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July 13, 2011
Escape From Fog City
Down the Rabbit Hole
Bringing the art out of the galleries and hanging it outdoors on the city walls en plein air was revolutionary. It fundamentally changed the relationship of the artist to the art work to the gallery. Suddenly, I'm not an observer any more. I'm part of the scene.
The galleries are showing the work of graffiti artists.
So, the graffiti street artists are bringing their work into the galleries. And the artists that normally hang their work in the galleries are taking their work out and clandestinely putting it up on the city's walls.
The artists are now creating rolling art galleries, driving them across the country, and parking them on the street, where people walk right up into the back of a cargo van to see the art. But even these viewers aren't what they seem, as they're also always looking for new talent, so the people that come into the rolling galleries are both artists and patrons or clients.
The entire nature of the relationship has changed, and all of this occurs to me as the guy rolls up the back of the van.
They've just obliterated the wall between the performers and the audience. The guy is standing there, holding the door open for me to crawl into the back of his cargo truck, and everything's unraveling. And it's not a superficial change that's been made. He's thrown down the gauntlet. He's just torpedoed my worldview and I'm falling down the rabbit hole.
All the world's indeed a stage, we are merely players. Performers and portrayers. Each another's audience upon the gilded stage.
As I'm standing in the tenderloin watching the whores and drug addicts stumbling up and down the sidewalks of skid row, I'm wearing camoflauge pants, a black leather jacket, and a white motorcycle helmet, crawling around on all fours and shooting like mad, it occurs to me that I'm part of this mad play that's all around me. I'm no longer an observer. I've crossed over some invisible threshold and become part of the scene. I'm tumbling down the rabbit hole.
This is like the part in the Matrix where you have to choose between the red pill and the blue pill. But I don't have a choice here.
And the problem is this...the problem is very fundamental....these people in the art galleries... are charging thousands of dollars for art work that looks like a 9 year old could knock it out in a few minutes with their eyes closed...and the people in the galleries are displaying, marketing, and selling this work for an insane profit.
Normally, I'm fairly comfortable as seeing myself as an observer. I drive around the city on my motorcycle, deftly dodging the skateboarders and handicapped beggars, taking photos and moving on.
But I have noticed that, if I stop to study something, and photograph it, I have noticed that other people begin to take notice of it also. Always this was something that I dismissed. A curiosity, but nothing requiring a shift in my world-view paradigm.
But now, I'm standing in the center of the action. There's no denying it any more. I'm no longer an observer. I'm a reluctant participant. An unwitting accomplice.
The police arrive just in time and I'm chomping at the bit. Foaming at the mouth. This is going to be great. I can't wait to see the police unleash a furious assault on these mongrels. A real Rodney King-style beat down. A WWF smackdown played out in real life right here on Geary Street.
I'm thinking I'll walk into the corner grocery, pick out a 40 oz beer, kick the homeless Rasputin character out of the road-side Lazy Boy, and watch it all go down. This should be a thing of beauty.
But instead, the police head straight for my motorcycle. I'm still wearing my helmet and there's no license plate on my bike. They'll put this together real quick. Suddenly, I'm thinking I'm in their crosshairs.
But they walk right by the motorcycle with no license plate. Right past the broken whores and homeless crack addicts. Past the near-human handicapped gimps rolling downhill in motorized wheelchairs. Past the illegally parked rolling canvas with California plates that say FINDART. Past the thin pale hippie spraypainting the front of the truck on Geary street.
This fog comes into the city now thick as cream. It comes in like a tide from the coast that doesn't obey the shore. It just keeps right on rolling into the city.
Foghorns sound out in the bay. These ships out there...how they make it I can't say. Can't know. Can't guess. They're on the bay though, sailing through this whipping cream, sounding their fog horns almost continuously. The Golden Gate and the Bay Bridges have horns as well. They're talking back and forth...the bridges and the ships...they have this dialog...they're all talking at once now...madness.
The police cut a lock off a door, climb back into their black and white cruiser and disappear into the fog.
I don't think you could get arrested in this town if you tried. You'd have to physically assault someone to get any police attention. Short of that, you're not on their radar, I'm afraid.
My laptop is old and battered. It's essentially non-functioning at this point. It sounds like a lawnmower on a gravel driveway when it's working, and it won't work unless it's plugged in. The battery is completely useless.
I'm so excited by my near-life-experience with the artists I want to write. I want to buy a laptop that works, so I drive to Central Computers to see if they'll sell me a laptop, but they're closed so I'm left to wander the city streets on two wheels in the dying light.
Nob Hill
I start rolling up Nob Hill, and I notice that the poverty seems to be focused closer to sea level. As you climb the hills, you leave behind the homeless, so that the crime and poverty seem to flow downhill. The peaks are all powdered with the affluent and well heeled bourgeois.
Of course, this is just death to me. Nothing that interests me in the least.
The Bike
The bike can smell fear like a woman. It knows when I wake up if I'm afraid. You can't ride a wheelie unless you're completely insane. Bold.
Posted by Rob Kiser on July 13, 2011 at 3:00 PM
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