I have always known this on some level although I had an
interesting experience the other night at a theatrical performance by Alarm Will Sound (a 20-member band committed to
innovative performances of contemporary music) that made the importance of the
constructs of thinking very clear to me.
still from Song Books
The performance, which reimaged Song Books, a 1970 text by John Cage, was
an absurd, disjointed, glorious collage of performance and sound. Just to give
you a glimpse into what this looked like: at one point there was a performer on
stage writing poetic, abstract thoughts on a chalkboard while another played
with an old record player and yet another made contorted sounds with his voice
that stretched the limits of what the human ear can hear. Meanwhile, a performer entered from the
rear exit doors wearing a horse-head mask and calmly walked through the
audience while an older gentleman strapped on a pair of women’s evening shoes
and feather boa in preparation to sit down at an old fashioned typewriter and
begin typing. It sounds a bit
crazy, but it didn’t feel that way. It actually made me feel very relaxed. Review of Song Books.
Shortly after the performance began I started to imagine objects and movements for a new performance
piece. I didn't have any plans to think about anything in particular during Song Books, but it seemed that my mind just got inspired and took off on its own. While thinking about this new performance idea, I started imagining a new drawing and then some of the figures from my old drawings began dancing around in my head. After a while, my mind started organizing my syllabi
for school. I have a couple of new classes in the fall that had been feeling a little daunting, but as the cacophony of the performance carried
on my mind opened up and it all seemed so simple.
still from Song Books
I don’t have many experiences in my daily life that can even
compare to the Alarm Will Sound performance although as I think about it,
Manhattan does have that kind of disjointed, irrational rhythm, which is probably
why I like living here. The performance taught me that my environment, who I am with, what I choose to focus my mind on etc, will have a deep
impact on my ability to think clearly and creatively. I am very lucky in the sense that both sides of my brain
work pretty well, but I need to remember to nurture the less popular side. I have a feeling there will always be a forum and audience
for words and well structured ideas, but it is important to pay special attention to the less glamorous sibling who sounds like she is speaking gibberish. Truth is, I need both of them all the time, regardless of how
distinct or how amorphous the activity, both ways of thinking are essential.
I will leave you with the last line spoken in Song Books. It is from John Cage's
Mesostics Re and Not
Re Duchamp. I found it very moving and you can also see some of his logic in the way he formatted the text:
"the telegraM/ cAme/ i Read it./ death we expeCt,/ but all wE get/
is Life"
ChuckClose was born severely dyslexic. "I still can't add or subtract in my head," he says, "and never learned my multiplication tables, which meant no algebra, geometry, physics, or chemistry." He knew nothing about the disorder until he attended a lecture on the subject with his eight-year-old daughter in the 1970s. Close also suffered from neuromuscular problems as a child. This meant, despite his height and build (he's six feet three inches), that he "couldn't run, couldn't throw a ball, and couldn't keep up with the other kids physically." Art gave Close a competitive edge—it offered him pure learning beyond the understanding of most adults. Close still grimaces when recalling the advice he got from educators: "My high school counselor told me that I would never get into college, but that I should consider body and fender school."Taken from the Voice
ReplyDeleteClose was born severely dyslexic. "I still can't add or subtract in my head," he says, "and never learned my multiplication tables, which meant no algebra, geometry, physics, or chemistry." He knew nothing about the disorder until he attended a lecture on the subject with his eight-year-old daughter in the 1970s.Chuk Close also suffered from neuromuscular problems as a child. This meant, despite his height and build (he's six feet three inches), that he "couldn't run, couldn't throw a ball, and couldn't keep up with the other kids physically." Art gave Close a competitive edge—it offered him pure learning beyond the understanding of most adults. Close still grimaces when recalling the advice he got from educators: "My high school counselor told me that I would never get into college, but that I should consider body and fender school."Taken from the village voice
ReplyDeleteThat is the tragedy of education. Some of the most brilliant people I know have what we call "learning disabilities". I think they just have a different way of seeing and thinking. Often that difference is magical. For some of them, the only reason their difference is a disability is because society does not make room for them to flourish on their own terms.
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