Dear Stephanie Pereira,
First the facts: You have animated a number of books taken from the library of Elsewhere and decided to project this animation against an exterior window of the building. You are taking aspects in the interior and placing them exterior to introduce an aspect of Elsewhere to the public. We have discussed Elsewhere and its accessibility during our time here.
We came to work at Elsewhere to learn more about collaborating with each other. Your video is inspired by this last month of collaboration, presented in five untitled acts. You take our personal and offer it publicly as well.
Next, what I learned about you and your work: Your video work is decorative and funny like many things you make. You are most comfortable as a maker when you can envision a look and then actualize it. You want to do things together.
Next, what I learned about my work and myself: I like to get the feel of a process and let that displace me. I want some quiet time to figure out where I am and to have ownership of that place.
Finally, what I learned about our work and collaborative relationship: Our work meshes in layers rather than in mixtures, like the flags at the end of your video, or this letter on this window; we are lasagna not sauce. We like to talk to each other about thoughts but not about action. We see time very differently, like most things.
Love,
Erik Fabian
Greensboro, NC @ Elsewhere
August 31, 2007
The boys vanish in the gloom, and after a pause, but not a long pause, for things go briskly on the island, come the pirates on their track.
...A more villainous-looking lot never hung in a row on Execution dock. Here, a little in advance, ever and again with his head to the ground listening, his great arms bare, pieces of eight in his ears as ornaments, is the handsome Italian Cecco, who cut his name in letters of blood on the back of the governor of the prison at Gao. That gigantic black behind him has had many names since he dropped the one with which dusky mothers still terrify their children on the banks of the Guadjo-mo. Here is Bill Jukes, every inch of him tattooed, the same Bill Jukes who got six dozen on the Walrus from Flint before he would drop the bag of moidores; and Cookson, said to be Black Murphy's brother (but this was never proved), and Gentleman Starkey, once an usher in a public school and still dainty in his ways of killing; and Skylights (Morgan's Skylights); and the Irish bo'sun Smee, an oddly genial man who stabbed, so to speak, without offence, and was the only Non-conformist in Hook's crew; and Noodler, whose hands were fixed on backwards; and Robt. Mullins and Alf Mason and many another ruffian long known and feared on the Spanish Main.
In the midst of them, the blackest and largest in that dark setting, reclined James Hook, or as he wrote himself, Jas. Hook, of whom it is said he was the only man that the Sea-Cook feared. He lay at his ease in a rough chariot drawn and propelled by his men, and instead of a right hand he had the iron hook with which ever and anon he encouraged them to increase their pace. As dogs this terrible man treated and addressed them, and as dogs they obeyed him. In person he was cadaverous and blackavized, and his hair was dressed in long curls, which at a little distance looked like black candles, and gave a singularly threatening expression to his handsome countenance. His eyes were of the blue of the forget-me-not, and of a profound melancholy, save when he was plunging his hook into you, at which time two red spots appeared in them and lit them up horribly. In manner, something of the grand seigneur still clung to him, so that he even ripped you up with an air, and I have been told that he was a raconteur of repute. He was never more sinister than when he was most polite, which is probably the truest test of breeding; and the elegance of his diction, even when he was swearing, no less than the distinction of his demeanour, showed him one of a different cast from his crew. A man of indomitable courage, it was said that the only thing he shied at was the sight of his own blood, which was thick and of an unusual colour. In dress he somewhat aped the attire associated with the name of Charles II, having heard it said in some earlier period of his career that he bore a strange resemblance to the ill-fated Stuarts; and in his mouth he had a holder of his own contrivance which enabled him to smoke two cigars at once. But undoubtedly the grimmest part of him was his iron claw.
Let us now kill a pirate, to show Hook's method. Skylights will do. As they pass, Skylights lurches clumsily against him, ruffling his lace collar; the hook shoots forth, there is a tearing sound and one screech, then the body is kicked aside, and the pirates pass on. He has not even taken the cigars from his mouth.
Such is the terrible man against whom Peter Pan is pitted.
Which will win?
...
Strangely, it was not in the water that they met. Hook rose to the rock to breathe, and at the same moment Peter scaled it on the opposite side. The rock was slippery as a ball, and they had to crawl rather than climb. Neither knew that the other was coming. Each feeling for a grip met the other's arm: in surprise they raised their heads; their faces were almost touching; so they met.
Some of the greatest heroes have confessed that just before they fell to they had a sinking. Had it been so with Peter at that moment I would admit it. After all, he was the only man that the Sea-Cook had feared. But Peter had no sinking, he had one feeling only, gladness; and he gnashed his pretty teeth with joy. Quick as thought he snatched a knife from Hook's belt and was about to drive it home, when he saw that he was higher up the rock that his foe. It would not have been fighting fair. He gave the pirate a hand to help him up.
It was then that Hook bit him.
Not the pain of this but its unfairness was what dazed Peter.
It made him quite helpless. He could only stare, horrified.
Every child is affected thus the first time he is treated unfairly. All he thinks he has a right to when he comes to you
to be yours is fairness. After you have been unfair to him he will love you again, but will never afterwards be quite the same boy. No one ever gets over the first unfairness; no one except Peter. He often met it, but he always forgot it. I suppose that was the real difference between him and all the rest.
So when he met it now it was like the first time; and he could just stare, helpless. Twice the iron hand clawed him.
...
The first thing he did on finding himself alone in the fast falling light was to tiptoe to Slightly's tree, and make sure that it provided him with a passage. Then for long he remained brooding; his hat of ill omen on the sward, so that any gentle breeze which had arisen might play refreshingly through his hair. Dark as were his thoughts his blue eyes were as soft as the periwinkle. Intently he listened for any sound from the nether world, but all was as silent below as above; the house under the ground seemed to be but one more empty tenement in the void. Was that boy asleep, or did he stand waiting at the foot of Slightly's tree, with his dagger in his hand?
There was no way of knowing, save by going down. Hook let his cloak slip softly to the ground, and then biting his lips till a lewd blood stood on them, he stepped into the tree. He was a brave man, but for a moment he had to stop there and wipe his brow, which was dripping like a candle. Then, silently, he let himself go into the unknown.
He arrived unmolested at the foot of the shaft, and stood still again, biting at his breath, which had almost left him. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light various objects in the home under the trees took shape; but the only one on which his greedy gaze rested, long sought for and found at last, was the great bed. On the bed lay Peter fast asleep.
Unaware of the tragedy being enacted above, Peter had continued, for a little time after the children left, to play gaily on his pipes: no doubt rather a forlorn attempt to prove to himself that he did not care. Then he decided not to take his medicine, so as to grieve Wendy. Then he lay down on the bed outside the coverlet, to vex her still more; for she had always tucked them inside it, because you never know that you may not grow chilly at the turn of the night. Then he nearly cried; but it struck him how indignant she would be if he laughed instead; so he laughed a haughty laugh and fell asleep in the middle of it. ...One arm dropped over the edge of the bed, one leg was arched, and the unfinished part of his laugh was stranded on his mouth, which was open, showing the little pearls.
Thus defenceless Hook found him. He stood silent at the foot of the tree looking across the chamber at his enemy. Did no feeling of compassion disturb his sombre breast? The man was not wholly evil; he loved flowers (I have been told) and sweet music (he was himself no mean performer on the harpsichord); and, let it be frankly admitted, the idyllic nature of the scene stirred him profoundly. Mastered by his better self he would have returned reluctantly up the tree, but for one thing.
What stayed him was Peter's impertinent appearance as he slept. The open mouth, the drooping arm, the arched knee: they were such a personification of cockiness as, taken together, will never again, one may hope, be presented to eyes so sensitive to their offensiveness. They steeled Hook's heart. If his rage had broken him into a hundred pieces every one of them would have disregarded the incident, and leapt at the sleeper.
Though a light from the one lamp shone dimly on the bed, Hook stood in darkness himself, and at the first stealthy step forward he discovered an obstacle, the door of Slightly's tree. It did not entirely fill the aperture, and he had been looking over it. Feeling for the catch, he found to his fury that it was low down, beyond his reach. To his disordered brain it seemed then that the irritating quality in Peter's face and figure visibly increased, and he rattled the door and flung himself against it. Was his enemy to escape him after all?
But what was that? The red in his eye had caught sight of Peter's medicine standing on a ledge within easy reach. He fathomed what it was straightaway, and immediately knew that the sleeper was in his power.
Lest he should be taken alive, Hook always carried about his person a dreadful drug, blended by himself of all the death-dealing rings that had come into his possession. These he had boiled down into a yellow liquid quite unknown to science, which was probably the most virulent poison in existence.
Five drops of this he now added to Peter's cup. His hand shook, but it was in exultation rather than in shame. As he did it he avoided glancing at the sleeper, but not lest pity should unnerve him; merely to avoid spilling. Then one long gloating look he cast upon his victim, and turning, wormed his way with difficulty up the tree. As he emerged at the top he looked the very spirit of evil breaking from its hole. Donning his hat at its most rakish angle, he wound his cloak around him, holding one end in front as if to conceal his person from the night, of which it was the blackest part, and muttering strangely to himself, stole away through the trees.
...
For long the two enemies looked at one another, Hook shuddering slightly, and Peter with the strange smile upon his face.
"So, Pan," said Hook at last, "this is all your doing."
"Ay, James Hook," came the stern answer, "it is all my doing."
"Proud and insolent youth," said Hook, "prepare to meet thy doom."
"Dark and sinister man," Peter answered, "have at thee."
Without more words they fell to, and for a space there was no advantage to either blade. Peter was a superb swordsman, and parried with dazzling rapidity; ever and anon he followed up a feint with a lunge that got past his foe's defence, but his shorter reach stood him in ill stead, and he could not drive the steel home. Hook, scarcely his inferior in brilliancy, but not quite so nimble in wrist play, forced him back by the weight of his onset, hoping suddenly to end all with a favourite thrust, taught him long ago by Barbecue at Rio; but to his astonishment he found this thrust turned aside again and again. Then he sought to close and give the quietus with his iron hook, which all this time had been pawing the air; but Peter doubled under it and, lunging fiercely, pierced him in the ribs. At the sight of his own blood, whose peculiar colour, you remember, was offensive to him, the sword fell from Hook's hand, and he was at Peter's mercy.
"Now!" cried all the boys, but with a magnificent gesture Peter invited his opponent to pick up his sword. Hook did so instantly, but with a tragic feeling that Peter was showing good form.
Hitherto he had thought it was some fiend fighting him, but darker suspicions assailed him now.
"Pan, who and what art thou?" he cried huskily.
"I'm youth, I'm joy," Peter answered at a venture, "I'm a little bird that has broken out of the egg."
This, of course, was nonsense; but it was proof to the unhappy Hook that Peter did not know in the least who or what he was, which is the very pinnacle of good form.
"To't again," he cried despairingly.
He fought now like a human flail, and every sweep of that terrible sword would have severed in twain any man or boy who obstructed it; but Peter fluttered round him as if the very wind it made blew him out of the danger zone. And again and again he darted in and pricked.
Hook was fighting now without hope. That passionate breast no longer asked for life; but for one boon it craved: to see Peter show bad form before it was cold forever.
Abandoning the fight he rushed into the powder magazine and fired it.
"In two minutes," he cried, "the ship will be blown to pieces."
Now, now, he thought, true form will show.
But Peter issued from the powder magazine with the shell in his hands, and calmly flung it overboard.
What sort of form was Hook himself showing? Misguided man though he was, we may be glad, without sympathising with him, that in the end he was true to the traditions of his race. The other boys were flying around him now, flouting, scornful; and he staggered about the deck striking up at them impotently, his mind was no longer with them; it was slouching in the playing fields of long ago, or being sent up for good, or watching the wall-game from a famous wall. And his shoes were right, and his waistcoat was right, and his tie was right, and his socks were right.
James Hook, thou not wholly unheroic figure, farewell.
For we have come to his last moment.
Seeing Peter slowly advancing upon him through the air with dagger poised, he sprang upon the bulwarks to cast himself into the sea. He did not know that the crocodile was waiting for him; for we purposely stopped the clock that this knowledge might be spared him: a little mark of respect from us at the end.
He had one last triumph, which I think we need not grudge him. As he stood on the bulwark looking over his shoulder at Peter gliding through the air, he invited him with a gesture to use his foot. It made Peter kick instead of stab.
At last Hook had got the boon for which he craved.
"Bad form," he cried jeeringly, and went content to the crocodile.
Thus perished James Hook.
---
excerpted from Peter Pan, by J.M. Barrie
"The cosmopolitan utopia of being from nowhere and constantly sailing about in an elsewhere between free ports seems impossible to most people or looks like an unpleasant limbo. In the eyes of most, cultures and communities are open, future-oriented projects, specific places where they can become involved in order to renew and update the world on the basis of a particular time and location, i.e. envisage it as a relationship of recognition and distance with others."
If that seemed like a bunch of gobbledygook to you, it might actually be so - not the best written chunk of text i have ever come across. i like the ideas though. seems to apply in layers to my life write now.
See more here.
I also read this today:
"...programs like the National Endowment for the Arts were established upon what Williams described as the paternalistic model of communication. The underlying presumption here is that the lives of the general public, thus far deprived of exposure to high culture, would benefit from the presence of great art in the spaces of everyday life, and that the government, with the aid of art experts, can function to provide such educational and elevating experiences to its people."
Read that and only that, here.
Read a bunch of stuff like it, here.
"What happened to Erik and his things?"
E decided to engage in an activity of find, accumulate, distribute, and play with Elsewhere and its available inhabitants yesterday. Was interesting for me because people either expected me to help them out of various predicaments that they got themselves into when encountering Erik, or wanted an explanation as to what Erik was doing.
I also heard:
"Well you are the same person, aren't you?"
No, we are not the same person, and yes, I do have an advantage in knowing him for the past four years, however I generally have no idea what he is up to. Erik is most decidedly a man of his own mind. Harrumph.
Above: Shalin laden with various objects, courtesy of Erik.
Below: Erik and his things. Ian laden.
Erik and I colloborated on this initial (beta) release of the Elsewhere Visitor Center.
PLANNING MEETING NOTES:
Visitor Services (BETA):
• Installation process/product space
• Games: consist of objects and (dynamic card box)
⁃ Local - games that happen at desk (associative writing, ex corpse stories, etch-sketch
⁃ Elsewhere - games that take you around space: binoculars, take these five/return five more, frames
• Communication
⁃ Mailing list sign-up
⁃ Calendar of events
⁃ Cards, brochures, fliers - web info in card format (info on mailing list form)
⁃ Audio Tour, maps, info about installations
⁃ **Archive: "About elsewhere" materials**
⁃ Sign-in/Reflection/questions book
• Tools and Resources
⁃ What is installation?
⁃ Images
⁃ Strategies
⁃ Books
• Camera (pictures for sale - $2/poloroid if you create an installation, OR rent digital?)
• Buttons for sale?
• Aesthetics - glass, clean, lights, grand, organization system, "unit" feeling, communication strategies
PRIORITIES LIST
1. PHOTOGRAPH HUTCH
2. Pile of current elsewhere visitor stuff (?)
3. Mailing List (1hr)
4. Installation (3hrs)
5. Organize set-up of visitor center (2hr)
6. Two games of our own (2hr)
----
Post-Unveiling Feedback with George and Steph
BEST
- Parts that send you into the space (limited as a result of GE opening)
- Game that involved switching out objects
QUESTION
- Map of center? Work or not work?
Response - Needs to be fleshed out more, deeper, more developed, self-sustaining
- Where does archival material live?
- Photos - post S/G arrival
- How do visitors encounter it? Is it accessible as is?
- Is it something for their second return? Is it for returning visitors?
- Are they encouraged to visit it?
- Are there elements in the space that send someone back to it?
- What is it used for, how are people directed to it?
- Is there a mirror?
- What are the public spaces of elsewhere? Map with context clues.
- How are permissions provided (wrt above)
MUSEUM DISPLAY - is a historical display
STORE COUNTER - Where materials and information is distributed, human to human
Buttons, promotional information, fliers, etc
VISITOR CENTER - pedagogical, clear
A way to communicate Elsewhere via process and organization
- Education is clear
- Refer to specific pieces in space
- About Elsewhere, deeper level (articles)
- Work about the work
- Work by current artists
- (i say - further opps to engage, such as promotional materials, calendar, web address, under guise of "learn more")
IDEAS
- Game of unit as a whole (overarching theme) across whole unit
- (((aside - in kitchen, etc are we on display?)))
- Find and retrieve - not necessary getting, but recording. Games that are actually interesting for people.
- Using objects to speak "Open me" "Look here!" etc
- What I saw log - visitors can point each other to something that they saw in space -
using words, maps and images...
- mini-collections org'd by themed
- shopping
Whatever you want to call it, the Wish Wagon is now open for business. Please visit my desk to make a wish, say a prayer, or conduct any of your most reverent activities. This newest addition to my desk is fully mobile and is available for site visits as necessary!
Erik is a tyrant. Or at least I think so. As a result of either (a) his tyranny or (b) what I perceive to be tyranny on his part, we agreed to establish a new collaborative order. It is a "turn system." With this system, one or the other gets to be in charge for up to 10 min, or gets to establish the guiding questions/need for a one hour project turn. We really are just children in big bodies. Here are the beginning of the rules:
(DRAFT 8-11-07)
COLLABORATIVE RULES FOR TURNS:
- We agree to follow a sequence of Turns in our collaboration.
- We each get at least one Turn per day.
- We each agree to meet to enact our collaboration at least once per day. (Unless otherwise agreed upon)
- Amendments to Turns can only be proposed a part of a Turn
- Turns can last up to 10 min, but can be extended by mutual agreement
- A Project Turn is distinct from a regular turn.
- A project turn can last up to one hour, and each collaborator gets at least one project turn per day.
- Project Turns are an agreement to use all Turns toward stated project goal for the next hour.
- Within each Project turn, typical Turn rules apply.
- Both collaborators agree to follow the other's lead during his/her turn and to limit refusals. (limit for refusals TBD)
- The function and calling of breaks TBD.
Here is a picture of us drawing a map of Elsewhere's (potential) community during one of Erik's Turns during my project turn:
Anyway, we had a very productive day, and Elsewhere had a nice treat with a nice workshop and guest with Pedro Lasch. E and I were late (again) to his presentation, but we all got to chat some more over dinner.
As a cap to yesterday, we finally got to play City, where I took no pictures, but I know that Carolyn did and you should go to her blog write now to see if she posted any. Somebody must of. Totally fun, most of us confessed later that they thought it would be silly, but really enjoyed themselves. I didn't expect anything one way or another, and was happy that I found my niche as a (somewhat Predetory) Lender and Whistle Blower. Good times.
So I think (believe) that the heatwave has finally broken. I woke up this morning and everything felt quieter. Maybe it was that the sound of the fans didn't have it's usual pathetic ring to it.
Anyway, last night the beginning of many ideas began to take fruit with a few interviews of Greensboro locals. E and I came up with the questions at 7:05pm, 5 min after people began to arrive at Elsewhere for Pritika's (and Erin and Cameron of course, and Ari as a psychoanalyst) show. Our questions were framed by migration, but also had a piece about living - what it is like to live in Greensboro, what should change, what should stay the same. Actually, why talk about it?
Here are the questions:
Where are you from? (Born and raised?)
Where is your family from?
- How did they get here? (What brought them here?)
- How many generations? (What kept them here?)
- Has your family moved around a lot? Why, what have been the causes?
What has kept you here thus far? (Have you ever left?)
Do you see your family here one generation from now?
---
What are the values of a citizen of Greensboro? What defines daily life?
What is unique to Greensboro?
How would you change Greensboro if you could? (How do you imagine Greensboro 10 years from now, how would you change it?)
How has growing up in Greensboro shaped who you are today?
*******
These questions represent a dry-run (vs a wet run?) of something bigger - still story collecting, but the how and the why, TBD. We even have ideas on how to turn the question development into a project...E and I are meeting presently to discuss this very thing. ! Updates soon.
Day 1: "Lord of the Flies" keeps running through my head. Only with a much less sinister vibe.
Day 2: It is hot, I decide not to where a bra. I have been wearing a bra, everyday, everywhere I go since I got my job two years ago. Somebody told me it was impolite to do so. Feels like taking a step back in time.
Somewhere between Day 2 and 3: Now I am thinking "Peter Pan"
I have an overwhelming impulse to make this place homey. (Maybe a little because I am a nester, but I gather I am not alone in this impulse - at least at it's core.) There are distinct areas of neglect. I war the this need and the desire to make something. I finally resolve to start organizing as a productive act in itself. My organization is small and sporadic.
Day 3: "Stranger in a Strange Land" - not in theme, but rather a particular idea involving cities that have outgrown their inhabitants.
I have begun to think of myself as a little sprite moving tiny things, quickly, when no one is looking. if someone is looking I go about my business willing the observer to be seeing something else. Something not *quite* what I am actually doing. Like a Jedi mind trick.
Reading Ru Paul's autobiography. S/he is great. As Ru is inspired by Oprah, I am motivated by Ru.
Notes from the notebook:
-Historical Museum, 130 Summit Ave, 27401, 336-373-2043
-McGirt-Horton Branch of the Library (the DIY library) - 2509 Phillips Ave
-Int Civil Rights Museum - 301 N Elm, Ste 303, 800-748-7116
-Work, living conditions, education, social life.
Somewhere between Day 3 and 4: Written on the back of my hand after a meeting with George and Steph. [expansions in brackets] :
- Building together
- Playing City with customers. [Have days that are billed as such.]
- Audio/Map tour [using tracks and cards]
- Interview [past] artists [on phone - to capture audio for tour narrative?]
- "I AM THE STATE" [buttons for sale]
Day 4: Social Anarchy. I begin to see new possibilities.
Day 5: Notes from my notebook:
- Fund for Democratic Communities.
- Social Capital.
