Lament of a Lost Art For(u)m

Back in the 1970s, before Vinyl Album sales started to plummet, most everybody knew, where their local record stores were, and usually had a favorite, or two, to which they were more loyal, than the rest. Those shops were so ubiquitous, in the face of our urban streetscapes, that some attained landmark status. Growing up in Toronto, the Sam the Record Man chain's iconic twin LPs were as often evoked in describing directions, as they were symbols of our destination. If radio helped to cause our addiction, record stores were our dealers, and we were not, ever, long from our next fix.

From the moment of our arrival, at these dangerous halls, that could spell short term financial ruin to many a teen, we were inundated with visual stimuli, from every angle, even as we could only listen to one tune, at a time. As a forum, the album art we were surrounded by, may have singly exposed more impressionable minds, on a personal level, to a visual art form, than any other.

The way music was sold, then, produced an effect of storefronts acting not only as retail outlets for the music publishing industry, but, as a side effect, as showrooms for album art. Of course, there was a synergy. Often, we would develop an interest in an album based on what was visually attractive, which would lead to listening to the content. In fact, those brick and mortars were so lucrative, and as a result equally prevalent, that we city dwellers often found ourselves face to face, being introduced to new art, both in the audio and visual media, while randomly passing by, or by innocently standing curb-side.

These twelve and three eights inch square, printed card stock, mass produced works of art, were frequently to be seen strung together in a dizzying pattern repeat that added a kaleidoscopic element to our awareness of these works.

This format, when studied at arm's length, revealed sufficient detail, to allow a good level of appreciation, of some intimacy. As much of the song/artist information was published on the covers, we often had the propensity to study them, while taking some sacred personal time to listen to the record. More often than not, this was the time, during which previously unseen details appeared to us. Some were dark, others humorous, and others yet simply interesting, but this increasing familiarity always seemed to help us to connect with the music on a deeper level. From Coltrane's pensive contemplation to Yes' utopian worlds, across Nirvana's social commentary, and beyond Pink Floyd's enigmatic imagery, to The Misfits, and Black Sabbath's over the top seriousness, from RUN-DMC's businesslike toughness to the Beastie Boys' playfulness, the covers not only had to be iconic representations that reflected a musical genre, but capture the audience's imagination, as well. Even the simplest, cleanest portraits were a study in that duality, often capturing a style, or a feel that fans adopted. The artists had to embody, or visually represent the ethos of the content of the album, as well as the band's overall aesthetic, and, in the case of established acts, had to position the artwork in context with preceding works. In its most evolved form, the artwork managed to add another layer to the rich texture of a band's mystique.

Where Yes fans would look forward to the tactile connection between themselves and one of Roger Dean's new illustrations, followers of the Clash could feed their need for the expression of anarchy and anger from the implied violence and aggression represented on that band's latest release. By the time that band's seminal third album's cover art was designed, they'd already permitted themselves a jeering reply to mock rocker Elvis Presley's eponymous debut. While this was surely not the earliest instance of a sort of visual retort, is was, with even greater certainty, also not the last, with the range of intent spanning form ridicule to homage. The variety of work one could find, was as limitless as artist's imagination, and we who were exposed to it, were enriched by it.

The closeness many of us feel, to this for of art, springs, in part, from the tactile interface of having held the newly released work in our hands. We touched them, when they were in the record stores, and had even the feel and texture integrate into the knowledge of the object.

Today, even though sales of the 33 1/3 RPM format are rebounding, the brick and mortar stores selling vinyl neither have the presence they once did, nor do the few that do exist possess the magnetic, sometimes even frenetic draw, that massive music industry ad campaigns frequently produced.

As music sales have morphed from LP, to CD to digital downloads, we've lost a sumptuous luxury. While the format initially shrunk to less than on quarter of its original size, it eventually faded, almost completely, from its once esteemed role. Even though long playing vinyl records have seen a resurgence, in recent years, with 2013 marking a 33% increase from the previous year (a 22 year record), neither they, nor their packaging will ever again reach the level of cultural significance they once enjoyed, in terms of placing a visual art form in the public eye. 

From time to time, I still miss my long dead dogs. All so wonderfully different, and each in their own way chewed their indelible graffito into the tender bark of my heart.

For cuddling, none quite outshone Czar. Drafty, cold evenings in front of warming fires, wrapped around his bulky form, snoozing, with my nose buried in the coarse, curly mane of his nape, my fingers left to feel the beat of his heart. He was the hugger and snuggler extraordinaire, sidling up unexpectedly, pushing his shoulder into my hip, or cleaving his form betwixt any embrace. Wanting, welcoming of affection, he was genuinely appreciative of closeness, and sweet to the core. Any warmth lavished on him radiated back in multiples with generosity.

Despite his size, no space was too tiny to wedge himself into, as long as it would allow him to be near his favorite people. A tired arm, dangled loosely from the sofa was welcomed with a soft, approving groan.

Kid, you left an awfully large hole.  

Earl Grey, Hot

A few days after Victrola's most incompetent barista told me that he couldn’t sell me any tea unless it was steeped, and in a cup, I was shot down at PCC by the manager, following a search through their tea stockpile. She'd caught up with me in the check out line and explained that her earlier hopeful guess at having our favored variety back in stock might have been wrong as they'd already been out for at least ten days. With two failed attempts tucked in my belt, I knew that it was time to use a little logic for finding some loose leaf, Earl Grey tea to constitute a part of my darling's birthday present. I decided to search the internet and call ahead.

Holly picked up the call and said “hello.” Momentarily taken aback at the lack of a company identifier, and hoping the number I'd dug out of Google hadn't changed hands, I asked “is this Necessitea?” She said “oh, yes.” Without giving her time to breathe, I immediately cut to the important question. “Do you sell loose leaf teas?” She answered “yes, I do.” I was elated. “Do you have Earl Grey?” Her affirmative response made me sit up straight. “What time are you open until?” I asked. “I could be there in a few minutes. I'm just on the other side of the West Seattle Bridge from you.” She hemmed and hawed a little, and told me that she does most of her business through the mail, that parking was impossible near her house, and asked if I would meet her at Cafe Luna. As I was starving by this point, I told her that would be OK by me. She asked me how many ounces I wanted and I asked how many portions I could divvy an ounce up into. After she told me that an ounce could be broken up into about twenty to twenty five splits, the feeling of deja vu, that was engulfing me, took only a short time to be recognized as an actual memory, or several recollections. “Holly,” I said, “this sounds just like a conversation I could have had, years ago, about a different substance.” A moment of silence and both of us started laughing.

On my way out of the door, I ran into Robert. “Are you hungry” I asked, still chuckling as I recounted my phone call to him. His first response was, “are you sure you were talking about tea?” I told him I was certain but he said that he didn't think he'd want to be there for that. I imagined visions of potential, unintended, yet still botched drug deals playing out in his head.

As I sat down at at the counter at Cafe Luna only a few minutes later, a girl at the end of the bar counter, and the woman across the counter from her, halted their conversation, and the woman walked away. Finding myself at the point of hunger where forgetting to call Holly and trying to maintain focus on the menu was only natural, my eyes and mind wandered all around this visually pungent, intentionally kitschy place. The woman behind the bar returned to her conversation with the pink haired girl and, very openly, handed her a fat-in-the-middle kind of joint, followed by the words “I'm sorry, I know it's supposed to be more of a cone, but that's all I got”. I was stunned and the first thought to pop into my head was “don't be Holly.” The next two, almost simultaneously, were a hurt feeling at the possibility of my being a cop being so obviously, and immediately discounted, and “Shit, forgot to call.” I was relieved when the ringing stopped and the voice to answer was not hooked to the woman behind the bar. The real Holly showed up a moment after I ordered a tuna melt. She was easy to spot by the bag clutched in her left hand as she walked in the door. We extended our right hands toward each other and I'd already placed the money we discussed in mine. After we shook, I squeezed the folded bills into the palm of hers as I pulled mine away. It took a couple of seconds for her to notice that I'd left something there. When she did, she laughed.

Black Tea: 2–3 minutes at 99 °C (210 °F), good for 2-3 infusions

Later that day, I cropped my coiffe more closely than any curmudgeonly cop's new crew cut. 

Someone on Linkedin recently asked "Why is building only to minimum code an injustice to our clients?" Maybe more for the wording of the question, but it's an interesting point to contemplate. 

After all, this is a question we ask ourselves every time clients require us to design buildings that are to be erected for the lowest cost per area. While it can be seen as an obligation of the design, or construction professional to edify the client, I think it's rare, if not unheard of, to do a building life-cycle cost analysis for projects that are going to be built at $80/SF. There's probably too little time in anybody's budget to make that happen. 

In fact, the answer is, that our being asked to design or construct a building to the lowest cost, is a reflection of a cultural norm, in much of North America, that buildings are disposable. This transient nature is, in part, a consequence of the dynamic social, economic, and geographic mobility of our society. 

Much as we'd all like to raise monuments to stand in perpetuity, there's little point, if a building will be razed for a higher density project within a quarter of a century. 

As a parallel, Lotus Cars were reputed to have built their formula one racers of the seventies each to win one race. If they were capable to go much further, after that race, they were considered overbuilt for the task at hand. 

Of course, at a level where we work with clients whose need or desire it is to reduce annual maintenance (and associated costs), and who are able to defray that cost via a higher initial investment in construction cost, the question starts to be valid, and simultaneously becomes moot. 

A question that grows out of the original one, is why we don't have a standard that requires a high degree of recyclability of buildings and components. Maybe this could be a voluntary standard, incentivized by a reduction in impact fees, or permitting costs. After all, if it is the fate of these buildings to not be around for very long, we are fools to not simply morph them into another reincarnation. This could reduce construction costs, C02 emissions, VOC emissions, save valuable natural resources, and possibly have more far-reaching, positive consequences. 

What may be a more effective way to approach the incentive, is to move at least part of that reward to end of each life cycle. This could look like a free demolition permit, or a reduced building permitting fee for the next project on the site. In so doing, the added resale/market value would be a part of the benefit to an owner. In theory we can thus ensure that a project is deconstructed responsibly, in such a way as to create viable components for new constructs, as opposed to simply rewarding that it was built with the option to do so. 

In the end, instead of asking why we build to minimum standards, we could be asking why our least expensive building methods are still so costly, and so wasteful. 

B.

Beauty, body image, and the medicalization of nonconformity.

It's interesting, that for a society that would appear to be increasingly obsessed with social justice, we discriminate harshly, even within the supposedly most hard hit groups based on race, gender, and sexual orientation.

Within each of those groups lie a couple of subsets that consistently bear the worst discrimination by society at large, as well as by members of their own group. Those people who fall outside of ideal aesthetics as far as body type, wrinkled skin, or facial beauty are concerned, have to bring a great deal more merit to the table if they want to advance socially and economically, than those who either have the good fortune to possess youth and beauty, or those who've paid to acquire or retrieve them.

As we all suffer from the pressures of group mentality, every person who has elective plastic surgery in order to enhance their appearance, is guilty of bullying yet another to join the group of oppressors. The “norm” for Physical attractiveness thus reinforced, those who are not endowed with perfect facial symmetry, those who have a proboscis that has millennia of breeding within a geographic region to thank for its shape, who have a Roman nose, a Semitic schnoz, or a Greek proboscis will find their ethnicity a challenge. Those who have a breast size not considered to be optimal by the Madison avenue selection committee, will not only feel inadequate for having “enhanced” models in swimsuits reminding them from that high pulpit that is the billboard, but they will also have “friends supporting their decision to do what they want to,” because nothing says friendship like being an enabler.

When it comes to being self destructive, we have options as basic as and simple as being in a miserable mood, because after a quick look in the mirror, we feel inadequately far from a physical ideal. By being linked to visual stimuli such as advertisements that provide a near constant barrage of reminders of what we should want to look like, our body image is a powerful component of our overall self image. Being under constant bombardment of cultural ideals, which don't allow for a diverse range, causes many of society's members to succumb to the pressures of achieving the desired aesthetic by any means available. Of those who wallow in the misery of feeling physically inadequate, some look for salvation in a salve, others choose to starve themselves, and the most rapidly growing segment of those who've been pummeled into disliking their own look, are those who volunteer to pay money to someone who would cut them with a knife.

The medicalization of the visual signs of aging, and the wide spread advertisement of the ease of combating the outward evidence of that most natural of phenomena lead to ageism. This is socially reinforced when combined with a suggestion of obligation to join the herd trudging toward a more youthful appearance, or to approve by not being outspoken against the common practice. Every person who has the skin on their face pulled tight is guilty of perpetuating the notion that there is something wrong with proudly displaying one's own true age. The prevalence of this practice among women, is something that only a misogynistic, patriarchal society would promote, or even accept. With every person who is encouraged by a so called friend to have a face lift, instead of being reminded that they are beautiful and dissuaded, we encourage the use of phrases like “not aging well.” As a result of every additional person walking around with smooth skin after turning fifty, the expectation and perception of how we should age is warped and twisted into a new, further unattainable, fake reality. Those who opt not to be modified, are then even more likely to be thought of as the abnormal, the freaks, when in truth, we are torturing reality and seeing its face twisted into a button nose, puffy lips, pronounced cheekbones, sunken cheeks, and nary a wrinkle in sight. Embracing a reverence for the hard earned wisdom that is evidenced by gray hair and sun dried skin, is not foreign to other cultures with whom we have a great deal of interaction. Funny how we enjoy adopting their cuisines, their music, and their visual aesthetic, while we adamantly reject absorbing their respect for the aging segment of their populations. In some Asian countries, the attitudes we exhibit toward our elders could only be seen as shameful.

Our current culture places such a high value on physical beauty that it has become commonplace for people to be willing to subject themselves to plastic surgery to come closer to the Barbie or Ken image that we have all, at one point or another in our lives, helped to establish as the beauty ideal worth striving for. Even people who easily get queasy when seeing something as innocuous as a mild bruise, still go under the knife to have their pectoralis muscles made less functional and frequently damaged by being ripped away from the ribcage during their chosen procedure.

Finally, we have made “ugly” and “old” treatable medical conditions. Without thinking about it, we have become willing accomplices in the mass torture of our own friends and families. We did this by subjecting those our culture has deemed less appealing to being cut up, cut open, forever scarred, changed from the identity they grew up with, to the point of sometimes being made difficult to recognize by those who truly love them. If it were happening to a distant group of complete strangers, the ire of our collective sense of social justice and moral indignation would be inflamed to the point of action. Why then, are we willing to turn a blind eye to that trait in ourselves?

To think that we could not discriminate when we are in fact hard wired to do so seems childish or purposely ignorant. We all inherently use a scale of “attractiveness” to determine how we deal with people in our daily lives. We base this system of hierarchy at least in large part on our hard-wired gauge of mate selection for the purpose of procreation. Studies show that there are are a large number of visual parameters that we base our attraction on, which include proportion, height, gait, and posture among others. Yet, it's interesting to note that we also discriminate based on olfactory inputs, but at least we seem to limit that behavior to mate selection. None the less, we tend to favor those who match our biases, and opportunities for advancement tend to go to those who are willing to adapt. Luckily, the meritocracy is an accident, or a hard punch in the face away. Best for all to keep that in mind, when contemplating the easy way out.

Most of the time, we know that we should keep botulism far away from our mouths and our food preparation surfaces, yet when it comes labeled as plainly as BO(tulism)TOX(in), but carries the promise of making us younger looking, a good percentage of our population, whom we would ordinarily not think of as imbecilic, allow their plastic surgeon to inject it directly into their flesh. The level of trust required for this transaction is heart warming, or is it more of a willingness to take huge risks to cling, desperately, to the A-list for a few years longer, or is it to give one's-self the illusion of the chance to make it there? An interesting statistic would relate to how many of those patients take the time to educate themselves on the potential pit falls and down-sides.

As with any surgery, there are risks associated with cosmetic procedures. These include, but are not limited to bleeding, infection, adverse reaction to anesthesia, and unexpected scarring. Mortality is also not unheard of. Less severe complications are far more likely. Decreased sensitivity, particularly in the case of breast augmentation is not a widely publicized side effect, nor is the increased likelihood of problems with breastfeeding. Implants can also mask tumors on mammograms and self examinations, likely leading to a delay in breast cancer detection. Implants can even rupture, leak, or become displaced. It's considered “normal” for a thick scar to form around the implant. This thick scar tissue, referred to as a capsule, can become very hard. This “capsular contracture” may result in pain and sometimes change the appearance of the breast. These problems increase with the age of the implant. There is also ongoing research on links between these implants and autoimmune or connective tissue diseases. Yet despite all of these risks, every year, the number of plastic surgery procedures increases at an alarming rate. Some industry statistics go as far as to predict a four-fold rise between 2005 and 2015.

So, even as we superficially preach that beauty is on the inside, fewer of us are likely to want to live by that dictum, if we can afford not to. After all, if a prettier face will give us a leg up, even when legs up alone don't do it, a greater percentage of us will prepare to whore ourselves out for social and economic advancement in the next years. Keep a lookout for who, among your coworkers, comes back from vacation looking more attractive. They're probably out to be your next boss.

As a societal norm is a product of that group's member's values, seeing the narrowness of the accepted range can be viewed as a symptom of the flaws of our culture, and it can be similarly distasteful to looking in a mirror. The more individuals give voice to their acceptance of aging, of a variety of body shapes and facial types, the stronger a mesh we would weave. It is debatable if our emblematic divisiveness is more likely a part of the original problem, or its outcome, but it's a simple deduction to see that we would be a stronger group for being more inclusive of greater diversity.

Breeding self hatred for not measuring up to an airbrushed idol …, and the methodology the medical establishment has adopted for healing the affected, is to cut on the healthy, and to let the disease, which is cultured in agencies all over Madison Avenue continue to do its damage.

In the end, what we should be using as the measure of our evolution, both on a personal, and on a cultural level, are our kindness and the degree of our social inclusiveness, as well as our willingness to embrace a simple love of self that rejects a shallow standard. In the end, until we sincerely embrace the idea that substance IS more important than visual beauty, that form truly does follow function, we will continue to be more closely related to the great apes than to the great spirit.

He runs away from me. His tail is wagging. He enjoys the chase, knowing that I'll get him. He knows, because I tell him repeatedly. “I'm goin' to get you,” I yell after him, as he lures me to the kitchen. It's feeding time. By the time I catch up, he's half turned, dividing his attention between me and his empty bowl. He's extraordinary. He's forgiven me so many sins, that I can't possibly remember them all, forgiven all of the times I was cruel to him. Forgiven him all of the times he tore my hands, my skin, my flesh, sometimed down to bone, to remind me what's right and wrong. I have so much respect for him for being my compass, for not letting me get away with being a shit. Respect for being my mentor even as he understands that he's my charge.

Sam's interested, and while those objects that command his most deeply focused attentions are usually of at least questionabe edibility, the common occurences of his daily life still hold the power to draw him in. His awareness of the goings on around him is, in fact, one of his most particularly attractive traits, just as the ability to drift off almost anywhere, newly found at age ten, leading to being shocked and grumpy, upon awakening to other sneaky canines having acquired the ability to move closer silently, invisibly, is one of his most adorable flaws. He jumps to his feet, still half asleep, and warns the unwitting intruder with a sharp bark. As with a ripple emanating from his epicenter, all around him jump too.

There's also his nervousness. Even though it elicits mostly pity, at first, it's also endearing because it helps me to see his selectivity. Some times, my activities are the least of his concerns, yet on other occasions, like when we ambulate, or for that matter, skateboard among the crowds at outdoor shows, I'm it. His hindquarters begin to vibrate in an almost imperceptible quiver, and I become, by far, the heaviest body in his universe. Strangers with hands extended in friendship get a mildly curious, but mostly cursory sniff, an indifferent kiss, and his orbit returns him to my back. Of course, when we skateboard without crowd involvement, our bungee sometimes snaps me back, reminding me that any blade of grass, twig, or grasshopper can absorb him, almost completely, in an instant. 

The Early Atoms @ Rendezvous' Grotto, 07/16/2011

The Early Atoms show, at the Rendezvous' Grotto, Saturday night, was solidly embedded within what seems to be their own, unique, daring, minimalist style. Daniel Tyler's wrenching cover of Lungfish's The Evidence, received with some awe, and even some deference, in this intimate space, was pared down even beyond the original. The following two tunes were instrumentals, slim, minimal, and beautiful. The first was a (roughly) seven minute acoustic guitar piece, shifting smoothly between melody, drone, and rhythmic sequences that melted and flowed into each other elegantly. The third, and last track of their too short set, juxtaposed some, at times lively, acoustic guitar playing against a low tonal soundscape created by violin and stand up base. If you want to experience something off the beaten musical track, look for their next gig.