THE CITY OF THE DANCING LIGHTS REPORT ON THE ANNUAL FESTIVAL OF THE ARTS by Frank RogerIt has been an exceptionally good year, but don't we say that every time as we return from the vari©colored, multi©layered cross©cultural extravaganza the Annual Festival of the Arts has become? Once again we have seen exciting new trends, invigorating new approaches, even stunning new art forms. Minimalist offerings (such as Akira Yamamoto's "Smallest Desert in the Known Universe", comprised of four minute grains of sand and only visible through a microscope) were counterbalanced with productions of mega©proportions too large to fit into the Festival Center (such as the brilliantly conceived and dazzlingly choreographed ballet of blizzards and hail©storms and tropical rain©showers created by Roberta N'komo, images of which were shown in the Center's special theater). As was generally expected, the decline of Virtual Reality art continued. This art form may well be on its way toward total obsolescence, and most artists working in this area until recent years seem to have channeled their artistic ambitions into other forms of expression. Melinda DaSilva is a case in point. She used to be Brazil's most original and prolific VR artist, flooding the market with high©intensity, gut©wrenching, skull©splitting VR art. "It's dead," she told me at one of the Festival's countless parties, "forget all that old stuff of mine. I've entered a new phase in my career, and I refuse to look back. I'm into sculpting emotions now." Some of her recent work was demonstrated at the Festival, and I must say it's quite gripping stuff. Her "emotionЄsculptures" are painstakingly concocted chemical substances, injected into the bloodstream, allowing the user (or "beholder", as Melinda puts it) to experience a head©spinning blend of emotions. The impact on one's mind and soul can be ecstatic, devastating or even permanently mind©altering. Two fellow journalists literally succumbed to her art, and Melinda referred to their deaths as "a fitting tribute to my artistic rebirth, a richly symbolic act in praise of my new approach, rising phoenixЄlike from the ashes of my former way of self©expression." As one art form is disappearing into oblivion, another seems to be enjoying an unexpected revival. One of the most remarkable new trends, indeed, is the surprising resurgence of an art form considered dead and buried : literature. Prose printed on oldЄfashioned paper and assembled into books, to be read by turning page after page by hand. The most prominent flag©carrier of this revivalist movement, George MacLannan, conceded to me during his "Publisher's Party" (another defunct tradition of bygone days brought back to life) that there is no true audience for this type of art anymore, as there are no traditional "readers" left. "But this book of mine," he explained, "must be viewed as a symbolical statement rather than some artsy mannerist joke. Art has been lifted from its cultural niche and transferred to the world of commerce. All too often these days art is being consumed, like any other type of product. I wanted my book to tie in with this deplorable situation, wanted it to be used by consumers rather than purchased by collectors or "read", so the book was given an expiry date. After this date the printed text begins to fade away and the book slowly decomposes into dust. This way I present art as an ephemeral consumerist need. Think about it. But above all, enjoy the party!" The creations of the twin brothers Jorge and Luis Casares y Ramirez have become a mainstay of the Festival, and once again both of them were represented with recent works. Jorge Casares y Ramirez, the oldest by three seconds (as he keeps repeating in every press conference), had chosen his "Human Race Against Time" for this year's edition, a remarkable blend of sports and modern ballet the artist himself labels "chronoЄchoreography". It consists of twenty©four men (each representing an hour of the day) running an eight©shaped circuit (representing the infinity of time) continuously, with interruptions for sleep and meals only. At least sixteen of them (representing the average person's regular active hours) are running together at all times. These twenty©four actors (performers? participants?) have signed very unusual contracts, to say the least. They are contractually bound to run the circuit until they wear out, grow ill or become too old, in which case their sons or grandsons are to take their place. The contract extends to twenty©four generations, so that this piece of art is destined to last for a considerable length of time. The twenty©four families were picked from different races and colors, in an effort to represent mankind in all its diversity. The runners, and their future generations, are personal property of the artist, who literally "bought" them. "We all could use the money we were paid," one of the runners told me in a short interview I managed to arrange during one of his breaks. "Most of us come from poor countries, and we all had run up insurmountable debts that we never could have paid off. Jorge's contract relieves us from all that, meaning he'll cover our debts in return for this job and lifeЄlong support of us and our families. You could say it was the only way out for us. This was an offer we simply couldn't refuse. It's hard work and we're like tied up forever, but at least we've left the slums behind and lives without hope. We've got financial security now. And our wives and kids are fed." It appears these people, perhaps understandably, fail to see themselves as an integral part of an important work of art which is a brilliantly spot©on commentary on the human condition in these ultra©hectic times, marking the end of a turbulent period in mankind's history as well as the dawning of a new era, opening up haunting vistas and yielding chilling intimations about what the future has in store for us. Jorge's younger brother Luis never failed to surprise critics and audiences with his architectural collages, and this year's entry of his ("The Rise and Fall of Mankind") is no exception. If anything his scope has become more encompassing, his vision more awe©inspiring, his conceptualization more boldly daring. Try to picture before your mind's eye an intricately conceived and constructed mosaic of snapshots of world history. The gates of Santiago de Compostella's cathedral swing wide open to reveal a starving Third World child, its hand eagerly reaching out, its swollen belly and huge staring eyes caught in a blindingly white spotlight. The background darkens, as all at once a mushroom©shaped cloud billows up, and both the cathedral and the child are blown to smithereens. As the radioactive dust settles, a radiation©scarred family becomes dimly visible, scurrying among the rubble, desperately eking out a miserable existence, clinging to lives barely worth living. The gray sky turns blue and then black, craters appear in the barren ground, the blue disc of the earth winks into existence, pouring vivid light onto what has now become the lunar landscape, and two astronauts come jumping into view. One of them is about to plant the American flag he is clutching, claiming the moon for his country, an act of patriotism carried out many miles away from the nation that gave rise to and nurtured those feelings. A guerrilla fighter in a tattered green uniform darts from behind a rock and fires at one of the astronauts. The victim's spacesuit is punctured, the air escapes and as decompression follows the man dies in a hideous shower of blood and bones. More soldiers in a variety of uniforms appear from all around and sheer carnage ensues, transforming the moonscape into a corpse©strewn battlefield. The sky turns blue again, sunlight floods the scene, signalling that we're back on earth. From the mound of dead bodies a slender green stem arises, and in one gracious movement a bright©red rose springs into full bloom, majestically dominating the landscape. Then its color slowly fades as the rose metamorphoses into a poppy, which quickly crumbles into dust. The dust actually turns out to be opium, and drug©users come rushing towards it, eager to grab handfuls of their deadly wonder©stuff. One by one the junkies drop to the ground, lifeless, as the scene around them changes into the smoldering, lava©covered ruins of Pompeii. A few more transformations occur in rapid succession : the barracks of Auschwitz appear for a few seconds, to be replaced by the library of Alexandria, being set on fire by religious fanatics, the Taj Mahal, the Hollywood film studios, ransacked by raging hordes of moral purists, and the Vatican, bombed during the Great Religious Wars of the New Millennium. From the smoking debris the cathedral of Santiago rises triumphantly, and the whole cycle starts all over again. This mind©boggling, senses©shattering kaleidoscope is produced in a fascinating way : partly it is made with authentic, physical props, combined with a variety of holograms, and complemented by a well©balanced mixture of hallucinogenic chemicals pumped into the air of the presentation hall. As the artist considers the exact composition of his work, i.e. which elements are to be attributed to holograms, hallucinogenic chemicals or physical objects, to be a professional secret, we can only contemplate it and marvel at its deeply resounding, richly©textured meaning, and try to grasp its myriad allusions and connotations and hidden meanings. This work, for sure, will allow for as many interpretations as there will be viewers. As usual the organising committee selected a very special work of art for the crowning event of the Festival's closing ceremony. Once again they stuck to tradition and kept the exact nature of this piбЉбce de rб‚бsistance secret until its presentation. To our surprise we were asked to board a zeppelin, and once aboard we were told we would be presented with Michael d'Angelo's newest creation, "The City Of The Dancing Lights", while hovering over San Francisco. D'Angelo is well©known for his extravagant art, and the mere fact that his latest effort could not be presented at the Festival Center itself left us intrigued and expecting something truly spectacular. The sun was setting as we arrived in San Francisco, tinting the clouds coming in from the ocean orange and copper, colors constantly changing hue as nightfall approached, as if nature's forces had decided to enrich the Festival with their own artistic endeavors, in competition with the puny humans struggling with their comparatively primitive material. As the zeppelin hung motionless over Union Square, we were provided with a splendid view of the city sprawling beneath our feet, a tapestry of lights fighting back the darkness coming from above. At our left we could see the Golden Gate Bridge, at our right the Oakland Bay Bridge, both glimmering with pinpoints of light, the heavy traffic contributing a patchwork of red and white lights streaking past to the overall picture. The city's major hotels, towering light©encrusted columns, rose up toward us as if eager to grab us and pull us down. Then the Festival committee's chairman finally decided to address us. "We hope that you have enjoyed what you have witnessed so far," he said, "and we know for a fact that all that will pale into insignificance next to what you are about to experience. D'Angelo is not simply offering a major contribution to modern art here. He is modern art. "The City Of The Dancing Lights" will set new standards. Everything that follows will be judged against it for years to come. You who are about to behold this masterpiece cannot possibly realize how privileged you are in having been selected. In only a few moments everything will be disclosed to you. Be prepared for the truly sensational." He gestured, and the lights were dimmed. "I hope to see you all again at next year's Festival," he concluded. We all looked down at the by now night©enshrouded city beneath us. For a moment nothing happened. Silence hung heavily among us. Only our agitated breathing could be heard. Then d'Angelo's creation was finally unveiled, step by carefully measured step. Understanding dawned. We peered outside, afraid to miss the smallest of details. A new chapter in the history of art was being written in our very presence. It began with small tremors, sending faint ripples across the cityscape. It appeared as if this modest overture to the undoubtedly grand proceedings went unnoticed by the city's unsuspecting population. Not one single light winked out of existence. Not one car seemed to do so much as slow down. People didn't yet realize they were to participate in a major work of art. The second set of tremors was more powerful, without therefore causing any serious damage. Only this time there were some visually attractive reactions. On the two bridges, and in various parts of downtown San Francisco, a large number of drivers slowed down or stopped, resulting in a bonfire of bright red braking lights flaring up. As a number of lights, scattered all over the city, went out, an equal number were switched on, perhaps by people already asleep who were now rising from their slumber, wondering what was going on, or, perhaps more likely, as emergency back©up systems were activated. At that point d'Angelo's carefully orchestrated choreography of explosives embedded in key locations under the city being detonated slipped into full gear. Our appetite had been sufficiently whetted. The main course was about to be served. After a minute©long interlude, which seemed to last hours to us sensation©starved spectators, the first serious quake shook the city on its foundations. Thrilled and breathless with anticipation, we watched as several segments of the Oakland Bay Bridge collapsed, crushing a number of cars in the process, and some shabbier buildings could be seen to topple. Now the city came truly alive. Panic finally reared its ugly head. In some districts the lights went out, whereas in others small explosions occurred and buildings erupted into flames, illuminating the areas of interest. All traffic came to a standstill. Screaming and yelling crowds slowly started to fill the streets and squares. The dust had barely settled as three short but powerful quakes hit the city in rapid succession. The screams of the crowds thronging the streets, desperately looking for a shelter from the seismic onslaught, were drowned by the rumblings of explosions and collapsing houses. Virtually all artificial lighting had disappeared from view now, but the rapidly increasing number of fires provided sufficient illumination for us to follow how the situation was evolving. The thought crossed my mind that this replacement of the artificial by the natural might symbolize the return to a more primitive state in mankind's evolution, expressing perhaps d'Angelo's cyclical view of history. The crazed hordes clogging the streets in a frenzy of panic©ridden despair could then be viewed as man's return to barbarism, accompanying or possibly mirroring the return to the forefront of nature's forces. D'Angelo had pressed the rewind button of mankind's history, making the city and its inhabitants revert to their earlier stages. A volley of "oohs" and "aahs" went up all around me as, directly beneath our feet, Macy's crumbled into ruins. Somewhat further down, several buildings along Market Street had also succumbed to the quakes. Dust was billowing up, partly obscuring the orange and red flames increasing in size and numbers everywhere. Ironically enough, the tall columns of the major hotels and the Financial district's skyscrapers behind us were still standing. Was this part of d'Angelo's scheme? Was he trying to indicate that ultimately technology would provide the key to survival, that man, if only he chose the right way, could emerge victorious from this battle? In a certain sense, this would echo interpretations given by knowledgeable critics to other recent works by the same artist, but then again d'Angelo has been known to veer off in unexpected directions on more than one occasion, intentionally misleading critics and audiences alike, and coconsuming obsession, dominating my every move, my every thought. However, I knew very well I could only turn this obsessive desire into hard reality if I was granted another holiday. I would have to bide my time until that moment. And so I did. As time went by, my obsession took on pathological proportions. My work suffered from it. I could barely think rationally, could scarcely function normally. When I was finally granted some days off, I welcomed them as a gift from heaven. I would at last be able to devote my time exclusively to my obsessive love for Conchita. I hurried to the RelaxaTravel agency where I had booked my first trip, leafed frantically through their brochures, but to my utter dismay I found no reference to La Isla de San Felipe. Fighting off the feeling of oncoming doom, I turned to the man sitting behind the desk (too bad the gorgeous blonde wasn't working today © although she was no match for Conchita anyway) and told him my problem. "I'd like to book a trip to La Isla de San Felipe," I said. "The Tropicana Hotel. I've been there a few months ago and I'm aching to get back. I can't seem to find it in this brochure, though." "Let me see," the man said. "These are our Fall and Winter holidays. They're slightly different from the Summer selections. When did you book that earlier trip of yours? Did you book it through us? And what was your name again? Just a moment, please." The man leafed through some papers, consulted his computer database, then turned to face me again. "I'm afraid I can't seem to find a reference to either this San Felipe island or your earlier booking, mr. Chapman. Of course we don't keep our records indefinitely, and we may choose to alter our selections for a variety of reasons. If a certain hotel or island or region is booked by only a handful of customers, we're likely to drop it from our roster. If we've had problems with a particular hotel on more than one occasion, we'll be tempted to discontinue our©©" "I understand all that," I interrupted him angrily, feeling anger and frustration welling up. I hadn't come here to discuss the intricacies of company policy. "Look. Even if San Felipe is no longer featured in your current brochure, you must at least remember its name, right?" "I'm new here, mr. Chapman. I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that place." I sighed, fighting down an urge to punch this punk in the nose. "When I came to book this earlier trip, I was served by a blonde woman. Do you by any chance happen to know her?" "Oh, yes," the man said, nodding. "That must have been miss Lifeson. She no longer works here. She left soon after I got this job." There was silence for a few moments. Then the man spread his hands wide, and said apologetically, "I'm afraid I can't help you, mr. Chapman." "No, I don't think you can," I admitted, and left the RelaxaTravel office. I tried all the other travel agencies in town, but nobody seemed to have heard of La Isla de San Felipe or the Cadena Turquesa Archipelago for that matter. Needless to say, I was getting desperate. In a last©ditch effort to find a way to get back to Conchita I went to Westport's public library, and consulted maps, atlasses and encyclopedias. I didn't find as much as one single reference to La Isla de San Felipe. The name was not featured in any index. I could not locate the island or the archipelago it was part of on any map, although I must admit there seemed to be no really detailed maps of the Caribbean Sea and its plethora of archipelagoes, islands and islets. Maybe San Felipe was simply too small, too unimportant, too insignificant to be featured in general reference works. Maybe there was a very simple explanation for all this. There probably was no reason to erupt into a bout of hysteria or to give in to sheer madness. There was no reason to become paranoid, I kept telling myself. Nobody had said that THE KILLER CLAUSE by Frank Roger "This had better be of tremendous importance," Rough Diamond said to the CEO of his record company, facing him sternly from behind the impressive mahogany desk. In thought, he added, I can imagine a lot of things infinitely more fun than sitting here in your ultra©mega©posh office and listening to you. For instance, pal, I could be devoting my attention exclusively to the two incredibly well©shaped chicks in my hotel room who were so determined to generously share their gorgeous shapes with me. Hungry lips, fluttering eyelashes, heaving bosoms... and those would merely be the starters. Even simple post©gig parties would be more fun than sitting here, or signing autographs to starЄstricken fans, or... "I can see you're lost in thought," the man in the threeЄpiece suit said. "Let me convince you that there were pertinent reasons for me to arrange this meeting." Rough Diamond nodded. He would listen to what the man had to say and then get back to business in his hotel room. "I'm not sure if you're aware of clause 17 of your contract. I'd like to know about the status of your preparations, if any, regarding this matter." "I'm not sure what exactly you're talking about," Rough Diamond said. Contracts? Clauses? He was a rock star, dammit, not some accountant fooling around with stacks of paperwork. He was happy to deal with the music and the money and the glorious chicks coming his way, and he gladly left the business side of things to the business types. The business type facing him closed his eyes for a second, sighed with resignation, and leaned back in his chair. "I can see," he continued, "that a little explanation is in order here." "Keep it short and snappy," Diamond retorted. "I've got urgent matters to attend to in my hotel. Those poor chicks must be withering away in my absence." "Please, Mr. Diamond, take the issue at hand seriously. As you don't seem to know, the band you're fronting has reached a stage in its career where clause 17 of your contract comes into play." "And what is this stage we have reached?" "Our statistical data indicate that CD and concert ticket sales are beginning to decrease. This is clearly the start of a downhill slide in the band's career. It has happened many times, with many bands, and thorough analysis of this phenomenon has enabled us to deal with this problem in a satisfactory way. That is exactly what clause 17 of your contract is all about. A guaranteed boost of the band's career, a method by which we turn this downhill trend into an uphill one." "Aw, come on, boss. We're still doing well. There's no reason to be worried." "We're dealing with hard facts here, Diamond. This is the beginning of the long way down, unless we take drastic measures. The statistics don't lie." "I don't care about statistics." "But the statistics care about you. You can't ignore the evidence. And don't forget that you're bound by your contract." "Alright, spill me the news. What am I supposed to do?" "It has been proven that, at the stage your band has now reached, a spectacular suicide of the band's frontman will catapult the band into the top league. Record sales will skyrocket to unprecedented levels. There will be tribute tours and events, massive press coverage, a full©fledged re©release plan and a worlwide advertising campaign. It's either that or quickly going down the drain. As you can understand, we prefer the first option." "You're out of your mind." "I can assure you that I'm not. And let me remind you that you signed the contract. By doing that, you agreed to all the terms therein, including, of course, clause 17." There was silence for a few moments. Of course he hadn't bothered to read the contract properly. Anyway the legalese the contract was written in was totally beyond him. No doubt the guy was serious. They were after all only out to make a buck. And they were determined to achieve that goal by whatever means necessary. Such as stipulating in his contract that... "Wait a minute," he said. "What if I refuse to go in a colorful big bang?" "I'm afraid you can't," the well©groomed business type with the expressionless face said. "You're bound by your contract. That same contract allows us to stage your suicide if you fail to fulfill your obligations yourself." Bastards, he thought. You filthy sons©of©bitches. They had thought of everything. Well, maybe not quite everything... "I have a plan," he announced, "but I'm not sure if it's spectacular enough for your purposes." His opponent raised his eyebrows. "Well, let me see. I'll let you know my thoughts." Rough Diamond never found out what his boss's thoughts were about his improvised©on©the©spot suicide plan. The man merely yelled and screamed while Diamond pulled him toward the window of his office on the forty©second floor of the Nakashita Company headquarters building, pushed him through it and took him along all the way down to the street. When they arrived there, the man was no longer in shape to express his thoughts. THE DAY THEY CAME BACK by Frank Roger 1 "Good evening. I'm Susan Bayley. Could I speak to Mr. Bruford, please?" "I'm sorry," the middle©aged woman who had opened the door said after a moment's hesitation, eyeing her warily. "I'm afraid my husband is very busy right now and I don't think he can see you now." "Please, Mrs. Bruford, this is really very important." She smiled her most imploring smile, and noticed to her relief that it proved effective once again. The door wasn't slammed shut in her face. Mr. Bruford wasn't so busy after all, she thought as she was ushered in. Bruce Bruford had at first looked surprised and mildly annoyed as they were introduced to each other, but he quickly appeared to be willing to talk about his discovery. This might well turn out to be a fruitful encounter. If only they were all like this, Susan thought, as Bruford told her to follow him into his "office" as he chose to label the patio at the back of the house. The place had the right degree of chaos to be called cozy. "So you're a freelance reporter," Bruford said as they had taken position in a pair of rickety chairs. "You're not the first one to present yourself here. And I must say I wasn't too happy with the others. They usually came unannounced, walked all over me and basically just invaded my privacy." "I understand," Susan said. "My apologies for coming unannounced myself too. I hope I won't take up too much of your precious time. I suppose you already know why I came here." "I think I do. It's those funny fish I've seen. How did you find out?" "I spotted this." From her pocket she produced a newspaper clipping, unfolded it, handed it to him. "Oh, yes," he said. "I should have known." "It says here in this piece that you took some pictures of the creatures you saw. It's also mentioned that the creatures were trilobites." "I never said that. The guy who wrote that piece assumed they were trilobites from the description I gave him. I myself don't know an awful lot about those extinct animals." "I understand. Could I see the pictures you've taken?" "Well, I guess there's no harm in that." Not without some difficulty Bruford rose to his feet and rummaged among a stack of papers and files on a nearby table. He returned with a manilla envelope which he handed her, nodding by way of encouragement to take a look at the pictures. What she saw didn't tell her much. The six pictures showed a pond, viewed from different angles, and in the water vague shapes could be seen. It was impossible to determine what the shapes were. They could have been any type of ordinary fish or even debris floating underwater. The pictures were clearly taken by an amateur. This was another case without any hard evidence to back up the conclusions reached by the newspaperman © there was no way you could consider Bruford's descriptions and impressions as having any scientific value. There was only one possibility left to find out if she was onto something here. She would have to go and look for herself, hoping there would still be anything that provided some evidence towards a 'confirmed reemergence' as it was officially referred to. "Well?" Bruford asked, as she had been silently studying the pictures for longer than his patience could hold. "I'm afraid these aren't totally convincing," she answered. "Would it be possible to go and take a look where you've taken these pictures? Could you show me around?" Bruford thought for a moment, ran his hand through his hair, and finally said, "I suppose I can do that. But not tonight. I don't like the idea of going out there this late. It'll be growing dark soon anyway. There wouldn't be a lot to see." "I understand. What about tomorrow?" "That should be fine. Can you be here tomorrow, say around two o'clock in the afternoon?" "No problem." "Well then." Bruford seemed somehow relieved. Some of the tiredness had left his features and he sat back comfortably. One moment she had thought he was about to ask her to leave, but apparently he felt like talking some more. She must have made a better impression on him than the ones who'd come before her. "I take it these extinct animals mean something special to you. Are you always after them?" "As a matter of fact I am," she admitted. "They're a hot topic, of course. Lots of papers and magazines pay good money for serious reports on these reemergences. Or for less serious reports, for that matter. Not everybody's interested in scientifically correct coverage of this phenomenon." "What do you mean?" "Some folks simply want to cash in on it, earn a quick buck. They'll print anything that's sensational enough to shift more copies of what they're putting out." "I see. I guess you don't work for those magazines?" "Not really. I don't think they would show a lot of interest in a story about trilobites. What they're going for is the kind of thing that tickles people's imagination. They want dinosaurs and mammoths and sabertooth tigers to reemerge. The odd pterodactyl might be considered. Anything less grandiose won't do © even if it happens to be a confirmed reemergence, complete with solid evidence to back the story. Of course most extinct species of animals and especially plants are totally unknown to the public at large. Most people wouldn't recognize a reemerged extinct animal if they fell over one. I met this guy once who had discovered a platypus and was convinced this definitely was another reemergence. By the way, did you immediately recognize the trilobites for what they were, assuming that's what they were indeed?" "No, I didn't." Bruford shook his head. "I just thought they were funny©looking fish. I hadn't seen anything like them around here. I happened to have my camera with me, so I took some pictures. That's about it. Then the local paper here did the piece that you just showed me." "You must have come across reports on these reemergences." "Oh, I sure did. But to me they were just wild stories. Too far out to be taken seriously. I never paid much attention to them. Maybe after what I've seen now and what with you guys turning up here one after another I'll take a different attitude towards them." Bruford cast down his gaze, seemed lost in thought for a moment. A silence was building up, and Susan grabbed the opportunity to tell him she had taken up enough of his time by now and tomorrow they would no doubt have the chance to discuss all these matters in more detail. Bruford nodded approvingly, and showed her out, politely telling her how much he was looking forward to showing her around tomorrow. Г |