?

Bastards of Empty Space: The Frozen Hourglass

Japanese art can be said to contain something of a frozen hourglass. While the history of art in the Christian world has always been goal-oriented – that is, Heaven-oriented - much of the history of Japanese art has involved attempts at capturing the eternity of the moment. It is tempting to look at composers like Midori Takada (who was clearly a main influence on “Bastards of Empty Space”) and Nobukazu Takemura, and emphasize the influence Western minimalism has had on their styles. But it's important to remember that a part of the underlying spirit behind minimalism originally came out of an interaction with the Japanese creative tradition. John Cage had of course been directly influenced by traditional Japanese music, as well as D.T. Suzuki's ideas on Zen Buddhism. What's more is that the Japanese creative spirit has for a long time traced a link between music and spiritual life. Japan was after all home to the Fuke-Sect (普化宗), the only branch of Buddhism to have sought enlightenment through performance on a musical instrument. Though it's true that modern Japan has little interest in things like meditation and Zen, it's easy to underestimate the immense influence a culture's religious tradition can have on its creative spirit. Just as the influence of Zen has impressed itself on Japanese idioms (e.g., らぬが仏), vocabulary (e.g.,餓鬼), and iconoography (e.g., the ubiquitous Daruma doll), the Japanese notion of spirituality has also been profoundly influenced by the Buddhist tradition, just as we in the West owe much of our spiritual assumptions to the thought of people like St. Paul, Aquinas, and Milton.

(Through the Looking Glass, an album by Midori Takeda. Her static sound worlds exemplify
the idea of a frozen hourglass, music aiming to capture the essence of a moment stretched
to infinity. Her percussive works seem to have influenced "Bastards of Empty Space")

It seems to me that one important difference between the Christian and Buddhist traditions can be found in their relationship with time. The Christian world's notion of the spiritual life had everything to do with delayed rewards which were to manifest themselves after death, in the realm of Heaven. The Buddhist tradition, and its interpretation of the Indian idea of karma, lent much more importance to the spiritual life of the moment. For the Buddhist, our karmic destiny is being shaped constantly by the content of our mind and actions. For this reason, meditation played a much more important role in the Buddhist tradition. Buddhist meditation, of course, was undertaken as a practice of coming to understand the mind. The Christian equivalent of prayer, however, tended to revolve around concentrating on the manifestation of a specific desired outcome ("please cure my son of the plague," for example). In essence, Buddhism sought to sever ties with the past and the future, while Christianity sought to mold a desirable future through divine intervention. As Max Weber has suggested, there may even be something of a connection between the worldview of the Christian, and the development of the industrial revolution and the Western capitalist empire.

The Christian and Buddhist worldviews differ significantly in their conception of time. It's interesting that the goal-focused Western world is the culture which produced not only the industrial economy, but functional tonality as well. The music of Eastern countries like Japan, China, and India, however, has often been static and drone-based, with nothing resembling anything like a chord progression. In the shakuhachi music of the Fuke-Sect, for example, there are motivic relationships, but no sense of narrative development. Indeed, for the Fuke-Sect practitioners, their honkyoku (本曲) were performed as an act of meditation, not necessarily for the benefit of an audience. This kind of static relationship with time, where performance is meant to capture an eternity in a moment, has always reminded me of Aldous Huxley's description of his first mescalin experience in The Doors of Perception. After injesting his four-tenths of a gram of the hallucinogen, Huxley is asked a series of questions. When asked about the effect of the drug on his peception of time, Huxley simply says, “there seems to be plenty of it.” In the book he elaborates by explaining how, “my actual experience had been, was still, of an indefinite duration or alternatively of a perpetual present made up of one continually changing apocalypse.” Huxley was shocked with the content of his vision which, instead of presenting him with wild fantasy images as expected, instead altered his perception of the objective world, lending everthing a sense of profound and timeless significance. Huxley's mescalin experience seems to resonate with to the vision of William Blake, captured in the famous lines of his “Auguries of Innocence:

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour

(Fuke Honkyoku performed by Fujiyoshi Etsuzan. It seems to me that
traditions like the Fuke-Sect have had a significant influence
on the Japanese idea of what a "spiritual" music should sounds like, leading to
a ubiquity of this style of stasis, even in modern experimental works)

The experience of being lost in a single moment is a profound one. Most of the busy people of the world, hopping from one obsession to the next, likely never get to experience it to any strong degree. But something of this “eternity in a moment” had been historically intertwined with the Indian notion of spiritual life, ever since the early days of the Brahmanic Vedas. Buddhism borrowed from this Brahmanic tradition of meditation, though in the spirit of seeking wisdom rather than blissful concentration. Nevertheless, through the influence of the imported Zen Buddhism in Japan, which significantly emphasized the value of meditation, I believe something of a spiritual ideal centred around an awareness of the “frozen hourglass” was cultivated. It can be found in the simple sumi-e paintings of the monk Sengai Gibon, as well as the concentrated haiku of Matsuo Bashō, which present us with a segment of reality highlighting a minor, fleeting, and yet highly profound, experience. There is simply nothing like in in much of the history of the Western world, until poets like Ezra Pound sought to emulate the Eastern effect in their Imagist poems. Western spiritual work tended to emphasize bombastic glorifications, fantastic frescos, and great Gothic cathedrals meant to strike the fear of God into the hearts of men. Whereas for the Japanese monk, understatement was the key to connecting with wisdom. This emphasis on understatement, and on attempting to capture the infinity of a momentary experience, still exists in the creative spirit of Japan today, though it may have been mostly relegated to the world of experimental art (although, to be fair, popular art in any age rarely reflects the nuances of cultural codes).

(First Idea by Aki Tsuyuko, from her work on the Childisc label. Another example
of stasis in Japanese experimental music, an attempt at capturing the world in a grain of sand)

We find this “frozen hourglass” effect time and time again in the world of Japanese experimental music. As already mentioned, Barganier was heavily influenced by Midori Takada, whose percussive works tends to emphasize a static exploration of minimalist repetition rather than dramatic development. In her solo music, frequent Takemura collaborator Aki Tsuyuko similarily explores soundworlds which emphasize a sense of time frozen in time, creating temporal pockets of warmth and cozy eternities. Though I don't pretend that there is a direct connection between this music and that of Fuke Zen, it does seem that a similar musical philosophy is at play. Just as language encodes a worldview, so too does culture, which imparts onto us the collective knowledge and vision of our ancestors. Within a creative culture, we all draw our material from the same creative pool.

With all of this in mind, what I find most remarkable about Barganier's A House of Last Witnessess is the extent to which it strays from its influences. Although, like much of Takada's music, “Bastards of Empty Space” emphasizes circular rhythmic gestures rather than melodic dialogues, there is more of a sense of dramatic progression in Barganier's work. The crunchy xylophone seconds shift positions, and we are affronted with contrasting formal sections, which take us out of any sense of suspended time. The music keeps throwing us back into an awareness of Chronos. In this piece, Barganier is not trying to freeze the hourglass. This is only natural. Barganier himself states that he is unable to exactly reproduce the music of his influences, since their “worldview is not my own and I couldn't force my vision and their vision together fairly.” Although infused with something of the spirit of the eternal moment, Barganier's work is nevertheless situated in a different tradition, characterized by a different relationship with time and reality. Barganier's use of temporality in effect puts us in awareness of our own mortality. In Barganier's vision, music progressess, harmonies change, and, eventually, we understand that the hourglass must one day break. Although seemingly influenced by the circular suspension of Japanese experimental music, Barganier takes the musical ideas of these composers in a completely different direction, presenting us with a dialogue of awakening to the realities of time. Only here, the hopeful salvation of the tonic chord is nowhere to be seen. Tonality is dead, and the composer no longer defines their relationship with the End Times in relation to it.

Barganier, echoing similar ideas experienced by Huxley under the influence of mescalin, states, "the idea of an apocalypse is really great - for me, it doesn't mean the end of the world, and it doesn't have to be 100% cataclysmic. It just means an unveiling of things that were once not known."

Barganier's sense of space may be an empty void, but his music is thick with heavy time, dripping relentlessly onward toward some ultimate, terminating point.

Crossroads in a Fever Dream: Absence in the Absence of Absence

Crossroads in a Fever Dream” begins with the kind of goliath, pitch-wavering saw wave pad you would expect to hear in Vangelis's soundtrack to Blade Runner. Why do we often evoke the emptiness of space, and the coldness of an unfamiliar future, using these open fifths and fourths played on hollow, ravaged synths? The question has everything to do with musical symbolism and the ways that we attempt to express the inexpressable.

(Main Titles from Vangelis's soundtrack to Blade Runner. In popular culture,
open fifths and fourths on a saw synth drone have come to represent the void.
A very different, and perhaps more cynical, worldview from that found in 2001: A
Space Odyssey
)

In his essay on the role of music in Buddhist history, Ian W. Mabbett describes the shakuhachi as an instrument whose “sound artfully imitates the sounds of artlessness, of nature, like the gentle soughing of wind in the pines that gently breathes and fades into the encompassing silence from which it came.” It is through the musical symbolism of the shakuhachi that, as Mabbett describes, “a shakuhachi maker and player seeks to produce 'sound, woven with silence.'” This signification of the sound of silence in the shakuhachi is meant to represent the principle of the void in Zen Buddhism.

I think a similar phenomenon to the shakuhachi's depiction of the void is at work in the sci-fi “emptiness chords” which we hear represented in “Crossroads in a Fever Dream.” Space is indeed massive, indefinite, incomprehensible, alarming, and unfathomably desolate. We hardly need the poetic majesty of the Bhagavad Gita or The Divine Comedy to fill our minds with awe, when the awesome reality of space's vast emptiness is always out there, surrounding us at all sides at every breathing moment. But all that absence is a difficult concept to grasp, either intellectually or emotionally. In a film, representing the absolute absence of space through a depiction of black silence won't cut it, and so film makers have chosen to fill the void with the next best thing – a desolate harmony, represented by a cold, computer-generated synth. In other words, these deep saw waves are a representation of absence in the absence of absence. Barganier's composition explores the coldness of this computer generated world, using the inhuman tones of digital data to craft an environment of fulfilling loneliness, of satisfying isolation. He codes a signifying matrix which, like the Zen shakuhachi, makes the noble attempt to speak the language of nothingness.

A fever dream is, after all, a kind of dream vision. The title “Crossroads in a Fever Dream” describes something of the form of the piece, which begins with a Xenakis-like environment of digital noise which roars and moans, an anxious representation of isolation in an unforgiving environment. But soon enough the composition transitions into a binary section driven by an inconsistent rhythmic pattern played by an electronic kick, a section of relative stability. Soon afterward, we dissolve back into the liquid texture of the void. The piece invites us to enter into its world of blind vision, and take part in its meditation on emptiness. Like the music of the shakuhachi, there is something representational in Barganier's synths. But instead of representing the void by evoking the wind blowing through the pines, Barganier makes us think of the great emptiness to be found in the sterile minds of cold computers, and in the unfathomable absence of infinite space.

Speaking in Tongues: Language without Signification

The act of speaking in tongues is a lot like performing a piece of music. The sounds we produce have no literal meaning, and impart no concrete information. But the act itself provides an intruiging, if ambiguous spectacle. It may even create a spiritual stir within the minds of believers. Barganier's “Speaking in Tongues” is reminiscent of a composition on his people places records release, entitled “Калі Я Адкрыў Вочы” (“When I Opened My Eyes”), in the sense that it investigates maximalism and an overloading of musical information. Reminding us of Nancarrow's work for player piano, Barganier appears to be using computer technology to create a complicated kind of music which overwhelms the listener with its energy and variety. The rhythm and timbres are not as exploratory as what could be found in “Калі Я Адкрыў Вочы,” but the tonal language of “Speaking in Tongues” is just as disorienting and extensive. As with “Shame Loops,” this piece encourages us to confront our musical fantasies and open ourselves to a nuanced experience beyond crystalized conventions.

For us speakers, language usually feels stable and consistent. We say something, and our partner interprets it. They say something, and we interpret their message back, ideally leaving the situation satisfied that we have been relatively well understood. But we often forget how imprecise this communication can be. Think of all the subtle disjunctions in place between our own personal languages. While it my be easy to clearly communicate simple messages – for example, “the apple is rotten, don't eat it!” - our capacity for communication significantly breaks down the more complicated the thought we are attempting to convey is. This is why philosophers have such a complex about defining things. When it comes to complicated topics, there is always a wide variety of possible interpretations. For example, the word “religion” brings about a huge scope of ideas in different people's minds. Some may see it as a dangerous waste of time, others may see it as the ultimate pursuit in life. A person in India may see religion in terms of what rituals they perform, whereas a North American may see it in terms of whether or not one professes a belief. For some, religion is blindly following a teaching, while for others it is a tool for investigating profound ideas. For this reason, discussing religion in a rational, consistent way can be difficult, because of a necessary semantic gap which distances two minds attempting to impart their ideas. In some cases, it might be better if we spoke different languages altogether, because at least then the misunderstandings wouldn't lead to vitriol. It is also worth noting that different states of mind seem to produce their own subjective languages. The word “water” means something very different to a person dying of thirst.

Speaking in tongues, also known as glossolalia, is a phenomenon which occurs in certain religious traditions in which a person appears to channel some kind of divine spirit, causing them to speak fluently in an unknown language, often interpreted as being of divine origin. Speaking in tongues is a fascinating phenomenon. It is an example of language without signification, at least on a literal level. Whatever signification speaking in tongues does have, it shares with music. For many of those sitting in church, listening to their pastor emmit mystical streams of inscrutable sounds, the effect is profoundly spiritual. It is seen as a direct communion with the divine, and is indeed interpreted as clear evidence of the operation of a sacred power. Many people feel that music also has a kind of sacred power, an ability to heal and elevate minds to new states of consciousness. These of course are observations which we impose onto our experiences after the fact. It is an attempt to apply our worldview onto a slippery experiential phenomenon. It is perhaps because of the ambiguity of the experiences, because of their lack of semantic content, that both the act of speaking in tongues and the experience of music allow for such powerful, mystical associations. Music is perhaps best understood as a language of pure suggestion, a system of infinite intimation. Far more can be said by carving out space for potentials, rather than stating everything clearly and authoritatively.

The less conventional something is, the more suggestive it is, the more it encourages us to look within ourselves for its source of meaning. With that in mind, what would a musical “speaking in tongues” sound like? I think it would sound a lot like Barganier's “Speaking in Tongues,” actually. With no familiar chord progressions or tone patterns, Barganier's piece presents us with a composition full of familiar formal flavour, but without any conventional tonal flavour. This is of course not an element unique to this composition. I actually think the analogy of speaking in tongues would be much more ideally suited to a work like Berg's Wozzeck, which employs classical forms beneath an atonal framework, leading even more to the experience of listening to the “fluent speaking of an incomprehensible language” - that is to say, an incomprehensible tonal language. Berg uses all the conventions of classical presentation, but none of the “signifying units” of traditional tonality. Of course, Berg was not just composing with random notes, but had worked out his own compositional systems and rules in Wozzeck, perhaps bringing the metaphor closer to the phenomenon of artificial languages, like John Dee's language of the angels, Enochian - that is to say, the language can indeed be understood, but only after arduous academic labour. In that case, speaking in tongues might be something closer to free jazz – chaotic, improvized, but still fluent enough to appear like some kind of music.

(Act II, Scene I of Wozzeck by Alban Berg, written in a sonata form. A musical
example of speaking in tongues? Or perhaps a musical
equivalent of Enochian?)

One of the effects of a piece like “Speaking in Tongues,” anyway, is that it calls us to question the content of the musical langauge we use. It forces us to recall the arbitrary nature of art. It encourages us to recollect how relative our perception of beauty is, and how dependent it is on our very particular circumstances in life. We may think music is a universal phenomenon, but how many times have you seen an ant enjoying a Beethoven symphony? How many cats have you seen appreciating Pink Floyd? Out of all the species we could have been born as on this planet, not to mention potential other planets if we want to consider aliens, we were born as human beings, marked by the unique capacity to create and appreciate music. The odds were certainly much greater that you would have been born a bacteria, after all. Although, can it really be said to be a game of odds? Your consciousness is entirely a product of your current situation, your body working as a single unit to propel you to satisfy your biological needs through a complicated system of fantasy constructions. To that extent, how sure can you be that you possess independent consciousness at all? You are aware that a being is going about its biological business – but is that being necessarily you, or are you merely its witness? Perhaps being forced to ask such questions is a good way of assessing the extent to which we can be said to even "be" ourselves, and the extent to which music can be considered to be such.

The illusion of music is without a doubt a very beautiful gift. If you, reader, are a human, there is nothing wrong with appreciating that fact and finding joy in it. But like any gift, it's easy to take it for granted and assume it to be a necessary factor in our existential situation. Naturally, however, nothing is an essential factor in our existential situation. Everything in your life can, and will, someday be taken from you. Realizing this is an important step toward learning to appreciate our lives and live more easily amidst all our transitory experiences. Much like the phenomenon of speaking in tongues, Barganier's album prompts us to investigate more closely what we have always taken for granted, to see just how strange, and just how arbitrary everything we experience actually is.

Concluding Thoughts

Buddhist monks are prone to dismiss a lot of things, among them music and philosophy. Many Christians will also suggest that anything which does not move us closer to God is of no real lasting value. I'd like to suggest that certain kinds of music, music that was completely unknown over two thousand years ago in the age of the early Buddhist Sangha and in the early Catholic Church, have a profound value, beyond mere entertainment and sensual distraction. While it may sometimes seem like music and philosophy are just a lot of busywork meant for those with too much first-world time on their hands, we forget the immense value that knowledge and experience can have when planted in the right soil. The achievement of wisdom and peace is never a straight path. It is full of bumpy terrain, treacherous mountains, and illusory forests. While it may be true that we do already possess the answers to all of our questions about life, this wisdom still requires something to prompt it, to awaken it. After all, even the Buddha had to leave his palace in order to percieve the facts of sickness, old age and death. That is then one of the most profound benefits to art – by investigating it, we are able to also investigate ourselves. By understanding a painting, we understand ourselves that much more. When this creative tool is used by the right person, it can lead to profound insights which benefit them, and everyone around them, in profound ways.

Some types of music function as a kind of mute philosophy, putting forward a thesis in spirit, if not in logical content. An album like Erich Barganier's A House of Last Witnessess is not music you put on in the background as you wash dishes or study geography. It is an album which you take time out of your day to sit down with, to absorb into your experience. You let the motions of its sound environments spawn new perspectives in your imagination. You allow it to rub up against distant memories, igniting associations with parts of yourself which you thought had been lost long ago. I think this can be said to be true of most contemporary music which, in contrast to the music of the common practice period, is meant to be contemplated more than viscerally enjoyed. The end result is, nevertheless, thoroughly enjoyable. Although it is not the same as the purely sensual joy of hearing a satisfying chord resolution, the experience of sinking into an album like Barganier's first solo release is one of self-discovery which, really, is the most satisfying experience of all. An abstract work like A House of Last Witnessess, consisting of inhospitable noise wastelands and moody journeys into dissonant revelations, asks us to quietly contemplate it, and in turn contemplate ourselves – which, after all, may be the most fascinating subject in the universe.

You can listen to and purchase A House of Last Witnesses on Bandcamp here

You can experience more of Erich Barganier's work here on his artist's website

Barganier's Soundcloud page

Bibliography:

Blake, William. "Auguries of Innocence." Poetry Foundation. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43650/auguries-of-innocence (accessed March 13, 2020).

Huxley, Aldous. The Doors of Perception & Heaven and Hell. New York: Harper Perennial Classics, 2009 (originally 1954).

Mabbett, Ian W. "Buddhism and Music." Asian Music, Vol. 25, No. 1/2 (1993 - 1994).

Weber, Max. The Sociology of Religion. Ephraim Fischoff, translator. Boston: Beacon Press, 1993.

Note: All quotes from the composer come from my own email correspondence with Barganier in preparation for this review.

 

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in a (once-) blossomed place Album Review

in a (once-)blossomed place

Album Review
By Forest Muran

(Cover art by Yaz Lancaster)

Almost a year ago, I reviewed Sebastian Zel's electroacoustic EP findings, released through the New York based record label people places records. Continuing in the tradition of entirely lowercase titles, people places records has, on July 26th, come out with their first release of 2019, titled in a (once-)blossomed place. This album features four lengthy tracks, divided between American composers Cassie Wieland and Erich Barganier, and seems to be the first of a new series of releases by people places records which intends to feature albums created by composer pairs. This first pairing already has blossomed into an intruiging set of musical works, and I want to try and unpack some of the ideas that have sprouted from them as best I can.

Reflecting the title of the album, the first piece already throws us into an abstract world lacking in vegetation. In contrast to the other works on the album, Strange objects, by Cassie Wieland, does not feature any performed, acoustic instruments. Instead, it presents us with the mechanized timbral world of electronic music. Nevertheless, in spite of its artificial musical materials, this composition features a rather organic additive form, much like the movement of a wave. First, a somber, sustained synth pedal awakens us to an ambiguous tonal space, later churning our initially calm disposition with dissonant pitch phasing and sweeping mechanical scratches. The sounds continue to aggregate, adding various unplaceable sampled sounds, until finally, after a climactic moment, or a series of moments, we are left again with the tranquil stillness of a hollow synth pad, this time punctuated by clicking, clock-like samples.

The album's description states that Wieland's pieces intend to “present the composer’s take on object/environment displacement.” While at a literal level, the concept of displacement deals simply with the transference of an object from one physical location to another, perhaps the current interest in it stems more from a kind of cultural or existential displacement, where we feel disconnected from our origins, from society, or from the very idea of existence. The idea of displacement of course suggests that things, in fact, have a natural home where they actually belong, and if only we could arrange things in their right places, all could be resolved. Perhaps in the abstract, harmonic world of perfect cadences and harmonic resolutions such an ideal is possible. But in our own unstable world, the state of displacement seems to be our actual home.

Music, for instance, is always in a state of displacement, particularly computer music. This is the fundamental distinction behind the electronic / acoustic dichotomy, after all: Acoustic music is produced by an existing body, while electronic music is ghostly and disembodied. But if we are to look at the acoustic phenomenon more closely, we can see how arbitrary the comparison is. We are very insistent on protecting the idea of the authenticity of our senses. But whether you have heard Beethoven's 9th Symphony played by an orchestra in real time, or whether you have merely heard an audio recording of it on YouTube, the end experience, for the mind, is still “having heard Beethoven's 9th Symphony.” The difference of course lies in the body, which prefers satisfaction over mere perception. In any case, the very process of receiving an organized impression from the great, tangled jungle of reality, reflects a kind of displacement. Regardless of how the sound reaches us, it must first be displaced before it is processed.

(Displaced object photo by Forest Muran)

What does it mean for Wieland's piece to be concerned with displacement? The piece of course features a variety of sound samples which seem to derive from field recordings of various objects. That said, it is difficult to tell what the original objects used were. In a very Heideggerian sense, Wieland's objects have become strange, and displaced from their original source. In their abstractness, even Wieland's acoustic material takes on a synthetic quality, since they can no longer be connected with the bodies which created them. This is a idea which is explored deeper as the album continues. In listening to Strange objects, Wieland's piece has itself become a strange object, being displaced from its mysterious origin as a recording on a computer hard drive, and entering into our phenomenal experience. Not only the originally sampled objects, but the digital recording itself are displaced in our abstract experience of them.

Weeds, also by Wieland, is an entirely acoustic work, performed by the Line Upon Line Percussion ensemble. Unlike the first piece, this more organic work has a more popular tone, featuring a contemplative vibraphone melody, and a musical structure that it wouldn't be surprising to find on an early 2000s Warp Records release. As with the first track, Weeds features an additive structure, with its elements gradually being developed and stacked upon one another – a technique very much in vogue for the movie music-influenced composers of today. The technique differences greatly from the classical tradition, and even from the familiar verse-chorus structures of popular songs. I wonder if a connection could be made between it and the music of Bach or Lully, in that it perhaps reflects a kind of earnest faith in the reality of human affect? In this vein, Weeds begins in a very gentle sound environment of percussive brushes, which is soon punctuated by resonant points played on the vibraphone. Eventually, a relatively stable drum kit enters the mix, and the music takes on a syncopated, jazz-like tone, albeit in a rather complicated rhythmic scheme. In this track, it's something of a relief to be presented with sounds which we can trace to a definite body. For a moment, we are given relief from the displaced abstraction which characterized much of in a (once-)blossomed place.

A weed is generally considered to be something unwanted. When spotted, we pluck them from our gardens. At least to our ego-centric perspectives, a weed is a very alien object, a strange object, which must be dealt with accordingly. If we are to look beyond our own interests as gardeners for a moment, however, we might be able to see the weed in a different light. Perhaps it is not a displaced object after all. Perhaps it is not an object that has strayed far from its proper home in the natural world (the part of the natural world that is not our backyard), to rear its unwanted stems on our property? Indeed, an object can only be displaced, if it is be wrongly placed. But the unknowable jungle of reality does not function in terms of what belongs where. Beyond subjectivity, the environment is indeed irreducible from the objects found within it. The illusion of the acoustic percussion sounds we hear projected from our computer speakers, for example, can on one level be seen as a kind of displacement, but on another level, the digital sound coming through our speakers is exactly where it belongs. The very act of listening is a displacement, and even when we are faced with acoustic sounds, the acoustic phenomenon itself inevitably involves an abstraction of sound from its source. Music is inherently alien to its objects.

(Unwanted object plus vegitation photo by Forest Muran)

The third piece on the album takes us deeper into the heart of reality, as we flow down this river of reproduced sound. At least according to the piece's title, The Veneer Melts, by Erich Barganier, it would seem that we are getting closer to the true state of things. According to the album description, Barganier also “is guided by ideas of displacement.” Nevertheless, Barganier's inspiration comes far more from the sound world of noise-music, being constituted by a mesh of piercing digital sounds, clusters of portamento violin plucks, and recordings of radio chatter. Throughout the piece we are lead through a series of musical trials, which pop, scrape, and clash, until we reach a coda which reintroduces the background radio chatter. This time, however, the radio chatter begins to speed up under a sardonic counterpoint of pizzicato strings playing what sound like Webernian blues riffs. The entire piece is forceful and fierce, and although the album description mentions an element of anxiety being conveyed in the piece, I would suggest there is also an element of comedy – a very dark kind of comedy, of course, like when we laugh at the absurd lengths Kafka goes to in order to torture his protagonists.

 

In the same sense as recorded music, the radio carries with it an idea of displacement. The absence of the human body is made all the more distinct through the speeding up of the recording near the end of the work, which draws our attention to the piece's artificial elements. While The Veneer Melts indeed features many acoustic and indexical elements, it nevertheless makes us feel especially removed from them because of their distorted, unnatural treatment. While these objects indeed form their own natural environment, weeds growing in an abstract space, we nevertheless still feel, as human beings, a sense of disconnect with reality when we hear the human voice distorted. Perhaps it's an aesthetic limitation of our minds - or an aesthetic opportunity.

The album description mentions Barganier being influenced by multimedia artist and noise-music composer Ryoji Ikeda. This comparison is interesting, in that it gives us more insight into the relationship between art and displaced objects. A lot of Ikeda's work concerns itself with presenting the human subject with forces of reality that are considered unknowable – things like complex patterns, unimaginable variety, and quantum systems. In this sense, Ikeda's work presents ontic reality through a phenomenal lens, in an attempt to draw attention to the fact that these subjects actually are unknowable. A lot of the effect of his works come from the capacity they have to expose us to the mystery of existence. A large part of that mystery comes from the realization that we are inherently displaced, and that the very structural foundations of existence are alien to our capacity to comprehend – and, in a sense, that this mystery and uncertainty is our true home. That seems to be the appeal of a lot of noise music, as well as this particular piece. When we become overwhelmed by what is strange to us, the veneer of understandable reality begins to fade away. The familiar human voice begins to distort beyond recognition, and we are no longer convinced that there is a distinction between the artificial and the real.

(Real tree turned artificial photograph by Forest Muran)

The final piece in the album continues to explore the ambiguity between the realm of the electronic and the acoustic. This piece, also written by Barganier, seems to feature a Ukrainian title. Калі Я Адкрыў Вочы, at least according to Google Translate, translates as When I Opened My Eyes. The musical world of this piece suggests an apocalyptic state of horrific awe. Taking advantage of the capacities of digital editing in the best way possible, Barganier takes samples of the flute and piano playing dramatic, forceful gestures, and compounds them over one another to form a massive collusion of sinister sounds. When we open our ears to the force behind the work the effect is beautiful, terrific, and full of wrath.

When we think of the divine, the popular image that comes to mind is often peaceful, sometimes involving something like floating clouds, or a golden light. Certainly not something we would associate with, say, the atonal serial music of Arnold Schoenberg. Nevertheless, in an essay I wrote in my first year of university, and which I still stand by to this day, I argued a connection between the serial music of Arnold Schoenberg and the Vishvarupa, or cosmic form of Krishna, found in the Bhagavad Gita. I may as well have been talking about Barganier's piece: “What many call ugliness is really the feeling of shock produced at a confrontation with overwhelming stimuli, be it the cosmic form of Krishna, or the pantonality of Schoenberg's later music.” In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna at one point reveals his universal form, which depicts, at once, all the majesty and terror of creation. Naturally, his audience, the warrior Arjuna, is horrified. To be subjected to so much reality at once is a terrible thing for those not ready for it.

(Detail from The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch)

What I did not know at the time of my writing that paper, was that Arnold Schoenberg was far more influenced by Balzac than ancient Hindu texts. The result, in any case, was the same. In preparation for writing what was to be his first grand, orchestral symphony, a piece which would later turn into his well-known Die Jakobsleiter, Schoenberg grappled with problems of the divine, and intended to set passages from the books of Psalms in his epic work. Despite his biblical research, Schoenberg's greatest source of inspiration actually came from Honoré Balzac. In Balzac's novel Séraphîta, Schoenberg was captivated by a vision of hell which presented the subject with an ungraspable confusion of the senses, a world of experiential excesses that mundane minds could not process. Balzac describes his vision of hell as a place containing “life that gave no hold to sense, fragrance without odour, melody without sound, no surfaces, no angles, no atmosphere.” It was a terrifying, apocalyptic vision, but it gave Schoenberg a sense of spiritual insight which inspired him to craft the intensely dissonant, yet transcendental Die Jakobsleiter.

As with Schoenberg's spiritually charged vision of hell, Barganier also opens our eyes to a terrifying and overwhelming impression of reality. It is the same strategy employed by Ikeda when aiming to overwhelm his audience with the complexity of the reality beyond our everyday human impressions. Like Ikeda, Barganier's sharp, plunging counterpoint confront us with vast complexities which, although we find them difficult to grasp, force us to adopt a position of apocalyptic awe, a reverence for the destructive powers of reality.

With the release of in a (once-)blossomed place, people places records continues its streak of releasing thoughtful works which bridge the gap between the worlds of classical and popular music. In a musical environment tyrannized by commercial distinctions, it has become difficult to distinguish the music we listen to from the conceptual categories imposed on it by the demands of the market. Nevertheless, the differences between the “classical” tradition and the “popular” tradition are continually breaking down, especially in an environment increasingly becoming more dominated by independent musicians, who often create more based on personal interest rather than sales projections. Labels like people places records are a great benefit to contemporary music in general, and act as a space of reverence for the efforts of their artists as well as a celebration of their ideas.

If you are interested in listening to similar music that is approached in the spirit of breaking free from conceptual frameworks, written by composers familiar enough with those frameworks to know where the exit signs are, I recommend giving a listen to other works in the people places records catalogue. In any case, I look forward to whatever new releases the label might have planned for the rest of 2019.

- Forest Muran

You can listen to and purchase in a (once-)blossomed place here

You can read my article on another people places records release, findings by Sebastian Zel, here

Check out the rest of the people places records catalogue here

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Art and Alchemy

Art and Life in the Alchemical Net

Forest Muran

The city of London, Ontario has a surprisingly vibrant community of artists, though perhaps too often unsupported by the kind of critical backbone which might be found in a larger city like Toronto. I am continually surprised by the refreshing, beautiful, and often strange works frequently found in London's local galleries, such as its Forest City Gallery, TAP, and DNA, as well as the galleries found on the Western University campus, McIntosh Gallery and the Labatt Visual Arts Centre. Within the past year, I've seen many exhibitions, and have often thought about compiling the thoughts they have inspired into a single critical essay. This year, three exhibitions in particular caught my attention: Carpathian-Andean Alloy at Forest City Gallery, Anti-Profit: Independent Publishing in London at McIntosh Gallery, and what we might become at the Labbat Visual Arts Centre. It is my intention to prop up net near these three exhibitions, and catch what meanings and ideas I can extract from them. I hope to open a space for exploring their ideas, and, with the help of some external sources, to contend with, fracture, and develop them.

Too often criticism is seen as a cold, destructive act. It's seen as something judicial, rather than an essential part of the creative ecosystem. The reason for this is a misunderstanding of what criticism actually is, and how it relates to the creation of art. In most cases, art is a social act. It can indeed be theraputic, and even personally transformative, but if you are displaying your work in a gallery, it is without doubt a social act. In this age of entertainment, our perspective toward art is completely backward. It is often the case that we see the burden placed on the art itself, with the object being tasked with entertaining us, or with transforming us in some way. But in reality, we are all art critics, and our measure of enjoyment, elucidation, enlightenment from art comes entirely from our own capacity to engage with it.. Rather than being something cold and destructive, art criticism, beyond its popular form iconized in Roger Ebert's thumb, is meant to add meaning, to extend, to grow. Whether the critic intends to reveal the meaning inherent in the work itself, or to extend an entire universe of thought from a grain of sand (the distinction between the two is not so obvious), at its best, art criticism enriches, points out new connections, and transforms thought. It develops new ways of understanding. It is a creative act in itself.

That said, I hope that my exploration of the works of these London creatives will, at the very least, add something to a larger conversation about these works. This act of casting a net and allowing the condenscation of new ideas to trickle down, is indeed a creative act on its own, but also contains its own risks. Instead of approaching these works from a place of paranoia, anxious to assign meaning to various boxes, containing defined meanings in carefully organized conceptual containers, I hope instead to act as a light that allows even the smallest specks of significance in these works to become apparent, and for their iconnections to the larger world of ideas to become clear. I am approaching these articles as an artist, sampling the art and ideas of others in order to create a larger collage of creative potential.

Carpathian-Andean Alloy
Forest City Gallery
March 1st, 2019
Artist: Barbara Hobot

Why do we create art? It's an excellent question, and possibly a frightening one, especially for artists. Certainly, motivations vary as much as the artists who hold them. Also certain is that most of us are not quite clear on what are motivations are. It isn't a question that is often asked, which is exactly the kind of question that we should be most concerned with. Stock, spontaneous responses like “it's interesting,” or “it's fun,” or “it's the only thing I can do,” all belie a vast, tangled system of desires that exist just beneath the surface of the artist's mind, the kind of tangled system that perhaps can only be unravelled through art itself, through the language of myth and symbol.

Hobot, an Ontario artist and sculptor who currently lives in Kitchener, but who had once studied art in London, explores in multiple layers a subject which can provide insight into this realm of the hidden mind. Carpathian-Andean Alloy is an exhibition of fundamentally alchemical works. It is clear that much research went into the creation of these works, and Hobot's exhibition, through many different doors, gives us a glimpses into the system of this alchemical language.

Iron and Copper Ensnared on Steel depicts a photo of Joachim Wtewael's painting Mars and Venus Surprised by Vulcan printed on a sheet of stainless steel. Stainless steel is, of course, an alloy itself, and is representative of the aim of alchemy: The combination of base elements to bring about transformation. Though alchemy was in one sense a precursor to modern-day chemistry, dealing with the transformation of physical states, in another sense it deals metaphorically with the development of understanding in the mind and spirit, an angle investigated at length by Carl Jung. In alchemy, Jung observed a parellel with the types of symbols which were occuring in the dreams of his patients undergoing psychological transformation (individuation).

The myth described by Wtewael's painting is also said to represent the fundamental aim of alchemy. The story centres on an adulterous affairbetween the beautiful classical goddess venus, and the virile, handsome god Mars, occuring behind the back of the ugly god of metalworking, Vulcan. After become aware of this secret relationship, Vulcan decided constructed a fine net out of bronze, which he then used to trap the furtive lovers and prove their dishonesty. In alchemical texts, iron is associated with Mars, while copper is associated with Venus, with Vulcan often being associated with fire. Sir Isaac Newton, whose interests included not only physics, but alchemy as well, held the belief that alchemical secrets were hidden within the system of classical mythology. With such an idea in mind, he used the myth of the Vulcan's net to form an alchemical recipe. Vulcan is regarded as the prototypical alchemist, being the god of metalwork and forging, and in this particular myth employs his alchemical knowledge by metaphorically forming an alloy between Mars and Venus – that is, iron and Copper. By printing this particular painting on the alloy of stainless steel, Hobot is further perpetuating the tradition of the classical myth. She is repeating the ensnarement of the furtive lovers, this time with Vulcan, too, being caught in his own trap.

Of course, this act of ensnaring is not particular to betrayed husbands alone. Artists also ensnare, and they ensnare whenever they put paint on a canvas, or shape any worn-down, functionless objects into something new. Delueze and Guattari write, “the artist is the master of objects; he puts before us shattered, broken-down objects, converting them to the regime of desiring-machines.”i In other words, the artist converts the familiar and everyday into objects with renewed potentials, featuring entirely new possibilities. This is an alchemical transformation, as any act of recording must necessarily be. The “master of objects” cannot put objects before us without transforming them in some way, without leaving their own trace. When talking about dreams, Alexandro Jodorowsky describes how “we do not see the complete dream, but the parts that we have selected depending on our level of consciousness. We reduce it to fit within the limitations of the individual 'I'.”ii The same observation applies to observations in life, as well as observations in art. What is ensnared, what is recorded, in our creation is limited by our own perspective. While it is possible that the act of capturing experience can lead to something new, a transformation in our understanding, the danger always exists that we will only end up ensnaring ourselves, trapping our minds withing a repetition compulsion of our desires, fears, and follies – the tragic state of the successful artist who now explores the same old cliches in the name of profit alone, and has forgotten how to create, how to follow unexpected paths toward increased self-understanding.

Hobot's exhibition does not dwell only the mythological side of alchemy. In Pacific Ocean Copper Mining Protester, Hobot features a video recording of a fog-catching net used in Peña Blanca, Chile. The fog-catching net is a piece of technology used to collect moisture from the fog, to provide a much-needed water source after other sources had been damaged by factors such nearby copper mining. In the exhibit's program, Hobot states, “these nets have drastically altered the environment in which they stand. What was once a mountain facing serious desertification is now an ecosystem with thriving plants.”iii Hobot describes an alchemical process, an empirical realization of Newton's net, in a roundabout way.

Hobot's exhibit draws attention to the existence of two kinds of alchemy, or indeed two ways of interacting with the world. There is the method of creating in order to control, and there is the method of creating in order to understand. The distinction is pointed out in R.H. Blyth's valuable early volumes on Japanese haiku in English, where he dexcribes what he sees as the main difference between traditions of magic and traditions of true religion: The first tries to provide a method for changing the world to fit our desires, while the second tries to provide a method to help make do with what is already here.iv Science and technology likewise at different times adopt these two faces. On the one hand, we can operate under the assumption that we can shape the world to our every whim, so long as we have the right tools. On the other hand, we can use our tools not to shape the world, but to cope with the world, to collaborate with it and acknowledge the inherent lack of power we actually have. The first approach is highlightened in the myth of Vulcan and Venus. Knowing his wife to be unfaithful, Vulcan employs a net to capture her – to control her. A wife, however, even a wife who is a goddess, is not a videogame character, and is thus subject to all the lusts, passions, and follies of any being. As an attempt to control nature, Vulcan's alchemy is doomed for failiure. The jealous husband, thinking he is able to secure his wife's fidelity through iron-fisted will, instead pushes her further away, making her more careful about concealing her infidelity in the future. It is the same principle at work in Aldous Huxley's Brave New World, where a future society built upon technological perfection succeeds in achieving a utopia through the powers of science and logic, but at the expense of driving away anything that resembles human depth and value, forcing kernels of humanity to flee into dark, hidden corners.

The second way of interacting with the world is illustrated in the Taoist-like ingenuity of the fog-catching nets, These nets seem to express the famous wisdom of the Tao Te Ching: “Highest good is like water... it is because it does not contend that it is never at fault.”v The net is used not to control nature, not to impose human desire upon it, but to harness already existing natural forces. The Taoist approach is economicaly sound, encouraging us to live as collaborators with the natural system already in place, rather than attempt to shape it to fit the infinite forms of human desire (“desiring-machines work only when they break down, and by continually breaking down,” write Deleuze and Guattari)vi. The fog-catching net reliquishes control, it disables its own autonomy. The people of Peña Blanca cannot hope to control the fogs, and they are certainly no match for copper mining companies. But through their own version of Vulcan's alchemical net, they still somehow managed to find a solution to their problem of water scarcity. By relinquishing control, we paradoxically gain control. This is the foundational message of the Tao Te Ching, and is the true secret to any successful alchemical endevour.

Carpathian-Andean Alloy is, like all art, a kind of alchemical work itself, that is to say, a kind of dream-production. Although it doesn't face the question directly, this exhibit presents a number of stepping stones which we can use to get closer to the question asked at the beginning of this article: Why do we create art? The answer exists stretched across two poles. On the one side, we create in order to control, in order to play God, in order to catch Venus in the act. On the other side, we create art in order to relinquish control, in order to work in conjunction with the mysterious forces of nature, creativity, and our own psychology - in order to produce something which surprises ourselves and others, tracing new paths toward understanding. Nevertheless, we must be careful with the kinds of nets we cast, and with our intentions for doing so. When casting nets in order to capture something, it's easy to trap our own selves within them.

Anti-Profit: Independent Publishing in London

McIntosh Gallery

September 26th, 2019

Curated by Ruth Skinner

At McIntosh Gallery, PhD Candidite Ruth Skinner put together an exhibition featuring a variety of independently published zines by London artists. The collection is a testament to the vibrancy and creative life that flows through the city, often just below our everyday line of site. Exhibited alongside a related touring exhibit, Publishing Against the Grain, which features inernational independently published literature relating to the art world and art criticism, this collection of zines paints a picture of a London very different from that recorded in the annals of government and big business. These so-called zines (truncated magazines, in name and size), represent a leap forward in the democratization of information. For instance, the first commercial xerographic laser printer was released in 1977, making it relatively easy and inexpensive to print multiple copies of simple booklets. It gave the average person the ability to publish and distribute ideas on a large scale, without needing to appease government or business gatekeepers with pass codes of profit and social capital. Increasingly, more and more megaphones were being placed in the hands of the masses.

As we've seen in the age of the internet, however, giving the masses megaphones can lead to quite a noisy situation. Not doubt, dismantling the barriers to communication is generally a positive thing. But many surprising consequences begin to pop up as we become more accustomed to this ubiquity of information – information pollution, art pollution, lack of quality control, the exacerbation of ideologically isolated communities, etc,. Nevertheless, it's important to see this kind of structural change not as an overall negative or positive change, but simply as an innevitable transformation that has followed technological evolution. What is important is observing what has already happened, what is currently current happening, and what might happen.

Leafing through the zines at Skinner's exhibition, my attention was drawn to the subject matter covered by many of these self-published works. Many of the zines felt incredibly personal. It's interesting to note how, conversely, the world of professional publishing focuses mostly on the mythic. In order to capitalize on the largest audience possible, the publishing industry encourages works which appeal to universal archetypes and broad topics. Commercially viable creative works rarely deal with specific problems or subjects, but instead with maximally relatable abstractions. Independently published zines, however, ideally created not for profit but for the pure proliferation of ideas, have the luxury of being able to address their problems more directly. Many of these zines felt as though they had just moments before been chissled out by their authors, as thought they still retained evidence of fresh life, similar to artifacts found at Pompeii versus the more carefully immortalized busts of classical gods.

Many of the zines featured at Skinner's exhibit dealt with personal problems. I use the word “problem” to refer to painful states of being caused by a lack of understanding – dukkha, in Indian philosophy, or perhaps neuroticism in Freudian terms. I think the comparison is apt, since many of these zines seemed to aim at a transcendence of some kind. Some of the zines were political. Some dealt with issues of identity, beauty, and sense of self. One zine used tarrot imagery to tackle the subject of death. Another still was written as a love letter to the author's own depression. In many cases, these zines, in contrast with many commercial publications, seemed to have been written with the author themself in mind as the primary beneficiary to their creation, as though written in a spirit of self-healing, or self-developing. After the authors, perhaps the immediate friends and family of the authors would be the most interested in engaging with these creations. In other words, within these zines was something very much reminiscent of a diary. As if to drive the point home, I found one zine at the exhibition, written by London artist Megan Arnold, which was literally an illustrated account of her summer experiences, entitled Megan Arnold's Summer of Complete Freedom. Although Arnold's work wore its purpose on its sleeve, there seemed to be something of an element of the diary, the catalogue, in all of the zines present.

People have their own reasons for keeping personal journals. But these reasons typically fall into three catagories: Journals are written to comfort, to record, and to transform. Anne Frank continued to write her diary as a way of providing defined boundaries within her often uncertain life. Matsuo Basho wrote his Oku no Hosomichi as an aestheticized record of his epic travels. Marcus Aurelius wrote his Meditations in an attempt to transform his mind and strengthen his spirit. Nevertheless, as an alchemical act, writing a journal inevitably produces a transformation in the writer's understanding, in the same sense that any act of memory is an act of alchemy. In his autobiography, Jodorowsky describes the function of memory: “The past is not immovable; it is possible to change it, to enrich it, strip it of trouble, give it joy. It is evident that memory has the same quality as dreams. Whenever we remember we recreate, giving a different interpretation to the events remembered.”vii In this sense, to produce a record of something is to interact in a very tangible way with experience, to apply a creative brush to the passage of time. Moreover, in as much as an art-work is a kind of dream-work, it is through these creative records that we interact most intimately with life. Discussing Lacan's theory of dreams, Slavoj Žižek related how “the only point at which we approach this kernel of the Real is indeed the dream ... it was only in the dream that we approached the fantasy-framework which determines our activity, our mode of acting in reality itself.”viii That is to say, in everyday life we are blind to the murky forces which guide motivations and beliefs, but in the dream-space we come to see in a disguised form the true face behind our real-world fantasy constructions. Seen from this perspective, the dream-work, as well as the art-work, reveals itself as an indespensable means for expanding our understanding of aspects of reality we are usually blind to. The dream-work helps lift the lid covering hidden aspects of reality, allowing the usually unseen content to leak out into our everday perception.

Herein lies the value of keeping a record, or of creating a zine – as a creative interaction with life experience, it allows us a space to explore the abstract forces of imagination, myth and mind. Records allow us a tool through which we can channel our own inherent wisdom to better our understanding of ourselves and our world. After all, a teacher does not teach, but merely shows the student the path toward wisdom. Innevitably, the student must become their own teacher, something Marcus knew when beginning his Meditations. It was only by entering into the dream-space of the diary that the Roman Emperor was able to percieve his own weak points, fantasy-frameworks, and follies, which shut him out from further personal development. It is in this sense that Marcus, as well as zine creaters across London, grappled with the residue of their own experience, and carved out their own path in their creative works toward a resolution of their problems.

A diary is also a kind of net. It is a net thrown over jittering memories, impressions, and experiences, in an attempt to provide some kind of boundary. That said, there is a danger in trying to imprison our experiences. Basho took artistic liscence in creating his Oku no Hosomichi, taking five years to finish writing and editing the work. Many details in this famous haibun contradict those found in a more matter-of-fact account found in a diary written by Basho's travel companion Sora. That said, Basho's artistic liscence does not seem to have been taken in an attempt to tyranize that past, but moreso as a way to beautify it, to bring out the best in what already there, much like the fog-catching nets of Peña Blanca. This indeed is the major function of the haiku form, to pull the ego from the from, and allow experience to shine in its own, essential light. The poet Kyoshi Yakahama once remarked that “the haiku poet looks at moments of life with detatchment, like they are observing a flower.” Just as one cannot force a flower to grow by pulling at its stem, one cannot produce art by forcing experiences into place with a net. This attitude of allowing experience itself to shine through, without attatchment, is so strong in the haiku tradition that it prompted the celebrated modern haiku poet Hakyou Ishida to say that, in fact, “haiku is not literature. It is life in its most raw form. Composing haiku is synonymous with living life.”ix

The relationship of written haiku to our experience of reality is echoed in Lacan's idea of the kernel of the Real being contained within the dream. In living life, we are confronted with a vast, incomprehensible array of experiences and systems, the magnitude of which is too overwhelming for us to make sense of. This is the Vishvarupa of the Bahagavad Gita, the schizophrenic machine of Deleuze and Guittari, Aldous Huxley's LSD vision of the Mysterium Tremendumx. As a defense, the fantasy-framework is absolutely necessary. It is a practical tool through which the ego is given a means to participate within a larger reality, allowing it to organize this reality according to immediate human needs. With this in mind, we can see how haiku is not, in fact, unmasked reality itself shining forth in pure light (as such would be a manifestation of the unbearable Mysterium Tremendum), but is rather a kind of dream-vision of reality which all the same contains a kernel of this tremendous sense of the Real, allowing a practical space in which to contend with its ambiguous residue. It is a mistake to try and cast a net over this overwhelming infinity. But where the haiku masters have succeeded is in allowing the vast essence of the old ponds and the jumping frogs to be caught on a net, and to trickle down from the drifting fog of pure experience into the fertile ground of our imaginations.

The important question then is, do we create in order to control, or to understand? Like in R.H. Blyth's dichotomy between magic and religion, some approach art as a dark art of realizing desires, a way of forcing the world to comply to our fantasies. This is the creative world of the Marquis de Sade, who creates ellaborate and implausible social systems for the sake of molding reality to fit his nightmareish fantasies. In stark opposition to the work of the Marquis, haiku forces the ego to take a step back and allow the dream-world itself to emerge organically. A good haiku poet never forces meaning, and never forces reality to be a certain way, but merely provides a net on which to catch impressions, allowing them to gently seep into our understanding.

The zines featured at Skinner's exhibition indeed seemed to naturally gravitate more toward what Blyth would call the “religious” method, choosing to approach creation in a spirit of exploration and uncertainty. But of course, any self-publishing boom will produce its share of Marquis (let's not forget that the Marquis is among the self-publishing pioneers), who will take any opportunity for creative expression as a chance to imprison reality, to force it to dance to their own songs. Such is the state of many of the more politically minded zines, which often make frustrated attempts at casting an ideological net around the uncontainable mass of experience, acting as gods of their own theoretical worlds. In my mind, this type of creation is the entity closest to deserving of the title “bad art.” But even then, with a sharp enough critical eye, and a broad enough imagination, even the most tyranical works of art can yeild vibrant readings. Luckily, the majority of zine creators featured in this exhibit seemed to understand that the best diaries are those which record reality not in an attempt to change it, but as an open invitation toward growth and understanding. This ability to open a space for dreams free from the worldly tyrannies of profit, social capital, and ego fantasy, is possibly one the zine's most endearing qualities.

what we might become

John Labatt Visual Arts Centre

October 3rd, 2019

Artists:

Matt W. Brown

Jerome Conquy

Yas Nikpour Koshgrudi

George Kubresli

Ramolen Laruan

This exhibition of art and sculpture created by students in Western's MFA program dealt with our relationship with the future. The exhibition's title alone gives us reason to pause and think: Why should we be concerned with our future? What value comes from it? In exploring memories, prophesies, and the process of transformation, this exhibition provided an opportunity to examine questions about the future, our relationship with our current age, and the technology that we use in an attempt to shape both.

Does it matter what we will become? For Heidegger, who argued that us conscious beings are fundamentally concerned with time, we indeed would not have a sense of being without it. For him, to be concerned with “what we will become” is an essential characteristic of the kinds of beings we are, and is indeed inseperable from us. We can only be what we essentially are through our relationship with time.xi Buddhist philosophy takes a different approach, seeing time as a fantasy-framework for providing a workable structure to Huxley's Mysterium Tremendum - for making sense out of the incomprehensible essence of existence. In the Pheṇapiṇḍūpama Sutta, for example, we can find a passage which compares time to a ball of foam: “What substance could there be in a ball of foam? In the same way, whatever appearance there may be – whether in the past , present, or future ... you should look at it, reflect on it, and carefully examine it. Looked at in such a manner, it will appear as empty, hollow, and insubstantial.”xii In Buddhist thought, what we will become is seen as something illusory, a fabrication based on our present position. What is actually of importance is our awareness that whatever the future brings, it will bring change. These two approaches to the question of our relationship with time are not as different as they may first appear. Heidegger is of course preoccupied with the phenomenal world, the world that can be immediately experienced and interacted with. For him, although time is an essential element by which we understand reality, there is not necessarily any deeper reality behind it. Both Heidegger and the Buddha suggested that, for us beings concerned with our relationship with time, there isn't any any existence of time beyond our experience of it. Our conception of the future is insubstantial and, much like our memories, is a dream-like fantasy-framework that we adopt to enable us to create a useful conception of our present.

The first work encountered when entering this exhibition was Ramolen Larun's hole in my pocket. The work consists of a number of pieces of denim stitched together, creating a long, flowing line of blue extending vertically from the ceiling to the ground. In many ways, this work resembles a denim waterfall. Contained in this waterfall are various other types of fabrics, as well as fragmented, faded photographs and different lines of text stitched into the original bluejeans used to make the work. In his popular western collection of Zen Buddhist teachings, Shunryu Suzuki explains the significance of the metaphor of the waterfall. He describes the process of water first falling from the rocks, and then becoming deattatched from the original stream, as being comparable to our own state in the world – as Heidegger would put it, our “throwness.”. Although our source may all come from the same stream, “after we are seperated by birth from this oneness, as the water falling from the waterfall is seperated by the wind and rocks, then we have feeling ... whether it is seperate drops or not, water is water. Our life and death are the same thing.”xiii Suzuki seems to be channeling Heidegger, and his metaphor is perfectly suited to describing Heidegger's notion of time as related to us human beings. Whatever is in the waterfall – in the case Laruan's piece, the text, memories, and materials that comprise it – is what we take concern with, from beginning to end. Although we are only ever present at one point along the waterfall's steep course, the boundaries of the waterfall are determined, and it is within the boundaries of the waterfall, our earthly lifespans, that we are able to relate to our being. Although Laruan's hole in my pocket seems to focus on the past, our memories, and our associations, it also provides an apt visual metaphor for the space in which the question posed by the title of the exhibit can be asked: We can only know “what we will become” in terms of this defined space. Even then, we know that whatever we do become will be as fragmented, flowing, and unstable as the rippling drops we find ourselves as now.

The series of watercolour paintings by George Kubresli in this exhibit further reflects this fragmented conception of being. Depicting family members through vibrant, pointlistic brush strokes, Kubresli suggests a vision of the human being as a fragmented entity, our liquid identities constantly bubbling, popping, and dripping every which way. Kubresli's vision depicts human beings as maleable creatures who are relentlessly being shaped by the forces of chance, always in a state of flux. It is a vision of powerlessness in the face of insubstantiality. As much as we might like to think of ourself as having a singular, stable self, with a single change of brush stroke direction, our identity can completely change.

Substantial or not, human beings are nevertheless unmistakably concerned with tomorow. This is clear in how interested we are in the process of transformation. The entire frameworks of education, business, and law are built upon the idea of the transformation of self through technology, in a highly alchemical sense. Education is word alchemy, business is profit alchemy, law is punitive alchemy, etc,. One is in turn transformed into an educated person, a wealthy person, and a prisoner, respectively. Even in narratives, we gravitate toward stories involving personal development and significant change. A lot of the reason we are concerned with the future is because we are afraid of it. In this exhibition, Jerome Conquy's Hollowgram, for example, depicts a hollogram of a Medussa-like being with a head tangled in a mess of wires. Conguy's techno-Medussa is a kind of paranoid being, a technological neurotic, so desperate to attain control over the elements that it has merged with its own tools. The techno-Medussa is afraid that time will not be faithful to its desires, to its continual well-being, and so attempts to seize it with force. It is essentially the tragic cyborg of science fiction, a being so desperate to control its fate that it becomes ensnared by its own tools in the process. It is a figure who represents the state of a Brave New World utopia that, through technology, has “gained the whole world, but lost its own soul”.

Technology is essentially represented by Vulcan's net, which was crafted as part of a plot to aquire control over Venus, his wife. But naturally, much like the unfaithful lover in the myth, we cannot hope to control the future. Vulcan cannot control Venus. A wife is not a videogame character, an avatar in the Sims that can be directed by the click of a mouse. As an infinitely complicated, unpredictable subject, Venus must be encouraged, collaborated with, understood, in order for a relationship to exist. In this same sense, when approached with the attitude of a paranoid lover, the future will never be faithful to us. We will only ever succeed in pushing it further away, enticing it to grow increasingly insidious, cold, and emotionally distant.

A large video projection in the exhibit, created by Yas Khoshgrudi and entitled The Lost Autonomy, deals more directly with the theme of seizing control. The piece contains three projections as well as a video being displayed through an iPad on a pedestal. Taking inspiration from the series of simulation games The Sims, Koshgrudi depicts herself in the videos as a kind of video game avatar, with a crystaline icon floating above her head like a selection cursor. Projected on the ground is an icon reading “DISABLE AUTONOMY,” an option present in The Sims series of games for disallowing the simulated characters from making choices without first recieving the player's consent. The possibility of such an action in the game raises the intruiging question of the relationship between the player and the avatar. To what extent do we identify with the character we control in a videogame? To what extent are we even able to say we have control the control in the videogame? After all, the role of the developers of a videogame is to give us a satisfying illusion of control. It is important to remember that in a videogame, the limitations always outweight the potential freedoms. In the original Super Mario Bros., for the NES system, for example, you are given the fundamental abilities of moving from left to right, and being able to jump. Our familiarity with these basic abilities blind us to all the prohibitions that are also in place in the game – the player cannot fly, the player cannot run into enemies, the player cannot break down barriers, the player cannot do a backflip, etc,. Of course many of these limitations are put in place to increase enjoyment in the game. Without limitations, there is no sense of drama and accomplishment. As such, to a certain extent, the player of a game must accept a certain degree of lost autonomy – these are the controling factors put in place by the game's rules, supposedly to increase the pleasure of playing it. The same is of course true in everyday life, though perhaps on a scale we are often unable to see clearly. While there are many choices we can make to better our lives and those of others, the vast majority of the rules have already been set. To some degree we must accept the lack of control we have when confronting our futures.

While we may think we are in control of ourselves, often we are not. Freud of course speaks of his famous formulation of the unconscious, the seat of contradictory impulses which pull us constantly between the gratification of desires and our need to conform to the necessities of reality. Lacan speaks of his notion of the big Other, our deep awareness of social norms which we feel watch over us even in our most intimate, and autonymous, moments. In the well-known Buddhist Anattalakkhaṇa Sutta, a graceful system is put forth for thinking about our lack of autonomy: “The body does not constitute a self. If the body constituted a self ... it would be possible to manipulate the body by making determinations such as Let my body be this way, let my body not be that way. So, because the body does not constitute a self, it does give us trouble.” The Buddha then goes on to repeat the formulation in the realm of feeling, perception, conceptual fabrications, and cognizance, ultimately arriving at the conclusion that “whatever body there is, whether past, present, future ... every body should be seen with thorough understanding for what it is: This is not mine, I am not this, this is not my self.xiv The Buddha points out the videogame-like characteristics of our experience. He points to how we are unable to control our bodies as we would like to (falling sick at inconvenient times, dying at inconvenient times), and that we are unable to control our minds as we would like (unable to cause the mind to become peaceful at will, unable to stop ourselves from being hopelessly led by our desires). Buddhist philosophy, much like psychoanalytical thought, sees the human body as someting that has, at a fundamental level, had it's autonomy disabled. Laruan's denim works, for example, present something we often associate with the human body in truncated, elongated, uncertain forms. These works suggest a certain ambiguity of identity. If we are all Super Mario in our own videogames, then Laruan's deconstructed denim works represent Mario as his Vishvarupa, his Universal Form - one cannot tell where the avatar's overalls begin, and where our own overalls end. We are like the videogame avatar, our every movement being directed by a jewel-like cursor, leading us from one desire to the next, one temporary satisfaction to the next. In fact, it is within the world of the videogame that we feel most free, since we are able to release ourselves from the psychologically confining net of our own ego, and by doing so find some freedom in manipulate the movements of another body, released from our own worldly inhibitions. This is the same type of freedom Kurt Vonnegut explores in his short story Undready to Wear, in which a method had been discovered for leaving one's own body, with the possibility of possessing another. The question then arises, however – what right do we have to disable the autonomy of another body, in the quest for our own, personal autonomy? Would such a replacement even solve the original problem, or does it only transfer old worries onto a new avatar?

While Khoshgrudi's video installation might point toward the element of “magic” mentioned in R.H. Blyth's distinction between magic and religion, the artist Matt W. Brown takes a much more organic, or “religious” approach. In Blyth's observation, magic is that which seeks to control reality (Vulcan's net, the techno-Medussa, the tyranical imagination of the Marquis de Sade), whereas religion is that which seeks to make reality endurable (the fog-nets in Peña Blanca, haiku, the Buddhist principle of anatta, or non-self). In this sense, what gives up control, what collaborates with the mysterious forces of nature, is what is religious. This is spiritual life as concieved by the Tao Te Ching, which states: “Do that which consists in taking no action, and order will prevail.”xv Does this description not perfectly match the process of the of fog-catching nets found in Barbara Hobot's Pacific Ocean Copper Mining Protester? These nets, instead of seeking to ensnare its object, as does Vulcan's net, instead take the position of non-action, thereby drawing the water towards itself in the form of the fog's condensation. By doing nothing, the fog catching nets accomplish more than the entire village could accomplish through action.
Echoing this principle of non-action, the works of Matt W. Brown's on display at this exhibit follow the method of the fog-catching nets and, like in the case of haiku, allow nature to radiate in a space cleared of active ego influence. In his Flatland series, as well as a number of other acrylic gouache works featured at the exhibit, Brown explored a technique involving the gradual evaporation of water-based paint over a long period of time. Like the haiku poet, Brown's involvement in the creation of his art was as an initializer of conditions, choosing colours as well as water state changes. Brown set up the range of conditions for experience, and then allowed natural chance processes to take control for the rest of the process, playing more the role of an experimental currator than a directly active artist, giving the the forces of nature room to breath themselves onto the canvas. Of course, whenever such a recording is made of natural experience, there is some manner of distortion, or human mark. In this way, Brown, like Basho, is not reproducing nature, but is instead producing a kind of vivid dream which reveal the true nature of reality far more clearly than reality could itself.

One of Brown's works made in collaboration with natural forces, entitled Big Drop, appears as an immediate extention of Shunryu Suzuki's metaphor of the waterfall. Big Drop, named after a famous white water rapid, is comprised of a blue wall of paint, with multiple lines of lighter blue paint trickling down its surface. It is a perfect companion piece to Laruan's hole in my pocket. Despite, on the surface, being the more abstract work, Big Drop captures the metaphor of the waterfall in a much more literal way, depicting the invidiual drops as they progress across the closed temporal unit of the canvas. The Big Drop in referenced by the painting is of course ourselves, thrown into the world, briefly gaining some measure of autonomy as we begin our descent, before ultimately being plunged back into the unified absolute from which we came. The length of the waterfall is of course Heidegger's notion of time in its relation to Dasein's being. Of course, no matter how vast you spread your net, catching youself will always be impossible. Whatever we might become in the future, it is clear that we will fall through the nets we have constructed, and will one day meet with our dissolution at the end. Brown's painting draws our attention to this surrendering of autonomy which is essential to our being thrown into the world, our continual descent within closed borders. Autonomy always exists within a confined system, framed by its own disabling.

Big Drop is also unmistakenly the same as the drops produced by the fog-catching nets. By allowing the inherent power of the fog to present its moisture as a gift, the fog-catching nets are able to produce something of value through the principle of non-action. The painting known as Big Drop likewise produces its value as the result of nature working its forces on a passive canvas. Brown's works in this exhibition share a very similar ethos with the works of haiku masters like Basho, Issa, and Buson. They play more the role of experiential currator than directly involved artist, allowing the forces of nature to manifest themselves on the page. Of course, whenever such a recording is made of natural experience, there is some manner of distortion, or human mark, on nature. In this way, Brown, as well as Basho, are not reproducing nature, but are instead producing a very vivid dream which reveal the true nature of reality far more clearly than reality could itself. Like the fog-catching nets, Brown's art doesn't just catch the passive movements of its material. In some manner, it also captures a dream-vision of the mysterious residue of ungraspable reality.

In exploring these works on display in the gallery exhibition, have we come any closer to an idea of “what we might become?” The exhibition appeared to concern itself more with potential than prediction. As every science fiction fan knows, the heart of the genre is not found in playing Nostradamus, but in playing H.G. Welles – that is to say, not predicting the future, but in coming to understand the present by means of the kernel of truth contained in our dream-vision of future. Like a reversed version of Marcus Aurelius's Meditations, Welles's The Time Machine provides its own meditation on current issues of social and class structure through keeping a record of supposed future events. Naturally, because Welles pressumably did not have access to memories recieved from the future, he was forced to construct them using his imagination. Memories of the past, however, aren't as distinct from future imaginings as we may think. Both acts are undertaken specifically for the purpose of developing an understanding of the present. Jodorowsky's process of dream shaping can apply just as much to that which is remembered as to that which is predicted. After all, both the past and present are nebulous dreams which can lead us on a path of gaining a deeper understanding of ourselves as we currently are. In this way, what we might become meditates on the core aspects of what we are, and our many potentialities. It focuses on human beings as technological neurotics, as entities within a videogame, as amorphous identities, and as spiritual beings who possess the possibility of entering into a harmony with their surroundings. In the end, what we will become will not be so different from what we are. After all, what was water will in the end remain water. Raising these kinds of questions, what we might become flourishes as a collection of artifacts which encourage us to reach from the future into our own present.

Final Thoughts:

Let's return to our original question: Why do we create? Our first answer layed out two extremes. On the one hand, we create in order to imprint our desires on the world. On the other hand, we create in order to better understand the world. Each of these three art exhibitions we've discussed have provided us with an illustration of the two paths. That said, I will not try and pretend there is anything unique about these exhibitions – indeed, the two possible paths of creation are engraved within any creative act. Nevertheless, these exhibitions were fortunately remarkable enough, and dwelt deeply enough in their symbolic language, to allow us for a sharper image.

In Ant-Profit, for example, we saw how art is used as a means of grappling with psychological, sociological, and spiritual problems, as a kind of transformation of our level of understanding through recording elements from our past – that is to say, enlightenment regarding our relationship with reality through the act of recording. Conversely, in the what we might become exhibit, we zoomed in on the anxiety that underlies our desire to control the future through technology, while being granted a vision of a potential way out of this existential trap. Our investigation into these exhibitions has helped us to percieve the threads of Vulcan's net more clearly, and has hopefully helped us develop a better understanding of the two ways of using the net – to capture the object we seek, or to use it to encourage the object to come to us.

To write a diary is to use the past in order to understand the present, while to write science fiction is to use the future in order to understand the present. In the moment that we recollect and record, we are, in effect, shaping our current mind, extending from it new meanings and new perspectives. It is important to recognize the fundamental difference between the strategies behind Vulcan's net and the fog-catching net. At first glance, it may seem that they have a similar aim, to change some aspect of reality. Vulcan is upset with his adulterous lover, and wishes to control Venus. The villagers of Peña Blanca want to reintroduce water into their natural environment. But while tyranical control might occasionally give the appearance of being effective (the wife cleans and stays at home all day, the kids do their homework and don't talk back, etc,), these types of systems are nevertheless inherently unstable, and apart from being a great strain for everyone involved, eventually collapse under their own straining weight.

To continue with the metaphor of the iron-fisted patriarch, let's look at an example used by Karl Marx. In his Das Kapital Marx uses a rather interesting example to describe an instance of “labour in common or directly associated labour”xvi - that is, a social structure in which labour conditions are equally divided amongst individuals according to their abilities. Marx uses the example of a patriarchal peasant family, whose industry is governed by a central father figure who directs his family members toward their distributed tasks on a farm. Contained within this particular example, however, are the seeds of the tyranical element found in many patriarchical governments build upon Marx's principles, where shared labour is brutally encforced by a central father figure. Of course, such patriarchal family industries are not necessarily tyranical, just as not everyone who picks up a pen will writes Justine. There are fathers like Basho, and there have been emperors who lead by wisdom and example. There are monarchs who, instead of trying ensnare their subjects within a net, instead allow for a natural arising of collective effort. Again, this is the fundamental principle of the Tao Te Ching, which was written as a book of spiritual wisdom just as much as a practical guide to governance. The Tao Te Ching states: “And if I cease to desire and remain still / The empire will be at peace of its own accord.”xvii By allowing the object to come to us, rather than greedily clutching for it, we can establish a more solid foundation for our lives and for our governments. Conversely, as any fan of Shakespeare is well aware, ruling through desire, active effort, and paranoia will often lead to tyranny, treachery, and tragedy. It is an easy way out, a consequence of an improper understanding of how the world works.

The ultimate tragedy is that, as a result of trying too hard, we often fail. Likewise, art is not something that you whip into place. The “master of objects” is not a drill sergeant who blows his whistle, ordering the objects of experience to amalgamate. Rather, in the creation of art, our role is to prop up a net, and allow the dreams and understanding to come to us. A haiku is not a guidebook to an aesthetic experience, but is rather a landmark we can use to find the experience ourself. As with a good teacher, good art does not tells us the answers, but merely provides a stepping stone to help us discover them ourselves. As such, we are all alchemists in our own may, drawing together eleemnts here and there, always in the search of transcendence over our current state of understanding. Only, the wise alchemist knows that the true aim of the alchemical work is not to find the philosopher's stone and thereby attain eternal life, but to come to the realization that there was never any need for the philsopher's stone to begin with.

iGilles Deleuze and Fé lix Guattari, Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, trans. Robert Hurley, Mark Seem, and Helen R. Lane (New York: Penguin, 2009), 32. Print.

ii Alejandro Jodorowsky, The Dance of Reality: A Psychomagical Autobiography, trans. Ariel Godwin (Rochester: Parker Street Press, 2014), 233. Print.

iii 6. Barbara Hobot: Carpathian-Andean Alloy (London: Forest City Gallery, 2019) Exhibition Brochure.

iv R. H. Blyth, Haiku (Tokyo: Hokuseido Press, 1981). Print.

v Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, trans. D.C. Lau (New York: Penguin, 1963), 12. Print.

vi Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-Oedipus, 8.

vii Jodorowsky, The Dance of Reality, 232.

viii Slavoj Žižek, The Sublime Object of Ideology (London: Verso, 2008), 48. Print.

ix Makoto Ueda, Modern Japanese Haiku: An Anthology (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1976). Print.

x Aldous Huxley, The Doors of Perception (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1954), 55. Print.

xi Martin Heidegger, Being and Time, trans. John Macquarrie with Edward Robinson (New York: Harper & Row, 1962). Print.

xii Glenn Wallis (trans.), Basic Teachings of the Buddha (New York: Modern Library, 2007), 28. Print.

xiii Shunryu Suzuki, Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind, ed. Trudy Dixon (New York: Weatherhill, 1970), 94. Print.

xiv Wallis, Basic Teachings of the Buddha, 31.

xv Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, 7.

xvi Karl Marx, “Chapter 13: Co-operation,” Capital: A Critique of Political Economy, trans. Samuel Moore and Edward Aveling (Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1965), 229.

xvii Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, 42.

Visions at a Job Interview

The Farmer’s Wife
Forest Muran

There was no one Thomas hated more in town than Bartholomew.

Often, when carrying the fresh corn and carrots to the market, Thomas would pass Bartholomew’s farm, and would see his large, arrogant figure, hacking away at the land, or squeezing away at his groaning cattle. Bartholomew was always a little late to the market, and was always accompanied by his young wife. The couple rarely spoke any friendly words to the people of the town, and kept their conversation nearly exclusively to business. And yet, for some reason, everyone seemed to love the laconic farmer and his beautiful young wife. Thomas saw no sense in it at all, and sometimes it made him feel like he was going crazy.

There was definitely something suspicious about Bartholomew, and more than a few times Thomas considered that he might be a criminal from the city, trying to keep ahead of the law. It would explain why the couple rarely spoke to anyone, and Bartholomew’s strange style of speaking. Thomas had discussed this with his sisters on many occasions, but they could see no fault in the mysterious farmer. Instead, they criticized his wife, claiming that she had been sleeping around with men in the town, and that blessed Bartholomew was too pure of a soul to be wedded to her wicked self. That was too much for Thomas. There had never been any evidence to suggest what his sisters said were true, and he was sure they were just making things up because they favoured Bartholomew. It was enough to make Thomas want to kick a cow.

“He doesn’t say much, but my, what a soothing, deep voice he has!” exclaimed one of his sisters around the table one evening, in reference, naturally, to that obnoxious Bartholomew.

His other sister lit up. “And he speaks with such elegance! Truly, it would be Heaven to be married to that kind of man. Imagine having that wonderfully warm voice order you around, telling you to get to your housework, and to stop nibbling on the butter!” The second sister let out of a wistful sigh.

Thomas shook his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you two! There’s nothing great about that Bartholomew fellow.” He took a big bite out of a cob of corn, slimy butter running down his cheek. “He’s just another arrogant farmer who thinks he’s someone special because he owns a big chunk of land. Doesn’t mean anything! What matters is what’s in the heart, what God sees in you. That farmer is a mean fake, is what he is.”

“That’s not true! A lot of people could learn from how gentle and kind Bartholomew is,” protested the first sister. “Just looking into his big brown eyes is enough to make you want to fall in love!”

“Girls, stop your bothering and eat your corn,” called out their father, who was sitting around the corner on the front porch, watching the chickens copulate.

The second sister turned to Thomas and leered. “You’re just jealous of Bartholomew’s pretty wife, that’s all. Just like a man, just looking at a person’s beauty, never considering the amount of corn they pick, or how much land they own.”

“I am not jealous of Bartholomew’s wife!” said Thomas, his face burning red.

“You are! Yes you are!” jeered the first sister, sticking out her tongue.

“I’m not!” yelled Thomas, his face now the colour of a cock’s comb. “I’m not, I’m not! I don’t give a dang about her! I swear it on mother’s grave!”

“Boy!” came a loud exclamation from the front porch, “don’t you swear on your mother’s grave! Only a wicked child would say that. When you swear on your mother’s grave, you better be telling the truth! Otherwise Jesus is gonna whoop you!”

Thomas frowned. “I’m not in love with Bartholomew’s wife,” Thomas mumbled meekly, stabbing into a lonely corn kernel with his fork.

“Yeah, you are, too! You wish you could have a nice, slender, fair-haired wife like that, to stick your children into!” said the second sister. “Maybe you still have a chance too, knowing what folks are saying about the hussy.”

“You stop talking like that!” said Thomas, glaring up at his sister, hate in his eyes. “That Bartholomew’s wife – whatever her name is – is a celestial creature. She would never do nothing like that!”

As much as he may have tried to deny it with his sisters, there was no denying to himself that Thomas indeed had an attraction to Bartholomew’s pretty wife. He knew the rumours about her were unfounded, made up by ugly old wives hoping to discourage their husbands from lusting after her. Thomas knew, just from looking into those pure eyes of hers, crystal clear like no evil had ever passed beneath them, that this woman was a real one. Loyal, faithful, always by your side. Someone to watch over you. She was a creature of the Lord and, Thomas hoped, would one day be his.

What this wonderful woman saw in Bartholomew, Thomas could not imagine. Like most women, Thomas thought, this beautiful being most likely married out of desperation. Perhaps pressured by her family, she was coaxed into making the wrong choice, before she had a chance to breath a bit and fall into a natural encounter wither her true, God-given love – which was, of course, Thomas. Luckily, God always gives a person a second chance, and Thomas felt confident that he would be able to win the lady over, if he could only get to talk with her alone!

So Thomas devised a plan. He would stay up all night, and then around an hour before sunrise, sneak onto that old, unbearable Bartholomew’s property and steal his bride away, and bring her back to his house. There, she would recognize how they were truly meant to be together, or so Thomas had hoped.

As planned, Thomas didn’t sleep a wink that night. He stayed up all night, staring up at the ceiling in his room, turning around his plans in his mind, flipping them left and right, backward and forward, like a cow patty on the stove top. He believed he had a foolproof plan worked out. First of all, Thomas knew that Bartholomew had dog. He had heard it multiple times, walking past the farm at night. In order to deal with that ordeal, Thomas would bring a chunk of cheese to feed it. Moreover, Thomas always knew that farmhouses usually croak and groan when you creep around them at night, so he made sure to wear his fluffy, rabbit-skin slippers so that he made as little noise as possible.

Taking these provisions, Thomas crawled out of his family’s farmhouse at some point he assumed was close to sunrise, before Bartholomew and his wife would wake up. Just in case, Thomas grabbed a knife from his family’s kitchen, and stuck it in the side of his pants. It made him feel manly.

Amongst the still chirping of crickets, Thomas crept through the road’s darkness, darting his way this way and that toward Bartholomew’s house. He saw a few frightening shadows, and drew his knife thinking they were street robbers, but they were just cows staring idly from behind a fence. Thomas never liked cows, but he sure liked their milk, and it would have been a shame to puncture one.

Eventually Thomas got to the property of big old Bartholomew. He started walking toward the field, when he heard a bark, and saw something start running forward at him from behind. Thomas turned around to see a big, black dog rushing at him. Quickly, Thomas grabbed his satchel and pulled out a chunk of cheese, throwing it at the dog. Smelling the food, the dog immediately stopped to sniff it more carefully. The dog then began to lick, and then cautiously taste the meal, completely forgetting about Thomas, who had then proceeded to keep running toward the farmhouse. He took one last look at the dog while running away. There was something familiar about the beast, but he couldn’t quite place his finger on what it was.

The front door was locked to him, as it usually was, but Thomas knew that the back door was probably open. Naturally, it was. Thomas quietly slipped through the back entrance and into the farmhouse, always careful to avoiding making too loud of steps as he edged himself forward in his fluffy slippers toward his bright goal in the shrouded night.

The house was two storeys high, and Thomas suspected that Big Bartholomew and his wife probably slept together, and did God knows what else, on the second floor. Thomas turned a hot red, imagining that arrogant buffoon next to that woman, his large, greasy hands wrapped around her body. He frowned, and continued forward, motivated by the promise that perhaps it would soon be his own greasy hands wrapped around his beloved.

Thomas found the stairs and began to ascend, taking care not to produce any creaks. Whenever a creak did inevitably ring out, he paused to wait for a few moments before continuing, lest a sequence of noises awakened the slumbering giant and his sleeping beauty.

Thomas finally came to the master bedroom. The door was slightly opened, allowing Thomas to just barely see the couple’s bed in the sparkling of the moonlight. Thomas persisted, and stepped into the room.

As soon as he entered, Thomas heard a voice.

“Stay where you are. Don’t move, boy.”

Thomas stood still, his face suddenly becoming very cold. It was Bartholomew himself.

“I heard the bitch making a fuss out there. I’m reckoning you threw some kind of meat out there to keep her distracted. Good thinking. But one thing you couldn’t guess was that old Bartholomew here has ears like a bat.”

Bartholomew snapped his fingers, and a bright flame appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, filling the room with a faint, shadowed illumination. Thomas saw that there was a candle sitting at a table nearby. It didn’t look like the wife was anywhere to be seen.

“Please, take a seat,” said Bartholomew, who Thomas now saw was holding a knife in one hand. Thomas began to panic.

“Don’t kill me sir! Please!” said Thomas, who then got on his knees and was begging. “I didn’t mean no harm! I was just lusting after your wife, is all! I didn’t mean to do you no harm!”

Bartholomew laughed. “Lusting after my wife? That dumb old bitch? Why, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard in a long time!” He then held his hand out. “Now, boy, hand over that knife.”

Thomas took a deep breath, reached into pocket, and grabbed the handle of his father’s knife that he had brought. He hesitated a moment before handing it over. Should he fight? No, Bartholomew was much larger than him, and, besides, they were in his house, and he had the advantage.

With a cautious reluctance, Thomas handed the knife over.

“Please, sir, don’t kill me. I’ll work on your farm, I’ll give you all my money! Just don’t kill me! I’m too young to die!”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll kill you, boy,“ said Bartholomew, grabbing the knife and sitting down on the side of the bed. “But you certainly need to explain yourself. Tell me again why you came here? You wanted to put a knife in my back and steal my woman?”

Thomas shook his head. “It’s not like that at all! I wasn’t going to lay a finger on you. I just wanted to take your wife away, and convince her that I was her true love.”

“You really thought that dumb idea was going to work?” asked Bartholomew, starting to chew on a handful of tobacco.

“I don’t know,” said Thomas, tears starting to stream down his eyes.

Bartholomew stuck his fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, and suddenly Thomas could hear eager footsteps begin to scurry their way into the farmhouse and up the stairs.

“Here’s the bitch right here,” said Bartholomew as the big, black dog entered his bedroom. She jumped up on the bed, and stood there, panting happily, looking up to her master wither her big, brown eyes.

“Sir, that’s not what I was talking about,” said Thomas. “I was talking about stealing your beautiful wife, not this here dog.”

With an ironic grin, Bartholomew patted the dog on her head. “Just wait a few moments, boy. Sunrise is almost here, then you’ll see more clearly in the light of the Lord.”

Just as Bartholomew said it, Thomas saw the first rays of the sun start to enter the farmhouse, snuffing out the power of the candle on the bedside table. Just as soon as the light hit the dog, Thomas was amazed to sees its shape morph into that of a young woman.

“This here is my dog,” said Bartholomew, spitting a wad of wet tobacco onto the floor. “But during the daytime she becomes my wife. It’s a simple bit of magic, boy.”

Thomas, still on his knees, stood, staring at the woman who just appeared before him, a woman who had just a few minutes before been a dog.

“I’m a wizard, boy,” said Bartholomew. “Don’t let anyone know it, or I’ll turn you into a toad. It gets mighty lonely out in these fields, and so I decided to make me a woman out of a dog.”

“I see,” said Thomas, a wild look in his eye.

“But I have plenty of dogs. If you want her, she’s yours,” said Bartholomew. “Just let that be a covenant between us, that you don’t go running your mouth about your friend Bartholomew the magician. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you sir.”

“You’re not going to tell anyone you pal Bartholomew is a magician?”

“I swear on my mother’s grave I won’t, sir. I won’t tell a single soul that my pal Bartholomew is a magician.”

Bartholomew pat the woman beside him on the head. “Very well. Alright, Molly, back to being a regular old doggy.”

Bartholomew snapped his fingers, and the woman turned back into the black dog. She started to lick the farmers hands.

Thomas went back home that morning, his new dog Molly following him close behind. She was very well behaved, and didn’t get distracted along the road, even when they were heckled by bothered cows and sheep.

When Thomas got back to the farm, his father was waiting for him on the front deck, his arms crossed and his eyebrows furrowed.

“What have you been doing all morning?” asked his father, sounding upset. “And where in Heaven did you get that dog?”

“Bartholomew the magician gave it to me,” said Thomas.

“You dumb boy, Bartholomew isn’t no magician, he’s just a good-for-nothing, two-bit wannabe landowner. Now, you go chase that dog away, or I’m going to whoop you, boy.”

Reluctantly, Thomas took the dog back to the country road. He sat down with it for a moment.

“I’m not sure if you can understand me or not,” said Thomas as he stroked the dog’s hairy head, “but you need to go back to your master now. Your true master, Bartholomew. You can’t stay with me anymore.” Thomas began to cry. “I just wanted you to know how much I loved you. Back when you were a human being, of course, not as an animal. Lord, were you purdy. But I guess all that beauty was just from the magic wasn’t it? It was just Bartholomew’s magic after all, huh boy?”

The dog enthusiastically licked Thomas’s face. He lurched back, disgusted.

“Yuck! I don’t need no dog slobber on my face. Get out of her, fella! Get!”

With tears in his eyes, Thomas pretended to attack the dog, trying to scare it off down the road. “Get out of here! I don’t want to see you no more!”

Whimpering, the dog ran back down the country road, occasionally looking back, its ears drooping down in confusion and shame.

Wiping a mixture of snot and tears onto his sleeve, Thomas returned to the farm to start his work for the day. He was extremely tired, and the entire world appeared to be vibrating with energy.

Back to the Writing Page

The Farmer’s Wife

The Farmer’s Wife
Forest Muran

There was no one Thomas hated more in town than Bartholomew.

Often, when carrying the fresh corn and carrots to the market, Thomas would pass Bartholomew’s farm, and would see his large, arrogant figure, hacking away at the land, or squeezing away at his groaning cattle. Bartholomew was always a little late to the market, and was always accompanied by his young wife. The couple rarely spoke any friendly words to the people of the town, and kept their conversation nearly exclusively to business. And yet, for some reason, everyone seemed to love the laconic farmer and his beautiful young wife. Thomas saw no sense in it at all, and sometimes it made him feel like he was going crazy.

There was definitely something suspicious about Bartholomew, and more than a few times Thomas considered that he might be a criminal from the city, trying to keep ahead of the law. It would explain why the couple rarely spoke to anyone, and Bartholomew’s strange style of speaking. Thomas had discussed this with his sisters on many occasions, but they could see no fault in the mysterious farmer. Instead, they criticized his wife, claiming that she had been sleeping around with men in the town, and that blessed Bartholomew was too pure of a soul to be wedded to her wicked self. That was too much for Thomas. There had never been any evidence to suggest what his sisters said were true, and he was sure they were just making things up because they favoured Bartholomew. It was enough to make Thomas want to kick a cow.

“He doesn’t say much, but my, what a soothing, deep voice he has!” exclaimed one of his sisters around the table one evening, in reference, naturally, to that obnoxious Bartholomew.

His other sister lit up. “And he speaks with such elegance! Truly, it would be Heaven to be married to that kind of man. Imagine having that wonderfully warm voice order you around, telling you to get to your housework, and to stop nibbling on the butter!” The second sister let out of a wistful sigh.

Thomas shook his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you two! There’s nothing great about that Bartholomew fellow.” He took a big bite out of a cob of corn, slimy butter running down his cheek. “He’s just another arrogant farmer who thinks he’s someone special because he owns a big chunk of land. Doesn’t mean anything! What matters is what’s in the heart, what God sees in you. That farmer is a mean fake, is what he is.”

“That’s not true! A lot of people could learn from how gentle and kind Bartholomew is,” protested the first sister. “Just looking into his big brown eyes is enough to make you want to fall in love!”

“Girls, stop your bothering and eat your corn,” called out their father, who was sitting around the corner on the front porch, watching the chickens copulate.

The second sister turned to Thomas and leered. “You’re just jealous of Bartholomew’s pretty wife, that’s all. Just like a man, just looking at a person’s beauty, never considering the amount of corn they pick, or how much land they own.”

“I am not jealous of Bartholomew’s wife!” said Thomas, his face burning red.

“You are! Yes you are!” jeered the first sister, sticking out her tongue.

“I’m not!” yelled Thomas, his face now the colour of a cock’s comb. “I’m not, I’m not! I don’t give a dang about her! I swear it on mother’s grave!”

“Boy!” came a loud exclamation from the front porch, “don’t you swear on your mother’s grave! Only a wicked child would say that. When you swear on your mother’s grave, you better be telling the truth! Otherwise Jesus is gonna whoop you!”

Thomas frowned. “I’m not in love with Bartholomew’s wife,” Thomas mumbled meekly, stabbing into a lonely corn kernel with his fork.

“Yeah, you are, too! You wish you could have a nice, slender, fair-haired wife like that, to stick your children into!” said the second sister. “Maybe you still have a chance too, knowing what folks are saying about the hussy.”

“You stop talking like that!” said Thomas, glaring up at his sister, hate in his eyes. “That Bartholomew’s wife – whatever her name is – is a celestial creature. She would never do nothing like that!”

As much as he may have tried to deny it with his sisters, there was no denying to himself that Thomas indeed had an attraction to Bartholomew’s pretty wife. He knew the rumours about her were unfounded, made up by ugly old wives hoping to discourage their husbands from lusting after her. Thomas knew, just from looking into those pure eyes of hers, crystal clear like no evil had ever passed beneath them, that this woman was a real one. Loyal, faithful, always by your side. Someone to watch over you. She was a creature of the Lord and, Thomas hoped, would one day be his.

What this wonderful woman saw in Bartholomew, Thomas could not imagine. Like most women, Thomas thought, this beautiful being most likely married out of desperation. Perhaps pressured by her family, she was coaxed into making the wrong choice, before she had a chance to breath a bit and fall into a natural encounter wither her true, God-given love – which was, of course, Thomas. Luckily, God always gives a person a second chance, and Thomas felt confident that he would be able to win the lady over, if he could only get to talk with her alone!

So Thomas devised a plan. He would stay up all night, and then around an hour before sunrise, sneak onto that old, unbearable Bartholomew’s property and steal his bride away, and bring her back to his house. There, she would recognize how they were truly meant to be together, or so Thomas had hoped.

As planned, Thomas didn’t sleep a wink that night. He stayed up all night, staring up at the ceiling in his room, turning around his plans in his mind, flipping them left and right, backward and forward, like a cow patty on the stove top. He believed he had a foolproof plan worked out. First of all, Thomas knew that Bartholomew had dog. He had heard it multiple times, walking past the farm at night. In order to deal with that ordeal, Thomas would bring a chunk of cheese to feed it. Moreover, Thomas always knew that farmhouses usually croak and groan when you creep around them at night, so he made sure to wear his fluffy, rabbit-skin slippers so that he made as little noise as possible.

Taking these provisions, Thomas crawled out of his family’s farmhouse at some point he assumed was close to sunrise, before Bartholomew and his wife would wake up. Just in case, Thomas grabbed a knife from his family’s kitchen, and stuck it in the side of his pants. It made him feel manly.

Amongst the still chirping of crickets, Thomas crept through the road’s darkness, darting his way this way and that toward Bartholomew’s house. He saw a few frightening shadows, and drew his knife thinking they were street robbers, but they were just cows staring idly from behind a fence. Thomas never liked cows, but he sure liked their milk, and it would have been a shame to puncture one.

Eventually Thomas got to the property of big old Bartholomew. He started walking toward the field, when he heard a bark, and saw something start running forward at him from behind. Thomas turned around to see a big, black dog rushing at him. Quickly, Thomas grabbed his satchel and pulled out a chunk of cheese, throwing it at the dog. Smelling the food, the dog immediately stopped to sniff it more carefully. The dog then began to lick, and then cautiously taste the meal, completely forgetting about Thomas, who had then proceeded to keep running toward the farmhouse. He took one last look at the dog while running away. There was something familiar about the beast, but he couldn’t quite place his finger on what it was.

The front door was locked to him, as it usually was, but Thomas knew that the back door was probably open. Naturally, it was. Thomas quietly slipped through the back entrance and into the farmhouse, always careful to avoiding making too loud of steps as he edged himself forward in his fluffy slippers toward his bright goal in the shrouded night.

The house was two storeys high, and Thomas suspected that Big Bartholomew and his wife probably slept together, and did God knows what else, on the second floor. Thomas turned a hot red, imagining that arrogant buffoon next to that woman, his large, greasy hands wrapped around her body. He frowned, and continued forward, motivated by the promise that perhaps it would soon be his own greasy hands wrapped around his beloved.

Thomas found the stairs and began to ascend, taking care not to produce any creaks. Whenever a creak did inevitably ring out, he paused to wait for a few moments before continuing, lest a sequence of noises awakened the slumbering giant and his sleeping beauty.

Thomas finally came to the master bedroom. The door was slightly opened, allowing Thomas to just barely see the couple’s bed in the sparkling of the moonlight. Thomas persisted, and stepped into the room.

As soon as he entered, Thomas heard a voice.

“Stay where you are. Don’t move, boy.”

Thomas stood still, his face suddenly becoming very cold. It was Bartholomew himself.

“I heard the bitch making a fuss out there. I’m reckoning you threw some kind of meat out there to keep her distracted. Good thinking. But one thing you couldn’t guess was that old Bartholomew here has ears like a bat.”

Bartholomew snapped his fingers, and a bright flame appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, filling the room with a faint, shadowed illumination. Thomas saw that there was a candle sitting at a table nearby. It didn’t look like the wife was anywhere to be seen.

“Please, take a seat,” said Bartholomew, who Thomas now saw was holding a knife in one hand. Thomas began to panic.

“Don’t kill me sir! Please!” said Thomas, who then got on his knees and was begging. “I didn’t mean no harm! I was just lusting after your wife, is all! I didn’t mean to do you no harm!”

Bartholomew laughed. “Lusting after my wife? That dumb old bitch? Why, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard in a long time!” He then held his hand out. “Now, boy, hand over that knife.”

Thomas took a deep breath, reached into pocket, and grabbed the handle of his father’s knife that he had brought. He hesitated a moment before handing it over. Should he fight? No, Bartholomew was much larger than him, and, besides, they were in his house, and he had the advantage.

With a cautious reluctance, Thomas handed the knife over.

“Please, sir, don’t kill me. I’ll work on your farm, I’ll give you all my money! Just don’t kill me! I’m too young to die!”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll kill you, boy,“ said Bartholomew, grabbing the knife and sitting down on the side of the bed. “But you certainly need to explain yourself. Tell me again why you came here? You wanted to put a knife in my back and steal my woman?”

Thomas shook his head. “It’s not like that at all! I wasn’t going to lay a finger on you. I just wanted to take your wife away, and convince her that I was her true love.”

“You really thought that dumb idea was going to work?” asked Bartholomew, starting to chew on a handful of tobacco.

“I don’t know,” said Thomas, tears starting to stream down his eyes.

Bartholomew stuck his fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, and suddenly Thomas could hear eager footsteps begin to scurry their way into the farmhouse and up the stairs.

“Here’s the bitch right here,” said Bartholomew as the big, black dog entered his bedroom. She jumped up on the bed, and stood there, panting happily, looking up to her master wither her big, brown eyes.

“Sir, that’s not what I was talking about,” said Thomas. “I was talking about stealing your beautiful wife, not this here dog.”

With an ironic grin, Bartholomew patted the dog on her head. “Just wait a few moments, boy. Sunrise is almost here, then you’ll see more clearly in the light of the Lord.”

Just as Bartholomew said it, Thomas saw the first rays of the sun start to enter the farmhouse, snuffing out the power of the candle on the bedside table. Just as soon as the light hit the dog, Thomas was amazed to sees its shape morph into that of a young woman.

“This here is my dog,” said Bartholomew, spitting a wad of wet tobacco onto the floor. “But during the daytime she becomes my wife. It’s a simple bit of magic, boy.”

Thomas, still on his knees, stood, staring at the woman who just appeared before him, a woman who had just a few minutes before been a dog.

“I’m a wizard, boy,” said Bartholomew. “Don’t let anyone know it, or I’ll turn you into a toad. It gets mighty lonely out in these fields, and so I decided to make me a woman out of a dog.”

“I see,” said Thomas, a wild look in his eye.

“But I have plenty of dogs. If you want her, she’s yours,” said Bartholomew. “Just let that be a covenant between us, that you don’t go running your mouth about your friend Bartholomew the magician. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you sir.”

“You’re not going to tell anyone you pal Bartholomew is a magician?”

“I swear on my mother’s grave I won’t, sir. I won’t tell a single soul that my pal Bartholomew is a magician.”

Bartholomew pat the woman beside him on the head. “Very well. Alright, Molly, back to being a regular old doggy.”

Bartholomew snapped his fingers, and the woman turned back into the black dog. She started to lick the farmers hands.

Thomas went back home that morning, his new dog Molly following him close behind. She was very well behaved, and didn’t get distracted along the road, even when they were heckled by bothered cows and sheep.

When Thomas got back to the farm, his father was waiting for him on the front deck, his arms crossed and his eyebrows furrowed.

“What have you been doing all morning?” asked his father, sounding upset. “And where in Heaven did you get that dog?”

“Bartholomew the magician gave it to me,” said Thomas.

“You dumb boy, Bartholomew isn’t no magician, he’s just a good-for-nothing, two-bit wannabe landowner. Now, you go chase that dog away, or I’m going to whoop you, boy.”

Reluctantly, Thomas took the dog back to the country road. He sat down with it for a moment.

“I’m not sure if you can understand me or not,” said Thomas as he stroked the dog’s hairy head, “but you need to go back to your master now. Your true master, Bartholomew. You can’t stay with me anymore.” Thomas began to cry. “I just wanted you to know how much I loved you. Back when you were a human being, of course, not as an animal. Lord, were you purdy. But I guess all that beauty was just from the magic wasn’t it? It was just Bartholomew’s magic after all, huh boy?”

The dog enthusiastically licked Thomas’s face. He lurched back, disgusted.

“Yuck! I don’t need no dog slobber on my face. Get out of her, fella! Get!”

With tears in his eyes, Thomas pretended to attack the dog, trying to scare it off down the road. “Get out of here! I don’t want to see you no more!”

Whimpering, the dog ran back down the country road, occasionally looking back, its ears drooping down in confusion and shame.

Wiping a mixture of snot and tears onto his sleeve, Thomas returned to the farm to start his work for the day. He was extremely tired, and the entire world appeared to be vibrating with energy.

Back to the Writing Page

Tie Noose Noose Tie

Tie Noose Noose Tie
Forest Muran

He jumped out of bed, still dressed in his wrinkled, black blazer. No time to change before sleep. Quickly, he rushed to the bathroom and examined his moustache in the mirror. It got slightly bent in the night, and bristles were sharply pointing out here and there, but that was OK. Nothing a little moustache wax couldn’t fix. He lightly wet his hands, and then spread his fingers through his jet black hair.

Stern stood still in front of the foggy, fractured mirror, examining himself. Wonderful – that will do. Looking like a prince.

Everyday before work, Stern sat down at his coffee table and read the newspaper. Today there was something in the paper about a nun who rushed into a burning church to save a child. Stern nodded his head in approval. It was a pleasant story, and made his heart feel warm, like a bowl of tomato soup. There was something else, too, some propaganda piece about the inefficacy of the Minister. Not worth Stern’s time, not worth looking at. Furrowing his brows, Stern took a long, consternated sip of his morning orange juice.

“Heya Stern,” said Brunu, taking a seat next to his friend and stretching in the morning light. “You’re up bright and early this morning!”

Stern gave a curt jerk of his head. “Yes. Of course, Brunu. I am up early every morning. I need to be up early to do my job. The Minister is disappointed when I am late.”

Brunu smiled warmly, nodding his head. “Yes, you’re right. It’s good that you’re always up so early.” Brunu got up and started to make some breakfast toast. “What’s up in the paper today?”

Stern grunted. “Lots of news, Brunu. First, a nun has saved a child from fire at church. Fantastic. All else is mere propaganda garbage. I hate the news, Brunu.”

Plopping two slices of slick bread into the silver toaster, Brunu nodded sympathetically. “You don’t need to read all those negative articles. If people knew the Minister like you knew him, they wouldn’t be saying such mean things.”

Stern snorted. “You’re telling me. Brunu.” He shrugged his shoulders and continued to read.

As Brunu was starting to spread jam across his now toasted bread, he suddenly turned his wide, wet eyes to look at his friend. “Oh! I almost forgot. I need to do some grocery shopping this morning. I’m preparing something special for dinner. Do you mind if I borrow the car for a second? I’ll bring it back in a minute.”

Stern cast a curious look at Brunu from the corner of his dark eyes. “Something special. Brunu, what are you planning.”

Brunu sat down at his seat, placing a white plate with two slices of bread down in front of him. He turned his head and smiled mischievously. “That’s a secret, Stern. So what about me borrowing the car? Huh?”

“I have work today. You know that.”

Brunu let out a deep, discontented sigh. “I know that, but I really need to go a long distance today into the city! Come on, Stern. Please?” He leaned his head in closer to Stern, opening a gaping grin, white like a keyboard. “Please?”

Sighing, Stern plopped the paper down on the dinning room table. “OK. OK. You may take the car. Looks like I’ll just have to crack out the old bicycle.”

A bright, beaming smile broke out across Brunu’s face, and he leaned in to gave Stern a big hug. “Oh, thank you so much! Thank you, thank you!”

“It is no problem at all,” said Stern, pushing his friend away. “The hug is, after all, unnecessary. You are buying something special for dinner, no?”

“Yes, Stern,” said Brunu, a rapturous twinkle dancing around the centre of his dilated, black pupil. “Yes I am.”

Stern rose from the table, brushing a few drops of orange juice from his well-waxed moustache.

“Well, I can’t keep the Minister waiting,” said Stern. He gave a polite nod of the head to his friend. “I’ll see you this evening. Here are the car keys.”

At that, Stern threw the car keys in Brunu’s direction, and went to exit straight through the front door of the house to go find his old bicycle.

***

The bicycle ride was pleasant enough. Stern hadn’t ridden this kind of device in years, so getting the bike working in the first place took a few clumsy stumbles and scratches, but eventually he got it going. It felt wonderful to feel the wind in his face again, an experience you don’t quite get when driving the car, or at least not in the same way. Stern felt so free, and he even took the liberty to ring his joyful bicycle bell a few times when passing by tardy pedestrians.

“Beep beep, Stern coming through,” he said as he rang the bicycle bell. “Beep beep.”

***

Finally, after a half hour’s leisurely ride through suburban greens and sunny parks, Stern arrived at the city’s marvellous parliament building. He left his bicycle by the side of the front steps, and proudly ascended toward that profound edifice. The parliament building was massive, and always filled Stern with a sense of awe, like he was staring into the face of some great, ultimately incomprehensible mythological monster.

The Minister was standing in the middle of the courtyard, holding his hands formally before his groin. He had a profoundly grim expression on his face, which contrasted with his colourful makeup and round bowler hat which made him look like a polite Pierrot. When the Minister caught sight of Stern, he raised his hand in courteous acknowledgement.

“Ah, Stern. I was waiting for you,” said the Minister. “You’re late.”

“Yes,” said Stern, bowing gracefully. “Forgive me, Minister. For I was late today. I know you were waiting for me.”

“That’s OK,” said the Minister, waving his black glove. “You’re a good man and a good employee. I just want you to arrive on time.”

“I’m sorry sir, it won’t happen again.”

The Minister raised one of his gloved hands, revealing that he was clasping a golden tie, not yet knotted. “So. I have a job for you.”

Stern nodded his head, and then approached the Minister. He raised both his expert hands, retrieving the tie from the Minister, and with great focus wrapped it around his subject’s neck. With his eyes narrowing like a master bowman, Stern honed in on the fine details of the knot and its relation to the delicate skin of the Minister. Employing every element of his expertise, Stern’s nimble hands worked delicately, and fast, and finally managed to fasten a perfect, proud, bulbous knot around the Minister’s thick, regal neck.

Stern stepped back to assess his job. He stroked his pointed beard and narrowed his expert eyes.

The Minister also looked down, and caressed the new knot in his hand. “As expected, absolutely perfect. That’s great.”

Stern nodded. “Well, that’s what I do best. I tie nooses around the criminals, and I tie ties around the -”

Stern paused for a moment, as though her forgot what he was going to say. He held an unsteady hand to his forehead. Then, just like he had been hurled back into reality, Stern came back to his senses and managed to finish his sentence – “around the Minister.”

“Excellent,” said the Minister, clasping his gloved hands together, producing a dull patting sound. “Coming along very nicely. So, I have another job for you.”

Stern let out a deep chuckle. “So. How many criminals do we have today?”

“Well, I’ve counted around 600 criminals out there in the warehouse, just waiting for you to tie some nooses.”

“Well, I better get to work,” said Stern, furrowing his serious brows sternly.

The Minister smiled, and gave Stern an encouraging pat on the back, as he sent him off toward the Criminal Warehouse to take care of the second phase of his job. The Minister’s touch was strong and confident, and reassured Stern, as it always did, that things were all taken care of. There was nothing to worry about, so long as Stern did his job, and he did it well.

***

“I’m here to tie the nooses,” said Stern as he approached the guard at the front of the warehouse.

The guard, a young woman with dark glasses, was chewing bubble gum brashly. Sceptically, she looked the suspicious man over. There was something about this excessively formal man and his unplaceable foreign accent that she just couldn’t trust. She went through these motions every work day with him.

“Name?” she asked, leering at his from under her thick eyelids.

“Stern,” said Stern. He shrugged his shoulders. “What more do you want.”

The woman also shrugged her shoulders. “You can go in. I guess.” She pressed a big, blue button on the board in front of her, causing a great wall to open up, giving Stern access to the Criminal Warehouse.

“Thanks,” said Stern, nodding to the woman. She just continued to glare at him, popping pink bubble gum, as he entered the warehouse.

Inside, Stern took in a breath of that familiar scent. It was the smell of justice, and organization. Like the smell of a well curated legal library. He saw 600 young men lined up in a single file, each one chained to the other, starting at one end of the warehouse and ending at the other. Each of them had a look on their face of almost comical misery, like someone had just shot their dog and was forcing them to smell its dead body. Stern chuckled to himself. It was a lot of people to get through in a single day, but, after all, it was what Stern did best. He tied nooses around the criminals.

Stern clapped his hands together. He would start from the very beginning. Grabbing a handful of dry rope from a nearby crate, Stern approached the first criminal.

“Hello, fellow,” said Stern, looking up at the first criminal, a tall, muscular man with intensely despondent eyes. “I am the noose tier. I will tie your noose. Are there any questions?”

“Yes,” said the tall man in shrill, nervous tone. “Why are you doing this? I haven’t done anything. Let me speak with my dad, he’ll be able to tell you what happened! He’ll defend me!”

Stern laughed. “Everyone is nervous when they go to the gallows for the first time! Relax. Piece of cake, fellow!”

The criminal looked around nervously. Like all the criminals, he appeared uncomfortable, his face dripping with acidic sweat. Both his legs and hands were already tightly chained, restricting movement, and the criminal itched all over. “Why am I first? Out of all the hundreds behind me? Why are they making me do it first?”

As Stern skillfully threw the noose around the criminal’s neck, he just shook his head. “Someone must be first, always. Every day it is the same. One man is first. He always asks ‘why am I first’? Same thing, no change. You are today’s man. Life continues on.” Stern let out an ironic snort. “Maybe not for you!”

Just like with the tie knotted around the Minister’s neck, Stern expert touch transformed the formation of a noose formed from rough rope into a work of technical art. No one could loop rope so skillfully as Stern, and anyone watching his current work would gasp at the intricacies of his movements, the thousands of little loops he made which culminated in the final, grand, graceful, foreboding noose. A perfectly tight, inextricable sphere.

The criminal grimaced in pain as Stern tightened the firm rope.

“No need to overreact,” said Stern. “This is not the big moment. I am just testing the rope’s durability. It is durable. You are ready for next step.”

Stern gave the criminal a hardy slap on the back, and making a brisk snap with his fingers, called out to a guard standing nearby. “OK,” Stern yelled. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

Just like that, Stern worked through each of the criminals one by one, repeating his same artful process with each of the accused, and then sending them with the stand-by guard to seal their fate at the outside gallows. Sometimes spectators gathered watched these performances, but usually the parliamentary court in which they took place was entirely empty, save for a few wandering butterflies seeking after voluptuous flowers. Stern of course never got to experience the pleasure of a midsummer’s execution. He was always the one behind the scenes, breaking a sweat, sacrificing his own pleasure so that the wheel of society might continue turning in an organized manner. So that those dangerous criminals could be eradicated from the city’s encompassing mind quickly, elegantly, and permanently.

At lunch Stern took a brief break to eat a hot dog, and then carried on tying nooses around the necks of the remaining criminals .

At the end of the day, 600 criminals later, Stern brushed his hands off each other, and faint trace of rope dust puffing off of them into the stuffy warehouse atmosphere.

“Job well done. Another day done. After all, I am a professional.”

Now it was time to return home, like always. And this time, Brunu would surely have a special treat waiting for him. Remembering Brunu’s promise that he would be cooking a special dinner, Stern hopped on his bicycle and sped home as fast as he could.

***

When Stern arrived, Brunu wasn’t even there. What’s more, Brunu never showed up at the house at all that night. When Stern arrived back home on his old bicycle, he noticed with a puzzled look that the car was still missing from their driveway. As a result, Stern spent much of the evening sitting at his dinning table, newspaper in hand, waiting for his friend to return. Stern believed that at any moment, Brunu would surely come bursting through the front door, holding a plate full of lobster, or borscht, or salmon, or whatever kind of delicacy he was planning, and enthusiastically place it on the table in front of him. But as the sun began to set beneath the dark city skyline, Stern started to doubt whether his friend would ever return.

“It looks like Brunu will not be showing up tonight,” said Stern, looking over to his wife. There was no response.

Stern sat alone in the dark kitchen, growing frustrated as the sun dimmed and he struggled to read the print in the paper. “My God. Will someone please turn on those damn lights?” Stern’s request was met with an eery silence, like the silence one hears in a graveyard. “Honey? Will you turn on those stupid lights?” Silence, silence again. Stern shrugged his shoulders. It looked like like everyone was abandoning him that night.

Later, Stern took his newspaper into the living room, where he was able to capture some orange light shining from a streetlamp outside the window. Straining his eyes just enough, Stern was able to make out a very interesting article about a nun who saved a child from a burning church. Stern nodded his head in approval. “Very good.”

Eventually, Stern thought he heard his wife call out to him in the darkness of the house. “What’s that, honey? Did you ask me to play with the kids? Sorry, I’m busy. I’m busy reading the paper. I’ll play with the kids later.” Under the buzzing electrical light, Stern continued reading in silence, though secretly hoping he would catch a wisp of his wife asking another impossible request, if only so he wouldn’t feel so strangely lonely. But that strange silence persisted, and Stern got that lonely feeling of being haunted by ghosts.

Eventually it came time for Stern to go to bed. He could tell by the way his eyes began to water, and force themselves to fall shut. Brunu still hadn’t returned home, and this greatly upset Stern, as he was used to Brunu making him some sleepy time tea before he headed to bed. It was very difficult for Stern to get to sleep properly without the aid of his sleepy time tea. In great frustration, he laid himself back down on his bed, still fully dressed in his tattered blazer, which was full of all kinds of rips and rents. Stern turned over in bed one last time to lay his eyes on his beautiful wife. Unfortunately, because no one in the damned house had bothered to turn the lights on, he was unable to see her, and could only feel the vague presence of her body beside him in bed.

“Goodnight honey,” said Stern languidly. She must have been upset with him, since she still didn’t respond. There was still only that haunting silence.

Stern tried his best to get to sleep. But no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t. Suddenly, now in bed, he didn’t feel tired at all. His eyes wouldn’t even close properly. Stern kept rolling around in bed, with images of the Minister’s gloves and the sunken, forlorn faces of criminals looping around in his head. He thought about Brunu, and how he wanted to borrow the car, and how he had so gently spread jam on his toast that morning. Stern was filled with admiration for how efficient Brunu usually was when it came to spreading jam, and how he rarely spilled any on the kitchen counter. Where had the damned fool gone? Where was Stern’s sweet Brunu with his sleepy time tea?

“Stern,” came a whispering voice in the darkness of the night.

Stern tried to ignore it, turning back around in bed.

“Stern,” came the voice again. It was long, drawn out. Ghostly. Stern sighed, placing a frustrated hand over his exposed ear to block out the sound.

“Stern?”

Stern got up straight in bed, and looked angrily around the dark room. “OK. Who is there. Can’t you see that my honey is trying to get some rest?”

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Stern saw a pale, round, face poking up from behind the glass in his window. The face had a wide smile, with white teeth like an angel’s wings, and was staring intensely at Stern with bright, glowing eyes.

It was Brunu!

“Stern,” started the voice again, “It is I, the ghost of Brunu.”

“Brunu! Can’t you see my wife is trying to get some rest?” Stern fell back down into bed, shutting his eyes tightly, hoping the distraction would go away.

But it didn’t.

Brunu persisted. “I got into a car accident earlier today. That’s why I never came home from shopping with our special meal. I was about to leave this mortal world forever, but then I realized that I wanted to say goodbye to you. So here I am, Stern. My final words to you.”

Stern pretended to be asleep and exaggerated the sound of snoring, blowing gusts of hot air through his flapping moustache.

“I know you’re still awake,” said Brunu. “I can tell when you’re fake sleeping. You still haven’t had your sleepy time tea, have you?”

Stern grunted. “I am sleeping, Brunu. Please. Goodnight.”

“Stern, I have something I wanted to say to you.”

Stern said nothing, and continued to pretend to snore.

Brunu cast his eyes down, sheepishly. “The truth is, I’m not actually a ghost. I just said that because – well, to be honest, I just wanted to see if you would miss me. It’s selfish, I know, and I’m beginning to regret it. But I wanted to know, for a fact, if you appreciated all the things that I do for you.”

Stern groaned, then rolled over onto his stomach, and held his white pillow over his head.

“I missed you. I really missed you, Stern,” said Brunu. “That’s why I had to come back. I realized something. You’re my best friend in the whole world, you know that, Stern?”

Stern got back up out of bed, and turned his head sharply to look at the spectral, hovering digital letters on a nearby clock. It was almost three in the morning.

“Brunu. Look what time it is. Please, leave me alone. I work in an hour.”

***

Utterly exhausted, Stern was not feeling himself that morning. Looking at himself in the mirror during his daily ritual, he could tell that much. His had immense dark circles under his eyes, his hair was a mess, and his moustache was sticking out in all sorts of unexpected directions. He looked like a corpse resurrected from the dead. Stern wet his fingers and stroked his hands through his jet black hair. Despite this, his hair still resembled a dusty tumbleweed, and he decided it was time to move on. After all, he still had a job to do.

In the kitchen, Stern picked up the paper. He opened up the first page, saw something about a nun saving a child from a burning church, but he couldn’t be sure. Stern was finding it to be incredibly difficult to concentrate, and the words kept jumbling themselves up in his brain. He didn’t sleep at all last night, and it felt like his brain was on fire.

Stern quickly put the newspaper down, and tested his orange juice. He smacked his lips together. There was something strange about it. Stern looked in the mug to see a sickly, black molasses-like substance.

“Disgusting!” said Stern, knocking the cup over, onto the floor. In his tired stupor, Stern had accidentally brewed a cup of coffee, instead of pouring his regular orange juice. He started rubbing his tongue with his hand, trying to get rid of the unpleasant, coffee bean taste.

“Looks like you’re having a rough morning,” said Brunu, who sat down next Stern with a smile on his face. “What’s up in the paper today?”

Stern just glared at Brunu. “I must get to work. I don’t want to be late and disappoint the Minister.”

Stern got up walked straight for the front door, not bothering about the cup of coffee he just knocked over.

“Wait, Stern!” called out Brunu. “You forgot the keys to the car!”

But it was too late. Stern had already grabbed hold of the sturdy frame of his old bicycle, and hopped on, ringing the bell all the way down the neighbourhood road.

***

This time, the bicycle ride was incredibly unpleasant. Hardly remembering how he managed to operate the thing the day before, Stern kept felling over as he rode his bike, and even crashed into a child who was walking his dog. Across some of the rougher terrain, Stern had to dismount his bike and roll it along beside him, cursing all the way. Stern felt trapped and frustrated by his inability to operate the bicycle, and furrowed his eyebrows in consternation for the entirety of the trip, ringing the bike bell aggressively at passive passerby.

“Beep beep,” said Stern, a scowl on his face. “Beep beep. It’s the noose tier coming through. Get out of my way!”

Seeing the wild look in his eye, no one dared to get anywhere near Stern.

***

Finally, after an hour of bumping along the paved suburban roads, Stern finally arrived back at the parliamentary building. He dropped his bicycle, kicking it onto the grass, and stomped his way forward, toward the lusty, looming structure. Today, as Stern walked into the parliament building, he had a distinct impression of behind swallowed up by a great, ominous mouth.

Like usual, the Minister was standing in the middle of the courtyard. This time, Stern’s both seemed somewhat disturbed. He kept impatiently tapping a large brown shoe against the courtyard grass. He raised a gloved hand to check his watch. When the Minister caught sight of Stern, hobbling down the stone stairway into the courtyard, he set his arms akimbo and shook his head.

“Stern,” said the Minister. “You’re late.”

Stern froze. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do next. For some reason, he had forgotten the order in which he usually did his job. Did he tie ties around the criminals, or ties around the Minister? What’s more, did he tie nooses around the Minister, or nooses around the criminals? How could he forget? This was his expertise, something he did every day, day in and day out. But now, for some inexplicable reason, after a rough night’s rest, Stern was finding it very difficult to concentrate.

But he needed to make a decision, fast. He couldn’t just leave the Minister waiting.

After failing to receive a response, the Minister just shook his head again, and glared disapprovingly at Stern. “It’s alright. You don’t need to say a thing. You’re a good man and a good employee. I just want you to arrive on time.”

What was he supposed to tie around the Minister’s neck? A noose or a tie? The answer was on the tip of his tongue.

“I’m sorry sir. It will not happen again.”

“So, I have a job for you,” said the Minister, now raising a gloved hand. In it he revealed a golden tie, not yet knotted.

Stern took a deep breath. Not wanting to embarrass himself in front of his employer, he decided to trust his intuition and do what felt right. Stern took the Minister’s golden tie in his hand, and began wrapping it around the Minister’s thick neck.

Although Stern was usually known for his intense focus and technical precision when it came to tying knots, this time he was finding it difficult to focus. Stern’s eyes were heavy, and his brain felt like it was spinning around in his head, trying to find a solid place to rest. With his eyes narrowing like a drunk trying to convince everyone of his sobriety, Stern began to tie a tight noose knot around the Minister’s neck. His hands, however, felt clumsy, like they were recovering from being immobilized by the freezing cold. Nevertheless, Stern tried his best, and after a minute had managed to tie a reasonably sturdy noose knot.

Stern pulled the noose tight, and then took a step back to appraise his work.

The Minister began to cough, and pulled at the asphyxiating tie with his black gloves. “Ack – Stern! That’s a little too tight for this guy!”

Stern nodded. “Well, that’s what I do best. I tie ties around the criminals, and I tie nooses around the Minister.”

The Minister winced in suffocating pain and shook his head. “No! Stern, come back here. That’s not right!”

Stern let out a deep chuckle. “That is how it is here. We tie nooses around the Minister. Some say it is not right. I say, ‘it is just a job’. Please, do not think too hard about it. Just enjoy the show and feel happy.”

The Minister could no longer project his voice beyond a thin hiss of air, and each time he tried to extricate himself, the knot became tighter and tighter. Finally, Minister collapsed to the ground, his face quickly turning a bloated purple.

Stern wiped his hands together, proudly. “Job well done. After all, I am a professional.” Stern adjusted his tie, feeling like he was getting back into the swing of things. “Next, time to find some criminals to tie some ties around.”

Stern left the courtyard and headed toward where he remembered the Criminal Warehouse was located. He stopped for a minute, and then reversed his path, realizing the warehouse was actually in the completely opposite direction. How could he keep making mistakes like that? As he made his was back, Stern walked by the Minister, who was spasming around on the ground, for a second time. Stern smiled as he passed by his employer, who was wheezing, his eyes bulging out like white eggs. The Minister clawed helplessly with his black gloves toward Stern.

Stern just laughed, knitting his heavy eyebrows. “OK! Let’s get this show on the road!”

***

“I’m here to tie the ties,” said Stern as he approached the guard at the front of the warehouse.

The guard was the same bubble gum gnashing girl in dark glasses as before. This time she was reading a comic book, and barely even looked up at Stern.

“Name?” she asked as she popped a bothersome bubble.

“Stern,” said Stern. He shrugged his shoulders. “What more do you want.”

The woman also shrugged her shoulders, and flipped a page in her book. “You can go in. I suppose.” She pressed a big, blue button on the board in front of her, causing a great wall to open up. Looking into the opened warehouse, Stern could see what looked to be around 800 criminals standing around, stretching from one end of the warehouse to the other.

“Thanks,” said Stern, giving the woman a formal nod, although she couldn’t see it. She just continued to peruse her comic book and chew bubble gum.

Inside, Stern tried to take in the familiar scent of justice, but instead he was just met with the putrid stench of concentrated, unwashed male bodies. There was no doubt about it. It was the smell of a Criminal Warehouse. He saw what looked to be 800 young men lined up in a single file. It was quite a larger number from what he had handled the day before, but Stern was ready for anything, even if he was forced to work overtime. After all, that’s what he did best. He tied ties around the criminals. Right? Wasn’t that what he tied around the criminals?

Stern clapped his hands together. He would start from the very beginning. Grabbing a handful of rope from a nearby crate, Stern approached the first criminal.

“Hello, fellow,” said Stern, looking up at the first criminal of the day, a thin man with a big mouth. “I am the tie tier. I will tie your tie, and make you look beautiful. Perfect for your big date, huh?”

The young man stared at Stern, hatred burning in his dark, damaged eyes. “You people are scum. Everyone knows it. You have the nerve to condemn innocent people without trial, and then go around making jokes about their death. I swear on my dear mother’s grave, I have done absolutely nothing to deserve any of this. Someday you’ll all pay, mark my words.”

Stern laughed, and patted the criminal on the back. “Don’t be so modest, fellow! You have done plenty to deserve your big moment. Don’t worry, my friend. I will make you look beautiful for your first date. You know, that’s how I met my wife.”

The criminal began to breath heavily, like a wounded animal. He gushed out stinging sweat under the tension of his bound legs and hands. “I just want you to know, I’m not afraid of death. I’m afraid of what you and the Minister will end up doing to this city if things don’t change. I’m afraid for the suffering that you are going to cause thousands upon thousands of innocent people.” The young man paused, looking over Stern’s slumped, haggard body. “How can you even sleep at night?”

Stern laughed, and then wrapped the rough rope around the criminal’s head. “We do what we can. We are all a valuable part of society. The Minister makes the laws, the guards catch the criminals, and I tie the ties around the criminal’s necks and make them look beautiful. Trust me, my friend. I am a professional. I know what I am doing. You will be looking like a prince out there.”

Just like with the noose he had tied around the Minister earlier, Stern was finding it difficult to concentrate. It’s a funny thing, being tired. You can perform the exact same actions day in and day out, but as soon as you have one rough night, everything seems like it gets thrown out of order. Still, Stern was starting to feel a bit more confident in himself, and when he had finished tying the tie, he took a step back to assess it. Not Stern’s best work by any means, but certainly still of a highly professional quality.

The criminal breathed a sigh of relief as Stern released his hands and stepped away.

“That’s it? This noose doesn’t feel too tight at all!”

Stern simply raised a hand. “No, no. An ideal tie should not be too tight, nor too loose. A perfect tie knot balances on threshold between two discomforts. It transcends both. A perfect tie knot exists in a realm of perfect equanimity. Perfect balance. This, I do for you. After all, am I not a professional.”

The criminal let out a brief chuckle. Then a louder laugh. Then he burst out in an explosive uproar. “Fantastic! Yes, you truly are a professional! I’ve never been so happy with a noose tied around my neck in my life! You are certainly representative of the profound competence of the Minister’s regime! With nooses tied this well, how could the empire ever fall?”

Stern held his hands together, humbled, and gave the criminal a warm smile. “That is very kind of you to say. I do my best.”

Stern then patted the grinning criminal on the back, who was gladly led by the guard toward the entrance to the gallows. Already, the other 799 criminals behind him were growing increasingly excited, and a hushed murmur started to spread amongst them, like the sound of rats scuttling across the floor. If this noose tier tied each of their ties as loosely as that first one, then there was a chance they could all escape execution, and rush back into the city to see their friends and families. Of course, Stern was oblivious to their plotting, and simply carried on with work as usual.

Cooped up in the Criminal Warehouse, Stern was unable to witness the mass panic that was unfolding outside, as criminals slipped out of their nooses, broke their leg bindings, and ran free into the open courtyard. All the parliamentary guards were called to rush around and try and catch the criminals. Unfortunately, because security breaches were unheard of in the parliament building, none of the building’s guards were actually armed. As a result, almost all of the criminals managed to escape back into the city’s maze of alleys, parks, and forests. Almost all 800 of them.

At lunch Stern took a brief break to eat a hot dog bun, and then carried forward with the second half of the warehouse. The criminals could hardly contain their enthusiasm when Stern would walk up to the, and began wrapping the dry rope around their neck.

At the end of the day, and 800 criminals later, Stern brushed his hands off each other.

“Job well done. Another day done. After all, I am a professional.”

Now it was time to return home, like always. Stern was pleased with himself, since, even though he felt exhausted and could hardly think straight, he had proved that a determined work ethic and a sense of professional responsibility can carry you through even the most difficult of times. Surely, the Minister would be very pleased with him.

***

When Stern returned home that evening, he felt a deep delight upon seeing Brunu sitting at the kitchen table, sucking on a spoonful of tomato soup. After the panic of the night before, Stern felt immensely touched by the familiar face of his friend. Besides that, he could rest assured that tonight he would sleep soundly after a warm cup of sleepy time tea, prepared by the eternally protective Brunu.

Brunu looked up from the table when he saw Stern enter. Surrounding Brunu, Stern could see plates of all kinds of hot, delicious foods, from salmon to shrimp to potato salads. Stern’s mouth began to water, and so did his eyes as he thought about how thankful he was to have a full, hardy meal after such a long day.

“Ah, Stern! You’re back!Welcome back home!”

Stern nodded sternly, and sat down at the table, stretching out his weary limbs. “Good to be back, Brunu.” Stern then yelled out into the empty house, “hi honey! I’m home!”

Brunu spread his hands to present the warm plates surrounding him. “I cooked you dinner.”

Stern was silent for a moment. He couldn’t help but break a smile. “Oh,” he said.

“Did you read about the criminal leak at the parliament building?” asked Brunu. “Lots of trouble brewing in the city it looks like.”

Stern shook his head, his heavy features now overcome by a sudden air of frustration. “I always tell you Brunu, do not pay attention to that negative propaganda. Those people do not know the Minister like I do. He is a good man. An honest man..”

Brunu nodded his head, and cast his eyes down. “Yes, a very good man,” he said, his voice trailing off, and though the sentence had no real meaning.

Soon after, Stern and Brunu began to dig into their meals, enjoying every second of this rare treat. After a regular diet consisting mostly of tea and hot dogs, the taste of sumptuous salmon and puffy potato salad brought a tears to Stern’s eyes. Brunu too seemed to be enjoying himself, and hardly spoke a word throughout the entire meal.

As the sun began to set, the kitchen grew dark.

“Damn,” said Stern. “It’s getting dark. Soon I will no longer be able to see my fork.”

Brunu got up from the kitchen table, a knowing smile lighting his round features. “No problem at all, Stern.” Brunu walked to the wall, stuck out a confident finger, and flipped on the light switch. Suddenly, the room was filled with the warm glow of electricity, and the meal could be viewed in its entire beauty once again.

Stern breathed a sigh of relief. “Wonderful. Wonderful. You know, not even my wife can do this thing!”

Brunu smiled, looking amicably at his splendid being, this eternal presence in his everyday life. “Well, after all, what are friends for?”

Still smiling, Brunu sat back down at his chair, and continued to enjoy the warm meal.

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