The Uncanny Valley

Notes on art, culture and preservation

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Oh, I built that. (You didn’t.)

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You could say I’m a rugged individualist. Everything I have accomplished in my life, I accomplished using my own, individual initiative, without the help of any regulatory nannies, nabobs or nincompoops.

When I was five, I invented a flaming twig projector coated in elk urine to fend off bobcats and terrorists. I educated myself about the ways of the world, paid my way through business school thanks to leprechauns I took hostage.

To get there I commuted across toll-free dirt roads and swamps riding my moto-kite fueled by pigeon droppings and gingko seeds. Today, I ride it to the headquarters of my cannibalism-prevention startup. We’re located in a five-sided hut that I constructed out of slabs and stones that came into existence solely for my use. We connect with clients through our voodoo-powered transmission server; it’s impossible for any competitors to hack it. And against all odds, my startup continues to rake in the ROI┬ádespite my employees’ utter lack of defense against hungry clients, wages paid in berries and the common cold.

I’ve done it all and always will. Frankly, I don’t need anyone telling me otherwise, or I’ll gladly collectivize them a new pair of faux-nads.

Please, share this or repost it if you feel you’ve earned everything in life — and remember, I didn’t give you these words to pass off as your own, you wrote them all yourself.

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Written by cwmote

July 18, 2012 at 1:02 pm

Angels, Beats, and a Party for the World: May in Review

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When I arrived in Argentina at the end of February, I knew that the summer weather was nearing its end and the colder months lay ahead of me. I knew it, but at the same time, I distrusted it. The northern hemisphere mindset is hard to shake if you’ve known summers in July all of your life.

Sure enough, by May the temperatures had dropped, the days shortened, the soft and lazy rains set in. Even though it’s not nearly as cold as it was in Philly around my departure, you get used to griping wherever you are.

Yet, far from being one continuous panorama of gloom, Buenos Aires was livelier than ever during the month of May. A lot of that newfound energy came from the anticipation of the biggest event of all, the bicentennial. Here are the highlights from that lead-up:

Circus Acts. Yes, snow is a rarity in this city. Three years ago, a chilly stretch brought a dusting to the streets, but it was a once-in-a-century occurrence. On the evening of May 8, as Buenos Aires wrapped up its week-long International Circus Festival, it was a different sort of white stuff that had people frolicking like children again: Plaza San Martin, a tango hat’s toss from the train station in the city’s Retiro neighborhood, was reinvented as “Place des Anges.”

Courtesy of La Nacion

The French troupe Les Studios de Cirque de Marseille turned the plaza into an acrobatic stage…although, in fact, the “stage” extended over a hundred feet above, as wires suspended across surrounding buildings served as the performers’ way of entrance. This was the stage for the angels, albeit angels of an otherworldly, new-wave aesthetic. The spectacle, accompanied by music with Near Eastern influences and waling vocals, reinforced that feeling. The angel/acrobats came and went here and there up above, scampering across ropes like crank-consuming possums or dangling, spinning and swirling from their harnesses as they gently came to earth.

Courtesy of La Nacion

And they brought with them a heavenly gift: feathers. Lots of them.

Courtesy of La Nacion

It’s impossible to exaggerate their number. They fell sprinkled from pillow fights, they fell in large chunks as if they were pillows, and in the coup de grace, they were shot through giant tubes into the air. They wove themselves into the hair and coats of all who were present. The whole event lasted around half an hour, but people stayed long after. And seeing the crowds reduced to childish glee, throwing the landed piles of feathers that were everywhere and dancing in the plaza afterward, made at least this northerner smile.

The Best Beatle Band in the World. Yeah, it’s true: a Beatles band in South America.

If you thought the soundtrack to Argentina was exclusively a playlist of tango and Spanish-language rock, you were sadly mistaken. All it took for me was a visit to the Gran Rex, a true giant of a performance venue on Avenida Corrientes in the theater district, to witness The Beats, “La mejor banda Beatle del mundo,” to agree that they well were the best on any continent.

More than a lingering curiosity, imitation rock-and-roll ensembles (also called “mock stars”) are a defining cultural staple of our times. The first generation to witness the phenomenon of mass-produced popular music, passed their envy down to their children, and so we have to sort of make believe what it was like when all was golden on the charts. Beatlemania is the pinnacle of this movement. The Beatles tribute bands are many, but the idea of musicians impersonating the fab four for a living is in a whole other realm. As it turns out, that realm does not exclusively belong to the English-speaking world.

The actors don’t quite have the resemblance to the real guys. Paul doesn’t have the eternal baby face down, but you can still pick him out easily, and Ringo appears less giddily agitated than nonplussed, besides the fact that he’s too scrawny, which is saying something. John and George seem resigned to the fact that they require a bit of imagination at face value, although during the show, John in his later years post-Revolver becomes more believable with glasses and a longer mane.

All that said, if you can withhold counting their looks against them, their sound is pretty commendable:

Once you realize that they’re not pretending to be the real thing — offering, instead, a historical reenactment for generations and nationalities who never got to witness Beatlemania first-hand — the show can be quite enjoyable.

“Irrepetible,” their most recent show, featured a multitude of sets and costumes representative of nearly the entire Beatles run. Interestingly, they began the concert with a medley of standards from the Let it Be era and then jumped around the time line, even strolling in white suits for “Your Mother Should Know.” They finally capped it off with a page from the clean-cut “British invasion” onset: “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” then “Twist ‘n Shout” for the encore.

Individual talents were also (mostly) stressed. John offered a pair of anachronisms, “Imagine” and “Give Peace a Chance,” the latter from his bed (minus Yoko) while a video montage of current global conflicts cemented his all-too-obvious status as a prophet (to some souls, he is still bigger than Jesus). Paul soloed on “Yesterday” and “Fool on the Hill,” betraying his Argentine accent a little in his enunciation of the, behind the teeth rather than on them. (To his credit, he does play left-handed.) And George, who really sounded like freaking George, brandished a sitar for “Love You To” and tore it up.

Alas, no “Octopus’s Garden” from Ringo. Not a word. It’s like the guy was just happy to be there.

The Beats will never out-Liverpool the Liverpudlians, but their act is impressive. About time more fans of the original group took notice.

However, it was a few steps away from the Gran Rex that the most touted performance venue in the city would soon be celebrated.

The Teatro Colon. Opera houses are a big adjectival deal. They have always been containment areas for the well-heeled to witness the most grandiose statements of human emotion that artistic performance can achieve. Even as they’ve grown more egalitarian, they remain the surest test of a cultivated citizenry, ensuring the highest denominator for all levels of entertainment below. The Teatro Colon is not just the most storied such theater on the continent; it’s on the shortlist of best in the world. For a city whose heritage is indebted to Europe, the Teatro is a link to that Old World tradition–an emblem of cultural continuity and exchange in a country that is barely celebrating 200 years as an independent state.

When it originally opened in 1908, the Colon proudly stood as an emblem of the immense wealth of the country. It then withstood every tumult and collapse of the long century, and finally emerged into the next one in serious debt and need of repair. There was no option but to close the opera house in 2006 for long-needed renovations. After several delays, the theater foundation and the city government at last arranged to christen its reopening on May 24, 2010–the eve of Argentina’s bicentennial.

The Colon overlooks the wide expanse of Avenida 9 de Julio, just a few blocks north of the obelisk in the heart of the city center. The bicentenario, it was clear from the throngs of the masses packing that boulevard, would be a gargantuan celebration unlike any other. (At least, unlike any not football-related.) I arrived at the center before 7pm to find crowds nearly impenetrable on the way to the Colon. When the ceremony started, a half-hour late (as lateness is fashionable in this part of the world), the weary crowds were desperate for a good show. They got it.

The theater’s facade became a screen onto which a montage of images were projected, narrating the history and legacy of the opera house. The images, however, were painstakingly designed to fit into the nuances of every window and column on the facade. (The Argentines call this un mapping, which is in the spirit of their tradition of taking gerunds from English and misunderstanding them slightly in the original. For the record, the Italians and French do this too.) And as the montage covered the great moments from the opera, the symphony orchestra, ballet, and performances of folkloric and popular music, all under the Colon’s roof, it was the task of the audio to accompany the visual and allow glorious music to pour all over 9 de Julio. Well, too bad the audio kept malfunctioning — even ruining the climax of “Nessun dorma,” which elicited a lot of groans and whistles of disapproval.

In spite of the imperfections, the “mapping” of the theater was a feast for the eyes and carried the night:

So while the theater didn’t literally open up for the ceremony, the new season has since gotten underway. A city that has withstood so many tribulations has reason to be proud again.

[Next: More on the Bicentenario. Stay tuned.]

Gee, thanks for reminding me of what a cold puritanical country I just left

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OK, so it’s not the best way to introduce the fact that I’ve been in Buenos Aires for the last week, and will be here for several (perhaps many) more to come. That introduction will come later. Why not put off introductions till later when you can cut and paste stories like this here and now?

A New Jersey family said a police officer asked them to cover up portions of their snow sculpture — a nude tribute to the Venus de Milo.

Rahway police Sgt. Dominick Sforza said an officer visited the home of Elisa Gonzalez, who built the snow sculpture with daughter Maria Conneran, 21, and son Jack Shearing, 12, last week on an anonymous complaint “of a naked snow woman”….

And the sculpture really does look like the real thing, even though it’s too symmetrical and doesn’t have a head. And yes, they did put a bikini over it. But please, it’s snow. Do you know how many chances the public actually get to make public art with readily found and free materials?

Of course, one anonymous call does not make for a philistine society. If anything, the fact that a 12-year-old helped sculpt this thing means the suburbs are verging ever closer to enlightenment. But indulge me: I wouldn’t have normalcy if I didn’t have the old sensation-driven media to read through and smack about. Just take it that I’m jealous that I can’t drive up the Turnpike to see the sculpture before it melts.

P.S. If this otherwise harmless public art offends you, don’t come to Buenos Aires. Every other newsstand has a scad of magazines with topless women on the covers. It’s really something. Either censorship is a thing of the past, or the sight of breasts doesn’t shock anymore.

P.P.S. Don’t come here either.

Written by cwmote

March 4, 2010 at 7:54 pm

Animosity Pierre

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Philly invades the Lower East Side: these guys took top honors at Crash Mansion‘s sketch comedy competition last night. Nice way to spend my last night in the States.

Most of their comedy is definitely NSFW — and if you’re at work you shouldn’t be watching videos anyway. But this one (except for what’s in that jar) is clean. And viral. These guys have arrived. Somewhere.

Written by cwmote

February 24, 2010 at 10:29 am

Uh, is this thing on?

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Inaugural Post:

The first impulse I have, putting down these words, is to avoid beginning things with “I”. Usually, when one writes a diary, narrative strategy doesn’t matter, but I am trying a different course. I, for lack of a better subject, am taking my most esteemed thoughts and word quirks and making them available to an outside audience. Many are the diarists, all young romantics of course, who secretly want posterity to find their most intimate written volumes which they could otherwise never hope to present to the neglectful world. Now, with the electronic age, modesty seems to become the aspiring online writer when any anonymous soul can access his live journal. That’s right: blogging. ‘Tis a word so fresh, so widely accepted as a member of the language, even though my word processor’s Spellcheck doesn’t recognize it. (By some bizarre irony, it doesn’t recognize Spellcheck, either, even with a capital. Who’s to be held responsible for not getting with the millennium? The word processor, or some other company that directly licenses this program-within-a-program? But enough for one day. And no, don’t ask what word processor I have.)

By establishing this sequence of paragraphs as the first germ of a blog, what expectations am I setting for this and for myself? From one angle, I could be entering an already well crowded marketplace of ideas, the never-ending conversation of Kenneth Burke’s imagining that one joins into like it were an intense debate at a pub. From another angle, I could be redirecting the attention of such a sphere of thought so that the metaphoric arrows will deflect off of my web noggin, or perhaps, swim around its perimeter as I absorb my newfound attention and reveal to the world what a talent I am. However I approach this action in progress, I must maintain a strong self-consciousness and compose myself as one who is in the company of strangers, other guests whose brilliance may outshine mine or whose insults may bind my hands and feet before I can take another step–phooey on banal metaphors; make it another keystroke–into this daunting network of opinionators. (Natch, the Spellchecker paints another red wiggle under that one.)

Having resisted a public identity in cyberspace for time out of mind, I have chosen to found this weblog as a home page for myself. Why? Because I have been testing the waters for several years now, observing the passing of every latest online craze, and now the time seems right for it. This blog will serve as a collection of my ruminations on a wide range of topics, of which I hope to reveal more as I get this off the ground. It will not be exclusively about “I”…er, about me. Yet in writing about what interests me, pieces of my life are sure to appear now and then. I am treating this as a low-key event, but over the course of time it will be interesting to see how and where it all started.

Happy reading.

Written by cwmote

December 29, 2009 at 2:48 am