TWO MEN ARE DRINKING IN A BAR. BETWEEN THEM IS A HALF BOTTLE OF WHISKEY. ONE OF THEM, A PESSIMIST, SAYS IT’S HALF EMPTY. THE OTHER, AN OPTIMIST, SAYS IT’S HALF FULL.
The experimental artist today is the un-artist. Not the antiartist but the artist emptied of art. The un-artist, as the name implies, started out, conventionally, as a Modernist, but at a certain point around the ’50s began divesting her or his work of nearly every feature that could remind anyone of art at all. The un-artist makes no real art but does what I’ve called lifelike art, art that reminds us mainly of the rest of our lives.1
A WOMAN DECIDES TO GO AND FIND A SMUDGE SOMEWHERE. THE IDEA IS TO REMOVE THE SMUDGE AND TAKE IT AWAY WITH HER. A FEW DAYS LATER SHE SEES A CIGARETTE ASH CRUSHED ON A SIDEWALK AND SWEEPS IT UP INTO HER JACKET POCKET. AFTER A WEEK GOES BY SHE SHOWS SOMEONE THE INSIDE OF HER POCKET. MAYBE SHE TELLS HOW SHE TOOK AWAY A SMUDGE. THERE’S NOT MUCH TO SEE.
If un-arting is a divesting of “nearly” all the features of recognizable art, what still remains is the concept “art”; the word is there in “un-artist.” That word and all the countless paintings, sculptures, concerts, poems, and plays it briefly calls up were part of the un-artist’s earlier commitment. So art, for a while, will linger as a memory trace, but not as something that matters.
This may make sense if we recall that the profession of art itself has played a major role in its own unloading. The innovative side of its history in the West is marked by repeated inclusions of nonart; junk, noises, pop themes, mass products, new technologies, perishables, fleeting events, politics, streets, deserts, bathrooms, telephone booths. . . . The un-artist, therefore, is the offspring of high art who has left home.
As un-art takes a lifelike form and setting, as it begins to function in the world as if it were life, we can speculate that art and all of its resonances may one day become unnecessary for today’s experimenter, even as the point of departure it has been. And that might not be so bad, since the attraction of artists to nonart over the last century suggests that the idea of art as a thing apart has not always been satisfactory; that at certain times the rest of life is more compelling. That’s why art cannot be entirely forgotten, and why, at the same time, it can be left behind.
HARRY DEALS IN CALIFORNIA REAL ESTATE AND HAS A GOOD LIFE. ONE DAY AT LUNCH HE LOOKS AROUND HIM AT THE QUIET PATIO AND THE FLOWERING BOUGAINVILLEA, THEN AT HIS PARTNER, MIKE. “MIKE,” HE SAYS, “DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE MEANING OF LIFE IS?” MIKE SAYS NO AND CHANGES THE SUBJECT.
FOR THE NEXT FEW MONTHS HARRY WORRIES ABOUT THE MEANING OF LIFE. FINALLY HE TELLS MIKE HE’S GOING TO QUIT REAL ESTATE TO SEARCH UNTIL HE FINDS THE ANSWER. MIKE TRIES TO TALK HIM OUT OF IT BUT HARRY HAS MADE UP HIS MIND. HE PUTS HIS AFFAIRS IN ORDER AND DISAPPEARS FROM THE FACE OF THE EARTH.
YEARS LATER, MIKE IS EATING LUNCH AT THE SAME RESTAURANT AND A BUM PUTS A HAND ON HIS SHOULDER AND SAYS IN A WHEEZY VOICE, “MIKE, IT’S ME, HARRY!”
HARRY IS A SCARECROW, ONE EYE MISSING, TEETH GONE, A FILTHY MESS. MIKE WANTS TO SHAKE HIM OFF BUT HARRY STICKS TO HIM LIKE GLUE. HARRY SAYS, “IT’S BEEN A LONG TRIP, I DID TIME IN JAIL, I GOT ALL KINDS OF DISEASES, I ALMOST DIED IN TIBET, I WAS ROBBED AND BEATEN UP . . . BUT I FOUND THE MEANING OF LIFE!”
MIKE LOOKS HIM OVER AND FIGURES HE HAS TO PLAY ALONG TO GET RID OF HIM. AND SO HE SAYS “OKAY, WHAT’S THE MEANING OF LIFE?” HARRY STARES DEEP INTO MIKE’S EYES AND SAYS “IT’S THE HOLE IN A BAGEL.”
MIKE DOESN’T APPRECIATE THE ANSWER SO HE TELLS HARRY THAT THE MEANING OF LIFE CAN’T BE THE HOLE IN A BAGEL. HARRY SLOWLY TAKES HIS HAND OFF MIKE’S SHOULDER AND GETS AN AMAZED LOOK ON HIS FACE. HE SAYS TO MIKE “AHA! SO LIFE’S NOT THE HOLE IN A BAGEL!” . . . AND HE WALKS OUT OF THE PATIO.
What’s the meaning of this story? Is Harry really right, that is, is he on the right track of life’s meaning, even if it isn’t exactly the hole in a bagel? The story does cast him as the seer who, after his brief reunion with skeptical Mike, probably goes on and on searching. In the great quester tradition, Harry has made a binding pledge to that search. Since he has gone through hell, now he must be essentially right. But Mike could be more right: he knows that Harry is crazy.
Suppose, instead, that both are equally right. Mike is a responsible man. He shares with Harry the management of a corporate giant known for its prizewinning shopping centers. Mike genuinely believes in productive work as a supreme virtue. He knows that the meaning of life cannot be simply the hole in a bagel. Harry, however, is a visionary at heart. Though he is remarkable at business and a respected member of his community, he has always sensed that there is something more, some deeper truth. Harry has read books, but books are not enough. He must find the truth himself, away from the life he’s led. Looked at this way, he and Mike are doing what each believes is necessary. They both know the meaning of life.
Now suppose both are wrong. Mike only understands virtue that is socially approved. He is unconsciously smug about being a model (i.e., wealthy) citizen and he secretly despises those who do not have the same ambition, while envying anyone who is more outstanding than he is. Harry, too, who had presumably put his affairs in order before going on his pilgrimage, actually leaves Mike in the lurch. He had a family who loved him. There are colleagues and friends who suffer from his absence, not to mention the fact that as the architectural brains behind the success of his firm, he has severely jeopardized its future. Searching for the “meaning of life” is for Harry just an excuse to abandon his real life responsibilities. Neither man is admirable, so neither of them can possibly know the meaning of life.
If the two men can be right, wrong, and partly right or wrong, is the meaning of the story that nothing in life is clearly this or that? Perhaps, but that’s obvious. What is central to this story is that while Harry may be driven by an impossible dream, he is flexible about its details: if the hole in a bagel won’t do, then something else will. Mike may be the practical man but that’s why he can accept reality as it appears to him: after Harry leaves he manages anyway. We really don’t know from the bare story the small particulars of their separation. Harry may not have had a family at all, and his leaving the business may have been quite decently arranged. Mike, for his part, may have decided to merge with another real estate conglomerate to expand the business. The greatest part of the story is what we choose to add to it.
And that’s the story of lifelike art. Lifelike artists are either Harry or Mike, or both at once, playing at life’s daily routines. They find life’s meaning in picking a stray thread from someone’s collar. And if that isn’t it, they find it in just making sure the dishes are washed, counting the knives, the forks, the cups and saucers, as they pass from the left hand to the right.
How different this is from “artlike artists,” whose art resembles other art more than anything else. Artlike artists don’t look for the meaning of life; they look for the meaning of art. And when they think they’ve found it, they become very discouraged if told they’re wrong. They don’t go willingly on to some other answer as Harry did; and they’re hardly free of doubts, like Mike. Most of the time they stick to their guns, and even fight.
A MAN COMMITS A CRIME AND IS SENTENCED TO LIFE IN PRISON. WHEN HE ARRIVES AT THE PRISON GATE, HE IS MET BY AN OLDER INMATE WHO HAS BEEN ASSIGNED TO SUPERVISE HIS ADJUSTMENT TO PRISON ROUTINE. AFTER HE HAS CHECKED IN AND BEEN GIVEN A UNIFORM, THEY PROCEED TO THE MESS HALL FOR LUNCH, WHERE HE IS INTRODUCED TO THE OTHER PRISONERS. THEY BEGIN EATING AND AFTER A FEW MINUTES HE HEARS SOMEONE SAY “FOURTEEN!” EVERYBODY LAUGHS. THEN HE HEARS “ELEVEN!” FOLLOWED BY GOOD-NATURED GROANS. THEN “NINETY-TWO!” AND GIGGLES. THEN “TWENTY-SEVEN!” HOWLS AND TEARS. THIS GOES ON THROUGH THE WHOLE MEAL.
THE NEW MAN GETS MORE AND MORE CONFUSED. SO HE LEANS OVER TO HIS MENTOR AND WHISPERS “WHAT’S GOING ON?” THE OLDER MAN REPLIES “WE’RE TELLING JOKES. BUT WE’VE TOLD THEM SO MANY TIMES THAT WE KNOW THEM BY HEART. AND SO TO SAVE TIME THE JOKES HAVE NUMBERS. THAT WAY WE CAN TELL A LOT MORE JOKES.”
THE NEW INMATE NODS AND REALIZES HE’S GOING TO BE EATING WITH THESE MEN FOR A LONG TIME AND MIGHT AS WELL LEARN THE ROPES. SO HE SAYS “SIXTEEN!” AND LOOKS AROUND AT EVERYONE. DEAD SILENCE. HE LEANS OVER AGAIN AND SAYS “WHAT’S WRONG?” THE OLDER PRISONER SAYS “SIMPLE. YOU DIDN’T TELL IT RIGHT.”
It is serious business telling jokes by numbers. A person needs a lot of knowledge and training in joke history to tell a joke by announcing one plain number. Do it properly and it becomes a whole world. Just hear a “five” or a “two hundred and seventy-eight” from a real jokester and you’d know it was a scream.
After years in the prison there are no new jokes introduced. There couldn’t be, for example, a “crocodile tears” joke with the number “minus thirteen” if it didn’t already exist. It would have no history, therefore no one would know it was a joke. But a classic that has been told to death can provide countless opportunities for witty takeoffs.
Given a repertory, say, of three hundred jokes among twenty prisoners at a table, who have lived together for an average of fifteen years, and share about eleven hundred breakfasts, lunches, and dinners a year; and supposing that each prisoner has the skill to make at least ten variations and quotations from the others’ joke styles—they have about sixty thousand jokes to enjoy.
Formidable. Only a professional can appreciate the finely tuned sequences of numbers required at each meal. To the men at the table, pauses speak volumes. Voices rise and fall. Facial expressions, gestures, and eye contacts inflect the weight of all twenty responses to each number. The attentive prisoner can perceive in their giggles and groans massive ironies and learned critiques. On one occasion, a covertly planned strike against prison work-conditions, and growing resentment over the declining quality of the food, are simultaneously encoded in certain multiples of “three”; thus, to the most expert listener, every joke containing these numbers resonates politically. No wonder, then, that the new man fails to get a laugh out of his mates. “You didn’t tell it right,” his mentor says. Telling it right really counts in that prison.
Out in the ordinary world, however, it isn’t so important to tell it right. There are no experts who know the meaning of life. Who could say with certainty that life is a screwdriver, or a bottle cap? The punchline may never be delivered. But on the rush-hour freeways listening to the news describing the rush-hour freeways, there you can hear the wisdom of the shaggy dog.
•
TWO FRIENDS SPEND THE DAY VISITING. WHENEVER IT SEEMS RIGHT, ONE SAYS TO THE OTHER “YOU’RE UP” OR “YOU’RE DOWN,” AND THEY CONTINUE WHATEVER THEY’VE BEEN DOING OR TALKING ABOUT. “UP” AND “DOWN” DEPEND ON WHETHER ONE FRIEND IS ON A HIGHER OR LOWER LEVEL (SUCH AS A STEP ON A STAIRWAY), OR IS FEELING GOOD OR BAD. THESE TWO KINDS OF UPS AND DOWNS MIGHT COINCIDE OR NOT. BUT THE FRIENDS PAY ATTENTION TO SUCH JUDGMENTS. THEY LEARN FROM EACH OTHER HOW THEY ARE. OTHERWISE, THEIR DAY IS PERFECTLY ORDINARY.
THE FRIENDS SPEND ANOTHER DAY TOGETHER. AT SOME POINT ONE SAYS TO THE OTHER, “GIVE ME SOME MONEY.” THE OTHER FRIEND COMPLIES WITH AN AMOUNT. SOME TIME LATER, THE ONE WHO HAS COMPLIED SAYS “GIVE ME MY MONEY BACK” AND THE MONEY IS RETURNED. LATER IN THE DAY, ONE OF THE FRIENDS SAYS “GIVE ME A KISS” AND THE OTHER COMPLIES. STILL LATER, THE ONE WHO HAS COMPLIED SAYS “GIVE ME MY KISS BACK” AND THE KISS IS RETURNED. OTHERWISE, THEIR DAY IS PERFECTLY ORDINARY.
Let’s take a look at these ordinary days. On one of them the friends are digging a cesspool. The household plumbing has become clogged and repairs can’t be put off. It’s hot that day and they must chop through layers of clay with a crowbar and pickax. Down eight feet it’s difficult to shovel, and the dirt and rocks have to be pulled out from above by a pail with a rope tied to the handle. Now and then one of the friends says to the other “You’re up,” or “You’re down.”
Some weeks go by and a colleague of theirs passes away. They attend the funeral. The church is packed. Candles glow on the altar. The choir is singing, and sweet sadness fills every pew. As the minister intones the virtues of their departed comrade, one of the friends says quietly “Give me some money.” Later, at the reception, she says “Give me a kiss.” Of course the money and the kiss are returned upon demand.
As I said, such interactions have almost nothing to do with art as we know it, except that those who engage in them are aware of their not-too-distant art parent. So if they play with what artists do when they are not being artists, they know that this could be construed as a fading discourse of sorts with high art. But that is hardly interesting, because what most artlike artists do when they’re not making art is about the same as what most other people do when they’re not doing something special: bending to tie a shoelace, scratching an itch politely, waving to someone across the street, the weekly telephone call to a parent—that is to say, the small routines of everyday life. Hence, intentional involvement in these routines is not meant to appropriate yet more nonart into art than did artists of the ’50s and ’60s, nor is it to affirm some deeper connection uniting artists and all of humanity (though that is a nice thought). It is, rather, to imply that these ordinary events are inherently compelling once you pay attention to them.
What happens when you pay close attention to anything, especially routine behavior, is that it changes. Attention alters what is attended. When you wash your hands in the bathroom, for instance, do you wet your hands for three seconds, four, or longer? Do you pick up the soap with your left hand or your right? Do you work up a lather with three revolutions of your hands or more? How fast do your hands turn? How long do you rinse? Do you look into the sink or at the mirror as you wash? Do you lean backward to avoid the splashing water? Do you shake your hands to rid them of excess water before reaching for a towel? Do you look at yourself in the mirror to see if you’re presentable?
If you began accounting for all these operations in sequence while you were still washing your hands, you’d notice that they seemed to take longer than they should and that everything happened awkwardly, or at least disjunctively. You may never have given any thought to how many movements you make automatically, or to their physical sensations. You might become fascinated with the soap bubbles, with the drying motions of your hands, with looking at these in the mirror rather than directly. Soon you realize it is all very strange; you are in a territory of the familiar unfamiliar.
How, you may wonder, does someone else do it? How do you find out? Could you ask an acquaintance, “Please, may I watch you washing your hands?” Would you propose this in a private bathroom or a public one? If the proposition were accepted, could you depend on the “normalcy” of the demonstration? Where would you stand, close by or behind? Would you copy the washer’s movements in order to remember them, with your hands in the air, looking in the mirror at him looking at you? Or would you put your hands in the same sink with his? How would you feel about being handed a wet towel?
By now your curiosity may be turning into play. You wash and soap longer than necessary. The soap bar slips out of your hands. You reach for it but your partner grabs it. Laughing, you both begin to wash each other’s hands as well as your own. You talk about hand washing and wonder about people who wash their hands when they’re not dirty (when they want to clean up spiritual dirt). What would happen, one of you says, if every time you shook hands with someone you made a point of washing immediately before and afterwards?
The two of you agree to experiment. During the following days, whenever you shake hands with anyone, you interrupt the spontaneous movement of hands by suddenly pulling away and explaining quickly that before and after handshakes everyone washes. This will leave hands dangling in the space between you. But you swiftly unpack your portable water basin, pour warm water from a thermos, produce a bar of soap, and proceed efficiently to wash your hands and the other person’s, followed by drying with a small towel. The hand shaking then follows ceremoniously and the washup is repeated.
Depending on how curious the person is, it could provoke the question “What was that all about?” You could suggest a cup of coffee together and talk about the meaning of life. And that’s one way to do lifelike art.
A MAN DECIDES TO WALK ONE HUNDRED STEPS IN ONE DIRECTION, THEN ONE HUNDRED STEPS IN ANOTHER DIRECTION, AND SO ON, ONE HUNDRED TIMES. IF HIS STEPS TAKE HIM TO A BLANK WALL, OR INTO THE PATH OF AN ONCOMING CAR, HE HAS TO MAKE ANOTHER DECISION.
•
SOME FRIENDS GET TOGETHER. EACH CHOOSES TO BE A CLIMBER OR A STOOPER. ONCE THEY’VE CHOSEN, THEY GO ABOUT THEIR NORMAL BUSINESS. BUT THEY CARRY A ROLL OF SCOTCH TAPE IN THEIR POCKETS AND HERE AND THERE THEY STRETCH IT ACROSS A DOORWAY, AN ALLEY, A COUPLE OF TREES, OR OVER SOME TRUCK WHEELS.
CLIMBERS STRETCH THEIR FIRST TAPE AT WAIST LEVEL, AND FIND SOME WAY TO CLIMB OVER IT. NEXT TIME IT IS FIXED AN INCH OR SO HIGHER, THE TIME AFTER, ANOTHER INCH, AND SO FORTH. THIS GRADUAL RAISING OF THE TAPE CONTINUES THROUGH THE DAY OR EVEN THE WEEK, UNTIL CLIMBING IS IMPOSSIBLE.
STOOPERS STRETCH THEIR FIRST TAPE AT ABOUT THE LEVEL THEY’D LOOK SOMEONE IN THE EYE, AND THEN THEY FIND A WAY TO STOOP UNDER IT. THE NEXT ONE, AND THE FOLLOWING ONES THROUGH THE DAY OR WEEK, ARE GRADUALLY LOWERED AROUND AN INCH AT A TIME. AS THE TAPE APPROACHES THE FLOOR OR GROUND, THEY MIGHT HAVE TO CRAWL UNDER IT, UNTIL STOOPING IS IMPOSSIBLE.
•
TWO COMMERCIAL HOUSE-CLEANERS WANT TO DO SOMETHING NICE. THEY ARRANGE TO CLEAN EACH OTHER’S KITCHEN FLOORS. THE PLAN IS TO DO THIS BY USING ONLY Q-TIPS AND SPIT. IT TAKES A VERY LONG TIME, THOUSANDS OF Q-TIPS AND LOTS OF SPIT. THEY HAVE TO WORK ON THEIR KNEES, WITH THEIR EYES CLOSE TO THE FLOOR. CRUMBS, HAIRS, DEAD BUGS, AND OTHER INTERESTING THINGS APPEAR.
FINALLY, BOTH KITCHEN FLOORS ARE SPOTLESS. LATER, WHEN THEY TELL A FRIEND ABOUT IT, SHE SAYS “WHAT, YOU CLEANED YOUR FLOORS WITH DIRTY SPIT?”
These events, of course, are themselves the meaning of life. Inasmuch as lifelike art participates in its everyday source, purposely intending to be like life, it becomes interpretation, hence “meaning.” But it is not life in general that is meaningful; an abstraction can’t be experienced. Only life in particular can be; some tangible aspect of it, serving as representation, for example a ripe summer tomato. Harry, you’ll recall, was very concrete when he said life’s meaning was the hole in the bagel. He could poke his finger through it!
Nonetheless, a bagel hole is only one instance of life’s meaning. Its experience vanishes in the second that Harry’s finger is withdrawn. All that is left is a thought. Besides that hole, there are leaking faucets, credit cards, stomachaches, and flyswatters, in endless profusion. That’s why Harry had to let himself be forced, by the resistance of all the Mikes in the universe, to rediscover the meaning of life again and again in something else.
But, while words are used to refer to that meaning, they are only tokens of experience. “The hole in a bagel,” to Harry, stood for years of trekking, foolishness, and discarded revelations encountered across the world. He could just as easily have said “potshot.”
So, if you asked about the meaning of the preceding events, you could consider a number of reasonable answers. Cleaning a friend’s kitchen floor with Q-Tips and spit, for example, instead of doing it more efficiently, could mean (a) seeing life from another perspective; or (b) testing your friendship; or (c) making the simple complicated; or (d) putting yourself (your spit) wholly into the job; or (e) being free to cheat since no one will see you; or (f) being on the track of something big; or (g) getting some exercise. . . . The same range could be applied to the other two events, and to all human events in general.
“Meaning” here is not only variable and unfixed; it is inventive. It is what we add, by imagination and interpretation, to what we do. Harry was not merely, or incidentally, robbed and jailed on his arduous pilgrimage. He was robbed of the meaning of life and jailed by it, equally. He saw everything that happened to him as directly related to his search. He was creating a life story. Mike, in his own fashion, did the same: he related everything to maintaining his idea of the status quo. That was his story.
Lifelike artists, similarly, are conscious inventors of the life that also invents them (at least they try to be conscious as often as they can). They experiment with meanings, sometimes as casually as one might try on different shirts, sometimes as heavily as deciding whether or not to go to a former lover’s wedding. The questions always are: what is the sense of this trip, this meeting, this job, this argument? How is it experienced?
YOU AND A FRIEND COOK FOR EACH OTHER ONCE A WEEK. EVERYTHING GOES WELL FOR A WHILE. ONE DAY, HOWEVER, YOU SAY TO YOUR FRIEND, “THERE’S GOT TO BE MORE TO IT THAN THIS,” AND YOU STOP YOUR WEEKLY ARRANGEMENTS. LATER ON YOU TELEPHONE YOUR FRIEND AND SAY “I KNOW WHAT’S MISSING.” “WHAT?” YOUR FRIEND ASKS. “IT’S COLLECTING THE LINT UNDER OUR BEDS.” BUT SHE SAYS “THAT’S NOT WHAT’S MISSING.” “OH,” YOU SAY, “I’LL GET BACK WITH SOMETHING ELSE.”
THE NEXT DAY YOU CALL AND SAY “I KNOW WHAT’S MISSING NOW!” “WHAT?” “IT’S TAKING A WALK WITH YOU ALL DAY AND STEPPING IN YOUR SHADOW.” YOUR FRIEND SAYS “THAT’LL FIX THINGS UP, IF I CAN STEP ON YOURS.”
FINE. YOU DO THIS ONCE A WEEK FOR SOME TIME AND EVERYTHING GOES WELL AS YOU STEP ON YOUR FRIEND’S SHADOW AND SHE STEPS ON YOURS. BUT EVENTUALLY YOUR FRIEND SAYS “THERE’S GOT TO BE MORE TO IT THAN THIS” AND YOU BOTH STOP TREADING ON EACH OTHER’S SHADOW. SOME TIME AFTERWARD SHE CALLS AND SAYS “I KNOW JUST WHAT’S MISSING.” YOU ASK HER WHAT IT IS AND HEAR THAT IT’S WEARING EACH OTHER’S UNDERWEAR FOR A FEW WEEKS. YOU TELL HER THAT’S NOT WHAT’S MISSING. “WELL, OKAY, I’LL GET BACK TO YOU SOON,” SHE SAYS. A WEEK LATER SHE TELEPHONES AND SAYS “I KNOW WHAT’S MISSING NOW.” AND YOU ASK “WHAT?” SHE SAYS “COLLECTING THE LINT UNDER OUR BEDS.” YOU AGREE AND SPEND A LOT OF TIME UNDER THE BEDS. BUT THIS TOO LASTS ONLY SO LONG, AND ONE DAY YOU SAY “THERE’S GOT TO BE MORE TO IT THAN THIS.” SO LINT COLLECTING IS CALLED OFF.
YOUR NEXT SUGGESTION IS TO SPEND AN EVENING A WEEK SMILING AT ONE ANOTHER, WHICH IS REJECTED. LATER YOU CALL AND SAY “NOW I REALLY KNOW WHAT’S MISSING.” “YEAH?” SHE SAYS. “LET’S COOK FOR EACH OTHER ONCE A WEEK!” YOU SAY. THIS NEW IDEA IS ACCEPTED QUICKLY, AND IT GOES ON FOR A WHILE UNTIL YOUR FRIEND SAYS “THERE’S GOT TO BE MORE TO IT THAN THIS.” AND, WELL. . . .
Is playing at life, life? Is playing at life, “life?” Is “life” just another way of life? Is life playing or is my life playing? Am I playing with words and asking real-life questions?
Life in birds, bees, and volcanoes just is. But (to paraphrase an earlier point) when I think about life, it becomes “life.” Life is an idea. Whatever that idea might be—playing or suffering or whatnot—it floats, outside of time, in my thoughts. But actually playing at life in any form happens in real time, moment by moment, and is distinctly physical. I scrub my friend’s kitchen floor with Q-Tips, my knees hurt, I run out of spit, I look for beer. . . . If I think about life under those conditions, it begins to resemble a hair, a crumb, a dead fly. And that’s another idea.
So lifelike art plays somewhere in and between attention to physical process and attention to interpretation. It is experience yet it is ungraspable. It requires quotation marks (“lifelike”) but sheds them as the un-artist sheds art. If once again I recall Harry the quester, I wonder if he was looking for the meaning of life or the meaning of “life.” He could have been confused about the word.
A MAN OWNS A USED-CAR DEALERSHIP. EVERY MORNING WHEN HE ARRIVES AT WORK, HE GOES AROUND THE LOT KICKING THE CAR TIRES. EXERCISE, HE SAYS.
•
A COLLEGE STUDENT COLLECTS BALLPOINT PENS. SHE HAS SEVERAL THOUSAND. WHENEVER SHE SEES ONE LYING ON THE GROUND OR FORGOTTEN ON A SCHOOL DESK, SHE PICKS IT UP FOR HER COLLECTION. EACH DAY, AROUND 5 O’CLOCK, SHE TELEPHONES HER ANSWERING MACHINE AND LEAVES A DETAILED MESSAGE DESCRIBING THE BALLPOINT PENS SHE’S FOUND. THEN WHEN SHE RETURNS HOME, SHE SITS DOWN AND LISTENS TO HER MESSAGE AS SHE EXAMINES THE PENS ONE BY ONE.
•
A MAN LEAVES A MIRROR OUTDOORS ALL NIGHT. THE TEMPERATURE IS WELL BELOW ZERO. THE NEXT MORNING, HE GOES OUT AND HOLDS THE MIRROR CLOSE TO HIS FACE TO LOOK AT HIMSELF. IT FOGS OVER INSTANTLY.
•
ANOTHER MAN WANTS TO POSSESS HIS SHADOW. HE SEES IT LYING ON THE GROUND, EXTENDING OUT FROM HIS FEET. BUT EVERY TIME HE BENDS DOWN TO CATCH HOLD OF IT, IT SHORTENS AND CHANGES SHAPE. FURTHERMORE, AS THE SUN IS SETTING AT THAT TIME OF DAY, HIS SHADOW GROWS LONGER AND LONGER. NO MATTER HOW HARD HE TRIES TO FIX HIS SHADOW SO THAT HE CAN GRASP IT, IT ELUDES HIM. THEN THE SUN SETS AND THE MAN’S SHADOW DISAPPEARS ENTIRELY.
•
TO MAKE BAGELS YOU WILL NEED TO START WITH I PACKAGE OF DRIED YEAST MIXED WITH A PINCH OF SUGAR IN 1/4 CUP OF WARM WATER. LET THIS STAND FOR 5 TO 10 MINUTES. THEN, IN A WARM BOWL, ADD TO THE YEAST SOLUTION 2 TEASPOONS OF SALT, 2/3 CUP OF PEANUT OIL, AND MIX THOROUGHLY. TO THIS GRADUALLY ADD 3 CUPS OF UNBLEACHED WHITE FLOUR TO MAKE A STIFF, BUT NOT DRY, DOUGH. KNEAD FOR 10 TO 15 MINUTES (HERE IS WHERE STRONG FINGERS AND SHOULDERS MAKE A DIFFERENCE!). PUT THE DOUGH IN A GREASED BOWL, COVER WITH A PLASTIC BAG, AND LET IT RISE FOR 50 MINUTES OR UNTIL IT HAS DOUBLED IN SIZE. NOW CUT THE RISEN DOUGH INTO 16 TO 18 PIECES AND ROLL EACH ONE INTO A “ROPE” HALF AN INCH IN DIAMETER. JOIN THE TWO ENDS OF EACH ROPE INTO A CIRCLE AROUND A COUPLE OF FINGERS, AND SMOOTH THE JOINTS. THEN THROW A HANDFUL OF SALT INTO 2 QUARTS OF WATER IN A WIDE POT AND BRING IT TO A GENTLE BOIL. MEANWHILE, PREHEAT YOUR OVEN TO 450 DEGREES, AND OIL A LARGE COOKIE SHEET. NOW, BOIL THE BAGELS 2 TO 3 MINUTES ON EACH SIDE, DRAIN THEM, AND BRUSH THEM WITH AN EGG MIXTURE OF I EGG BEATEN WITH A TABLESPOON OF COLD WATER. SPRINKLE WITH COARSE SALT. ARRANGE THE BAGELS ON THE COOKIE SHEET AND BAKE THEM 15 TO 20 MINUTES OR UNTIL GOLDEN BROWN. YOU’LL LIKE THEM!
Allan Kaprow teaches at the University of California, San Diego, has written frequently for art journals, including Artforum, and is a practicing artist of the lifelike genre.
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NOTES
1. For a longer discussion of these ideas, see my articles “Education of the Un-Artist,” parts I and II in Artnews LXIX no. 2, February 1971, and LXXI no. 5, May 1972, and part III in Art in America 62 no. January–February 1974; and “The Real Experiment,” Artforum XXII no. 4, December 1983.
