Interface


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Found this on my bike after class. Another example of security promotion through microtargetting.

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My mail the other day included a clipping from Seattle magazine, sent to me by my mother, about a Seattle theatre that plans to stage plays in elevators later this spring. The clipping, in its entirety:

Going up? You are if you’re joining Seattle’s edgy Annex Theatre for its series of Elevator Plays. Held in a yet-to-be-determined high-rise downtown, the series features 30-40 60-second plays calibrated for the tight time and space confines of an elevator ride (claustrophobics beware!). Switching elevators to see different plays, audience members get a visceral experience of the ups and downs of experimental theater.

The performance, unfortunately, has been postponed, (here’s a similar project in Louisville, KY) but there’s something tantalizing about using an elevator as a stage. It is a constricted space—temporally, physically, culturally—and it would be a fascinating project to use those constraints in pursuit of an artistic goal. How do you play off of these constraints? Does an elevator play follow (or have time to follow) Freytag’s pyramid? Do you treat the space as a kind of condensed theatre in the round? And how do you address the cultural proclivities—not speaking, even distribution, avoiding eye contact—that  people carry with them into elevators?

Elevators, because of these constraints, can’t be treated as a normal stage. To perform a thirty-second Hamlet or Waiting for Godot in an elevator, to an audience clustered against the back wall, misses the point: An elevator play should not transpose conventions of theatre into a space not designed for them, it should seek out the incongruities between the theater and the elevator and exploit them. It should find the cracks, force them open, and pour itself into them. The plays become thirty-second conversations overheard by the audience. The smallest gestures—hitting a button, shrugging, shifting weight—are freighted with new meaning. 

In this incarnation, the elevator play is a framing device. This is site-specific theatre at its most subtle. The actors and their conversations don’t appear any different than the people we see and the conversations we overhear everyday. The frame’s the thing: By cloaking their activities in the robes of theatre, by putting the frame of art around the mundane, we are able to direct and channel the attention of the audience, focussing it on a thirty-second snippet and encouraging a search for deeper meaning. (See Joshua Bell’s performance in a DC Metro station for how people respond to frameless art.)

The box of the elevator cab stands empty, ready to receive physical or cultural freight. I’m reminded of Jeff Stark’s I.R.T.: A Tragedy in Three Stations, which staged the history of the New York City subway system inside the New York City subway system, and of Colson Whitehead’s The Intuitionist, a book that uses the rise and fall of the elevator as an extended metaphor for racial uplift. An ideal elevator play would be a sort-of meeting of the two, a work staged in elevators that simultaneously played off of the constraints of the elevator and found deeper meaning in its structure and history.

Ski racks at DIA baggage claim. The point at which ad hoc solutions tilt to institutionalized systems.

When countries take flight, dreams take wing. Interflug, more than serving as a tangible marker of East German culture, was interesting for what it said about statecraft: It suggested that a state airline is a necessary condition for modern statehood. Interflug is interesting because both it and the state it represented have disappeared; Air Nauru is interesting because it is an outlier, the state airline of the Republic of Nauru, population 13,770. (That’s an Air Nauru 727 in vintage livery.)

Nauru is a tiny island nation in the South Pacific. So what gives a country with maybe a quarter the population of my hometown (also an island, but there’s no Air Bainbridge) the right to have an airline? And airline, moreover, that at one point had a fleet with a seating capacity equivalent to 10% of Nauru’s population? Phosphate.

The vagaries of the global commodities market concentrate wealth in strange places, and cause people to do strange things with it: Air Nauru once flew one of the most comprehensive route networks in the South Pacific, even though most routes were unprofitable and the average load factor throughout the network hovered around 20%. On a 737, that’s about 26 people on a plane designed to carry around 130. To look at it another way, that means one person per row of seats.

But having an airline means you run with the big boys. Note the eponymous Emirates and Singapore planes in the above photo, and the United (US) and Qantas (Australia) planes beyond them. The United Arab Emirates, although a good deal larger in area and population than the Republic of Nauru, is, I think, a fair comparison, an example of how the Nauru model scales up. (Or, to put it another way, how the UAE model might scale down to suit Nauru.)

And although these countries’ airlines have larger planes, longer routes, and more passengers in a day than Air Nauru sees all year, I’d argue they’re not so different. Scale up, scale down. It’s like putting toddlers in suits for weddings: Let me just measure your state and we’ll be able to cut an airline to fit straight away.

Air Nauru is now known as Our Airline (slogan: Let Our Airline be Your Airline). This new name makes the connection between national identity and airline ownership explicit (and ironic, because Our Airline is privately owned and operated). The slogan, cheesy though it may be, speaks to the importance of an airline like this: Nauru gets something from it (a claim to statehood, a chance to be taken seriously, a demonstration of ability) and so does the world (another airline, another state, another voice).

On a larger scale, Our Airline speaks to how we chose to order our existence. It represents, as Interflug did, an alternate reality, another way of seeing and experiencing the world. How do we choose which airline to fly? is really just a proxy query for the deeper question: How do we choose how we want to live?

 

Related: Fly Interflug! and Regionalism in Flight

Interflug represented East Germany, and American regional airlines are freighted with cultural meaning much in the same way Interflug that was. Regional carriers abound: In Seattle and Anchorage, expect to see Alaska Airlines 737s and Horizon Air turboprops. In Minneapolis, check out those Sun Country planes. If you’re passing through Milwaukee—although why would you be?—take a gander at those Midwest Airlines 717s. Or look at the animals painted on the tails of Frontier Airlines’ Airbuses in Denver, CO.

What does it mean that our regional airlines have concentrated in these pockets? What is it about the north Midwest and the Pacific Northwest that have given each their own airlines? The only other region that has really had its own airline was the South, with Delta and Southwest, but both have since become national airlines. Are regional airlines indicative of a stronger regional culture? Of weak links to a national culture? Or a symptom of automobile dependence in a post-railroad age: Cities just too far away from each other to be linked by car?

The airlines named above are just the big players: There are also a smattering of tiny, truly regional carriers. The fascinating thing about these is that they, almost without exception, operate under the names and liveries of the big players. You’ve probably flown, without realizing it, with Air Wisconsin, Mesa Airlines, or Chautauqua Airlines, whose planes and crews wear the liveries and uniforms of US Airways Express, Delta Connection, United Express, American Connection, or Continental Express. Regionalism in disguise, wearing the mask of national authority.

We seek our identity in strange places, in strange reflections. We seek it in sports teams and local newspapers, on water towers and postcards. Regional airlines, too, play on ideas of hometown pride and local boys done good. (Alaska is “proudly all Boeing.”) We take these planes as confirmation of our self-worth, players as they are in an anonymous system larger than any of us. If these airlines can make it out there in the world, then so can we. We carry our homes with us, in our hearts and in our liveries.

The Atlantic has a great piece on Bob “Fish” Fishman, the director of CBS’s football coverage. Fishman is a one-man on-the-fly editing machine: He’s the one who splices together the view of the game, from dozens of cameras and video feeds, as the game is happening. 

Fishman is one of a cohort of artists and craftsmen who are invisible, working beneath the surface of reality to craft it as it happens. Sports coverage is a particularly apt metaphor for the creation of reality because these men and women create live work: If it’s in real-time, it must be real, right?

But the work can be live even if the creation of said work happened once, long ago. Disneyland comes to mind as a deliberate creation—sights, sounds, smells, actions—that can only be experienced live, a creation that lives through the scripts and protocols written once and set in motion, by Walter Elias, the absent-watchmaker.

Or without a single creator: There are absent-watchmakers aplenty behind our architecture and social rules, behind our objects and expectations.

[The Atlantic via Gizmodo]

rollercoaster_web - ilkka halso

Finnish artist Ilkka Halso imagines a Museum of Nature: roller coasters, theatres, exhibition chambers designed to frame what’s already around us and to put it on display. The idea of putting nature on display in this way is startling, until you recall that entertainers such as Disney have a long history of doing this and are still doing it. Issues of display, expected audiences: Running a roller coaster through nature strikes a discordant note because it fits neither our expectations about roller coasters (high on excitement, low on detail) nor our expectations about how to experience nature (the reverse).

It doesn’t really matter, for example, that the Jungle Cruise is an amalgamation, name-checking Southeast Asia, Africa, and South America in its tour of rivers, because the Jungle Cruise is implicitly understood not to be an authentic representation of those parts of the world. Entertainment, not education. (The Jungle Cruise is, on the other hand, fascinating for its Orientalism, as is most of Adventureland.)

museum-1-web - ilkka halso

 

The images are almost more startling than the idea, reminiscent as they are of certain abandoned amusement parks. This appears not to be a museum of nature, but a museum appropriated by nature. We’re so used to seeing trees grow up inside a derelict frame structure that it doesn’t occur to us that the steel could grow around the trees. 

 

[Ilkka Halso via Tropolism]

The Economist has a great piece on the ways people commute in different world cities, including London, Delhi, and Tokyo. Looking at basic routines to reveal a larger sense of place, the micro to illuminate the macro.

Home again, home againThe Economist

So this is incredible: What appears to be an ad-hoc theatre company is staging a moving play inside the New York City Subway system. The play is called I.R.T.: A Tragedy In Three Stations, and recounts the history and development of the city’s subway network as the play hopscotches through stations and trains. 

The show is sold out, of course, and reading this article makes me wish I had taken Site-Specific Theatre and Performance this semester. Quoth the New York Times:

“Tonight, these platforms will be our playhouse,” [Actor Jim] Ford, wearing a tuxedo and a handlebar mustache, told an audience gathered on a Brooklyn subway platform during the prologue. “Conductors will manage our stage. The sound designer is a passing train, and these fluorescents light our way.”

This is reminiscent of, but not exactly similar to, the production of Waiting for Godot that was staged in Lower Ninth Ward after Hurricane Katrina. Both productions are examples of showing instead of telling, of exhibition rather than exposition. Godot piggybacked on New Orleans to emphasize the themes of the play, and used the play as a lens to focus the trauma of a post-Katrina city.

It drew power from exaptation: Godot was written before Katrina, for an audience in a different time and place. The setting amplified the play’s themes by finding unexpected commonalities between the characters and the residents of New Orleans. (Godot had earlier found similar success at stagings in Sarajevo and in prisons—Does this material universality somehow diminish its power, or does it enhance it?)

 I.R.T. is different. It was purpose-written for the space in which in it is performed, so the moments of serendipitous connection between the text and the space will be different, a little muted, a little planned. Still clever, but with a self-consciousness to this very public performance: It is meant to be watched, the audience and players are clearly defined, and the frame of theatricality circumscribes the entire performance. (Contrast that with Joshua Bell’s performance in a DC Metro station to see how passers-by respond to art without a frame.) Like Godot, I.R.T is gives its audience a lens, but the lens in this case is more like a pair of X-Ray Goggles, allowing the audience to see history and detail in the ordinarily mundane world of New York City public transit.

I’d like for I.R.T. to inspire a whole series of subway plays, each set in a different time or playing at a different theme. You can imagine heritage cars, or entire heritage trains, filled with actors in period dress. A subway moving through history: an eleven-car train, one car for each decade the subway system has been in existence, each car with different seats, different advertisements, different lighting, different people, the past loosed from the tracks of the MTA Transit Museum and forced out into the real world.

Or plays set in the parks and streets New York City, a kind of historic Improv Everywhere, giving life to the stories that lie latent in our surroundings. The stories are already there. We just have to learn how to listen, how to see.

[In the Subway, Moving Theatre, in More Ways Than One via NYTimes. Earl Wilson photo.]

Corbu would be proud; we have made our buildings into machines for eating. The ways in which our environments deliberately modify us and our behavior. (Reflections, refractions: You can barely make out the salamander on my t-shirt, reflected on the right side.)

I just finished Rebecca Solnit’s River of Shadows: Eadweard Muybridge and the Technological Wild West. Solnit captures a time of significant technological changes, writing about the period stretching from 1870 to 1900. As an aside, almost, she talks about the changes in horse racing brought about by the availability of clocks and the standardization of a national time. With clocks, she writes, we could race time:

To race the clock is to race time itself in the present and the historical record of the past, to attempt to break the record as though it were a real thing like the ribbon broken at the finish line of a race. It’s to race against an idea.

To what ideas do our buildings demand we subscribe? From political dogma to architectural idealism? How are we shaped by them? How do we respond?

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