art . sound . space
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| OPENING--Andrew Johnson: When Pulse Becomes Pitch Sat Oct 29th 7PM - | |
| The profound silence peculiar to violence, for violence never declares either its own existence or its right to exist, it simply exists. --Georges Bataille Experiential Counterpoint When Pulse Becomes Pitch is a contemplative chamber filled with tacit tension, mute anguish and violent silence, broken by the visitorsí amplified footsteps. Microphones and amplifiers further intensify a visitorís tread into low rumbles of a god-like stride. The first sounds Adam and Eve heard after the fall were the footsteps of God. The emphasis on each step taken, the equation of the viewer with the actor, of actor with agent, with human agency and change, provides the fundamental counterpoint in this hall of silence. No music shall be heard at all within; the musiciansí instrumental voices are rendered dysfunctional, silenced like the tormented we demonize for disturbing us, for knocking on our doors, for calling us too early or late. And yet there is no denying the measure of our own steps. Our every step falls heavy in the world, bears consequences, rings hollow, firmly, with abandon or burden. With ears to the ground, we learn that our steps can declare defiance, carry hope, usher assistance, guide us together, lift us in dance, trample ignorance asunder, and shatter the profound silence of violence. Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; --John Keats Physical Abstract Sixty-five microphones disconnected lay in a precise grid on the floor. The 10í cords make arabesques on the floor that deny the impression of the grid on which the microphone heads are placed. Each microphone has medieval Islamic patterns adorning its handle. Conceptual Abstract Against a backdrop of multi-national corporate mergers, free trade agreements, and global market interests, is a carefully constructed complicity in, and the articulated avoidance of unconscionable, and therefore, unutterable autocracies. Fortunately, we have little trouble employing double standards in assessing compliance with international law, forgetting the common definitions of the words we collectively pledge, or maintaining allegiance to those who forward our individual immediate concerns, regardless of cost. Unlike Odysseus strapped to the mast, we are not stirred by the ubiquitous pleas of brethren, whom we choose to consider as maddening sirens. We merely silence suffering with an ever-handy remote control mute button. A strike, a beat, a mark in time, loses itself if too often heard. Repetition incites rhythm; a cadence is set, a pace to rush, syncopate, or keep. Rhythm relinquishes itself to speed; the roll insists tone, the flutter stakes frequency, a buzz achieves note. Short steps to melody, flight and the heavens if we can only cease to distinguish the infinite strikes in pitch. When a people's blood beats too hard, when a land's blood courses too crass, when the moment's blood boils too high, we pause to reassess claims. Othersí beseeching becomes for us demanding nuisance; the unsound practice of those who have forgotten their station. The tally turns propagandistic, the unsound practice of those appreciating only their side. The wailing turns inevitable, the unsound practice of those deluded for having dreamt of escaping history. When the darkest hour of night has been successfully skirted, when the terminal throbbing subsides, when the skewed tale without contradiction can be rewritten, when the good Samaritan confides, when pulse becomes pitch. | |