I was in Basel. On my way to the Tinguely Museum, I got off at a different stop and found myself in a free zoo on the outskirts of town. The zoo was modest and well designed. I was happy to observe the animals in their peace of mind. It set my thoughts toward letting go of worldly desires, perhaps a pivotal moment toward what was to become my discontent with the work of Tinguely.
At the museum, I gained the impression that the array of pieces (not all of which were Tinguely's), that the work was forced. The work shown was highly conceptual and often technicalities of the work sucked the spirit out of them. For example, one installation was called 'A Singing Room For A Shy Person'. The room was a kind of booth with a microphone. The participant was prompted to step inside and sing into a microphone, which was the only feature in the room. The audio from the participant was then sent through a computer program, which was connected to a set up of mechanical instruments, with electronically triggered hammers, to re-interpret the digitized audio back into analog sound. I suppose what killed the piece for me was the way that the audio was reinterpreted; it sounded terrible. As the participant, you might sing 'fal lah lah', then there would be a delay, and the instruments would respond loudly in a way that seemed like some nightmarish audio accident.
Most of the works in the Tinguely Museum similarly missed the mark. Throughout, I felt like I was being punished for trying to understand the intentions of each respective artist. A phrase that my friend Carlos Granger said to me when I showed him a book of works by a Dutch printmaker kept repeating in my head; "Well, the work is done, but not felt." Throughout the museum, I thought the works were done but not felt.
As for Tinguely's works, his sculptures look like some type of realized dark Dr. Suess illustrations, made out of industrial garbage. The majority of them had motors and animation components. In front of each animation sculpture, was a pedal on the floor which could be pressed by the viewer to activate the work. The idea was brilliant, but next to the button was a sign that read 'to preserve the sculptures, run time is limited'. This meant that upon pushing a button, you might activate the sculpture immediately, or you might wait for five minutes before the governor allowed electricity to flow to the work. The result was a feeling of some type of artistic pavlovian, jack-in-the-box re-programming. Many of Tinguely's works had a surprise element, like a loud noise or jerky animation, so the delay was especially unpleasant, like you were being punished for trying to enjoy art.
Aside from the presentation, I had a hard time placing myself in the art. The maker's hand was evident throughout and it seemed like Tinguely was aiming for the 'misunderstood crazed genius' persona. I didn't buy it.
He did many collaborations with Yves Klein, which to me reinforced my opinions.
I will say that the building itself was incredible. I am not sure where the money came from, but I imagine it has something to do with the state. I suppose being a big time artist in a country which houses the world's money has its upsides. Again, I don't know where the money came from, just speculating.
In the evening, I boarded a train towards Venice, with the intention to see the Biennale. On the train, I took my seat at a table across from a woman. Two other women took the remaining two seats and we were each humored when we pulled out our meals for the evening. We set up a kind of family style dinner, sharing portions. It was beautiful. After the meal, I began drawing, which aroused inquiries. I showed my sketchbook to the table and shared some of my story. The woman across from me, Brigitte, gave me the name of a publicly recognized graffiti artist in Basel, that I might contact upon my return. She also recommended that on my way to Venice, I might take a day to explore a town called Domodossolo. She noted, "There isn't much there, but you might find it beautiful."
The next stop was hers, she repeated, "Domodossolo", and left. The romance was overwhelming. I became lost in fantasies waiting for Domodossolo station. When the station came, I grabbed my bags and left the train. A sense of mysticism was in the air. I felt that whatever my next move, it was the right one. Magic.
I checked into a hotel. The walls were adorned with original drawings of pastoral scenes dated from the 1800s. My room had an odd hyper-european sense which I'm not sure how to put into words. The patterning of the purple and gold iridescent comforter, the small television from the early 90s, the jade green carpeting, the tiny bathroom with a bidet. It felt authentic. I set my bags down and set out to explore the town a bit. I walked fervently at first, then slower, then slower. I began to fall in love with the architecture, and the lighting. Warm yellow, poured over curved and crooked corridors from the 1700s, perhaps earlier. It was gorgeous. The bricks in the road, the alley ways, the spaces between things, all sang to me. I felt in love. There was no moon in the sky, and no indicator of geographic location. It felt like another world.
I stayed up late.
In the morning, I had breakfast in the lobby, from the window, I could see mountains, beautiful mountains. Being an American, I knew I had to find the tallest one and climb it.
I set to walking the streets in the morning light. The whole town was surrounded by mountains as far as the eye could see. It was noon when I made my selection, a particularly rocky mountain to the southwest. I walked towards the base, through the town, then through a series of farm roads, on a narrow foot path, then on an embankment on the edge of a river, with the date 1742 inscribed into one of the cornerstones. At the base of the mountain, I sat by the river to gather my thoughts and focus on the goal ahead. I looked deep within myself and reflected on the path which brought me here, before rising and turning to the mountain. I began to climb. At first I thought, about why I felt compelled to climb a mountain. Then what climbing a mountain represents. These thoughts subsided as the climbing became more and more treacherous. The face of the mountain became increasingly steep, and soon I found myself near vertical on a rock wall. I managed several features which I was at first unsure about. The features of the mountain became riskier. Some of the rocks were slick with algae from the layers of wet leaves. Some of the trees, were in fact rotting, and were unreliable handholds. A sense of foolishness began to creep in. If I were to learn something from the mountain, perhaps it was not what reaching the summit felt like.
I reached a trail which traversed the mountain. I was about one eighth the way up, and feeling slightly dizzy. I sat and looked from where I'd come, not far. But the trail was much safer than the rock walls, so I left it to chance and walked to the left. The trail went up and down and after some time I was at a similar altitude, but on the other side of the mountain. It was getting late in the afternoon. and I knew that my options were narrowing. I managed a less dangerous route back down to the base of the mountain, back to the river. There was no bridge in sight, so I took off my shoes, rolled up my pants and forged the freezing water.
I hiked up the banks and onto a mountain road, where I began to walk back into town. I deviated from the road a few times to parallel it from a trail, but followed it cardinally. I found a bucket and some styrofoam which I picked up, to leave the place cleaner than I'd found it. After such a day, I felt a sense of American guilt that needed to be cleansed, though this is certainly not the first time that I'd taken to collecting garbage. By the time I reached the town, I'd filled the bucket with garbage from the sides of the road. I found a bin, and dumped it before heading back to the hotel to check in for another night. I would try to climb the mountain again.
That evening I felt a heightened sense of being. After all, the following morning I would embark on a climb which I knew to be treacherous. When I looked at people, I felt that it was the last time I would see them, and that they might be among the last few to see me alive.
I bought the following supplies at a grocery store: dried plums, two cans of tuna, almonds, a sausage, two bananas, an apple, and a chocolate bar. I bought a knife at a hardware store.
The next morning I awoke earlier, but not early. I had a large breakfast by European standards, and checked out of the hotel. I carried both of my backpacks, the main one full of clothing and the day pack full of food and survival gear. I walked towards the mountain. I thought this time I was prepared not only to climb it, but to spend nights on the mountain while doing so. At the base of the mountain I stood for some time. It looked much steeper this day. In fact with my new luggage arrangement, it looked near impossible this day. Though I was prepared to spend the night, and to eat in the wilderness, and to build a fire, and to construct a shelter, I was not prepared to make one mistake in terms of a hand or foot hold. The climb would do me in surely.
I waited for a sign.
I flipped through my sketchbook. There was a drawing that I'd done in Berlin, a sort of divination drawing which explored the concept of when there is nothing left to let go of but the idea of nothingness. Depicted was a representation of myself climbing a mountain, a small town in the distant background. Surely, this was my sign. Before heading towards the mountain, I checked my phone once more for train times to Venice. To my knowledge, the next departing train was at 10pm. When I checked however, I found that there was a train leaving in 40 minutes. Yes, this was my sign. I walked towards the station but had a thought that perhaps I could hitchhike to Venice instead. I Made a sign, 'Milano', in my sketchbook and stood near a gas station by a highway entrance ramp. After twenty minutes or so I could tell it was not going to happen, and walked to the station to catch my train.
Domodossolo will always hold a special place in my heart. Perhaps I will return to climb that mountain someday.
I arrived in Venice in the evening, checked into a hotel, and took a walk around the town. It was incredibly enjoyable, as there were very few people to cue me in on which streets were thoroughfares and which streets were dead ends. I was tired after the walk and got to bed early.
In the morning, I set out to further explore the town and maybe see some art exhibitions. I stumbled upon several pavilions including Kuwait, Italy, and China. I particularly enjoyed China's because the art was attuned to traditional eastern thought pertaining to nature-based spirituality. The art was peaceful, technically strong, and unpretentious. Throughout the day, I ate well and enjoyed exploring. I talked with two street artists and bought a drawing from one and a painting form another. The drawing man talked to me about his experiences of being a professional artist. He talked about remaining humble and calm. He mentioned that he had a wife and two children that he supported with the income from selling his drawings. I realized that his circumstance was unique in that his market was tourists who wanted to remember how romantic the streets of Venice were. His line drawings captured their charm nicely, and his presentation was lovely. He sold a pack of postcard prints for 30euros, but they were beautifully presented and conceptually strong (he had a set of 'Wells of Venice' and 'Bridges of Venice'). I bought an original drawing which he'd done on an interesting yellow fibrous paper.
Another street artist, a watercolor painter, shared some good conversation with me as well. He had mastered creating imaginary Venice compositions from his head, and painting them in beautiful warm light. I bought a small painting from him as well.
In the evening, I sat down in a little restaurant, and had an interesting dish of pasta with cuttlefish sauce. The sauce looked like dredging from the bottoms of the Venetian canals, it was sedimentary and black. The dish was intimidating but tasty. A gentleman at the restaurant helped me find a hostel for the night, as it was close by his house. I went back to my hotel to pick up my bags, then hiked across town to check into the Hostel. It was modest, and authentic. It seemed as though the owner of the hostel just converted his apartment rooms into small dorm rooms, each with two or three beds. I slept well that night.
I woke early in the morning to some sound in the kitchen. Two gentlemen from Japan were preparing for their day. I made instant coffee for everyone, then set out to see more art. I found the Arsenal first, but was early, I had a seat outside by some industrial garbage and wrote about the presumed sanctity of the gallery space. Why isolating objects which might occur naturally (that is, both organically and as a byproduct of industry for example), gain significance or new meaning when seen as art. I sought to sort out some of the 'art' which did not speak to me on the basis of its coded and primarily poetic quality. I was happy to have the time to think through some of these things. Some ideas that I had for an installation began to evolve and refine. After sufficient pondering, I went into the now open Arsenal building where I saw more Chinese art. An introduction to the show read something like 'The artists in this show may differ in one way or another, but important to each of them is that China not be perceived as a global threat'. I paraphrase, but the gesture lifted an incredible weight that I did not recognize existing. The east versus west, country versus country thing which seemed implicit in an international art exhibition was addressed and dismissed eloquently and without judgement. To more liberally paraphrase, 'This is art, just enjoy it.'
I spent a long time in the Arsenal. Many of the works spoke loudly to me. None of the 'industrial byproduct presented as art' quagmire was applicable to the exhibition.
After leaving the Arsenal, I wandered around, ate a beautiful cuttlefish and abuergine lunch, and casually looked for more pavilions. I found several others, but none rivaled what I saw in the Arsenal.
I'd been in conversation with my long time friend, Morgan about meeting up while we were both in Europe. We agreed to meet in Dresden on the basis that it was relatively close for her from Budapest, and on my way back to Amsterdam. I boarded a train in the late afternoon from Venice. The trip was a big one, twenty-two hours. On the first leg, I met a friend on the train from France. He was living in Austria, and happy to inform me on his adventures around Europe. We shared stories and talked about politics and economics. We parted ways. I did not get his name, I asked and he said something quickly, but I am not sure if he was privy to share. We'd just discussed hesitations of Eastern Europeans to open up and network, for example, and the lack of exchange of contact information seemed to imply that the good conversation on the train was just that, good conversation.
I arrived in Dresden the following day. I met Morgan at the hostel that she'd picked. It was the largest hostel that I'd ever seen, but she assured me that it was about typical from what she's experienced in her travels. She had come to Europe by way of Dublin, then explored south through Spain, east through France, Germany, Croatia, and Hungary. Her style was to spend under a week in each place before moving on to the next town.
It was great to see her. Morgan is the friend more than any other, that I can meet anywhere, anytime, and we can pick things up quite naturally. I dropped my bags off and we set to walking. She'd already done a lap of the town, so she played guide for a while. Dresden was beautiful. It was bombed hard during the Second World War, and such had many remnant scars. Many of the sculptures were reconstructed. Sections of old pieces merged with sections of new pieces. It was interesting to see. It brought new significance to the works and features of the town.
In the evening, we walked through a young artistic part of town, where we had an incredible dinner at a Thai restaurant. After dinner, more walking; we went out into the outskirts of town where we found shanty houses for miles. We could not figure out how the houses came into existence historically or economically, and wether the were actually occupied or not. It was a slightly eerie feeling, supplemented occasionally by an abandoned mansion with barbed wire around the perimeter. We walked back towards the hostel, stopping for a drink at a pleasant bar. We arrived back quite late.
In the morning, we set to finding a cup of coffee. We found a nice cafe in the historic district of Dresden. Afterwards, more exploring by foot. We walked all day, through the historic district, on the banks of the river, in residential neighborhoods, we even came across a big abandoned mansion which had been architecturally fused to a nightclub. We jumped the fence and explored. We found a glass greenhouse, which was long retired. The windows were broken, and just the rot iron skeleton remained. We walked around the property before jumping down from a wall (the house was built by the river) onto the banks of the Elbe. We walked through the evening, and ate at a Chinese restaurant before I caught my train to Amsterdam.
