May 2007 Archives
I've been thinking a lot about über-couple Charles and Ray Eames recently; those of you who attended last week's Urho Talks will know the territory I'm about to shlep into.
If you don't know, Charles and Ray were designers, architects and filmmakers who are responsible for many classic, iconic designs of the 20th century (Thanks, Wikipiedia!). Notably, a great deal of wonderful furniture, the IBM Pavilion of the 1964 World's Fair, ground-breaking exhibition designs, and over 100 short films.
Their place in the world of "Design" (whatever that means) is both unclear and totally manifest, maybe because of their uncanny understanding of scale: They managed to tenderly articulate the relative dimensionality of the universe while molding chairs out of fiberglass, as though those two things were part and parcel of the same practice.
Charles Eames once called modern architecture "a philosophy of life," as opposed to a style. Obviously, because the Eames' architectural practice extended far beyond putting buildings together: They were architects of form (furniture), sure, but maybe more than anything else, they were information architects. They did with ideas what they did with furniture, by always arranging shapes and structures into their most minimal components. The end product is always radically simplified, both aesthetically unfettered and popular, in the sense of being comprehensible to all, without bias. It was often said of their low side chairs and molded plywood furniture that they were both "strong," and "light;" in the same sense, their films and exhibition designs articulated inordinately complex ideas (strong) without ever being bogged down (light).
Of course, they weren't scientists, but they explained the world the way scientists should. I know everyone saw this movie in grammar school, but Powers Of Ten is a monument of humility and grace, as well as a perfect example of the Eamesian tendency to talk simply about complicated things -- here, the relative size of the Universe. And yes, the opening scene of the Robert Zemeckis film Contact bites this experiment of "adding another zero" with considerable tinseltown panache, to be honest.
While on the science tip: the Eames office made a series of "Mathematical Peepshows" for IBM, including some animated films that simplified the conceptual workings of computers. These, as well as their wonderful film about Polaroid's SX-70 Sonar Camera, are worthy of seeking out. You can find them on the Films of Charles and Ray Eames DVD set (Netflix has 'em).
Theme #2 echoing throughout the 50-year Eames tenure is a ceaseless elevation of the seemingly mundane; a great deal of their short films are simple celebrations of the lives of material objects. The 15-minute Tops, for example, shows a beautiful collection of tops in every stage of spin and rattle, while Bread is a series of panning shots of fresh-baked bread of all forms (at the original screening, Ray Eames orchestrated bread-smells through the theater's ventilation system). Toccata for Toy Trains places antique toys in a fanciful, collaborative environment with one another. The Eameses collected knick-knacks from all around the world; to them, objects had presence, rights, onus, and the correct use of quotidian objects was essential to human well-being, as well as pleasure. From the 1972 film, Design Q&A:
Q: Does design imply the idea of products that are necessarily useful?
A: Yes— even though the use might be surely subtle.
Q: It is able to cooperate in the creation of works reserved solely for pleasure?
A: Who would say that pleasure is not useful?
It makes sense that they would be so obsessed with making documentary-style films about objects, since all they did in their careers was sacralize quotidian, functional things. They are most known for designing chairs, for crying out loud: how much more pragmatic can you get?
Both of these prevailing ideas -- the radical simplification of form and the celebration of the mundane -- are rooted, I think, in the same all-encompassing ethic. Charles and Ray Eames understood that all artists are also, to a certain extent, curators. Painters collect forms and color into a predetermined personal space, the canvas, and all their work has something to do with this, no matter how conceptual: all we do in life is collect ideas and re-arrange them. The Eameses got it, and I don't think they ever considered that they were stepping outside of their architectural or design practice by making films, photographs, textiles, or toys. It was all part of the same thing: a desire to curate the world into a comprehensible, beautiful, and efficient place.
I've been working, somewhat shambolically I must admit, on organizing a first-ever, hopefully-inaugural Urban Honking lecture and reading event. This is something I have been wanting to do ever since I gave a Universe Power Point (on Unarius) at the "Talk Talk Talk" night that the L.A. Historical Girl's and Boy's Club used to put on in my ol' hometown, Los Angeles. It was such a good idea: getting smart people together in a bar until all hours, listening to short presentations and talks like taking part in a symposium was the most evident thing in the world.
This will be slightly different, but no less worthy of your attention, Portlanders. The idea is to give people involved with the Urban Honking medium a chance to step out of the digi-sphere and enact their ideas in a 3D space, hopefully inviting new people to join the ongoing conversation that is the Internet.
It is taking place on MAY 10th, at the Mississippi Ballroom in North Portland, on Mississippi and Shaver, at 7 PM. It will be weird. I will be giving a short talk on Midcentury Design and screening a glut of Charles and Ray Eames films (rare!). There will also be an art history class taught by Greg Borenstein of Ideas for Dozens, a lecture from local art pundit and writer Matthew Stadler -- who curates the Using Global Media blog here on "UrHo" -- and something from Aaron Flint Jamison, New Media pioneer and editor-in-cheif of Veneer Magazine.
That's all I can say for now.
Based on the theory of General Relativity, Albert Einstein knew that a man hurtling through the emptiness of space wouldn't be able to detect whether or not he was falling; he called this "a happy idea.” Of course, not enough people are experienced in the field of free-fall space-floating to corroborate this notion. It seems that some variables would have to be in check -- does the parachute work? can I breathe? where is land? -- before joy could creep into the equation; even then, the vision of Frank Poole careening through black space in 2001: A Space Odyssey, is difficult to shake.
Still, there must be something to it. After all, the Apollo 11 landing module was impulsively dubbed the “Eagle,” and we all know how the Soviet cosmonaut Gherman Titov, only the second man in space and the first to stick around in low-Earth orbit for more than 24 hours, famously replied to a call from mission control with the elated cry: “I am Eagle! I am Eagle!”
For some, it’s a happy idea to find oneself among -- or beyond -- the birds, exempt from the rules of up-and-down. Take for example the parachutist and former French army colonel Michel Fournier, whose planned leap from 130,000 feet above the snowy fields of Saskatchewan this year will shatter the world records for both free-fall and human balloon flights. He can’t help but think of eagles, either.
“When you're in the air,” affirms Fournier, who has 8,600 parachute jumps under his belt, “you are struck with such a high dose of adrenaline that you immediately take yourself for the most beautiful of birds, the bald eagle. Only parachutists truly know why the birds sing."
I know that I once publicly decried Fournier's leap as being a feat of "human extremist frivolity," but after corresponding with him over email and getting an idea of his myopic sincerity, I've changed camps. Besides, I love space and am in no position to lambaste the dreams of others.
Fournier’s leap, which will take place in August of this year (after many postponements), has been dubbed the"Super Jump," or “Grand Saut.“ It's been in the works for over 14 years, despite a flock of financial setbacks -- advertising space, incidentally, is still available on the balloon gondola that will bring him to altitude -- persistent equipment failures, and the general incredulity of the scientific community.
The sexagenarian Frenchman is not easily dissuaded; he has an initial budget of 12 million dollars. Flanked by a litany of press attachés, engineers, astronauts and launch technicians, decked in a special “space suit” designed by the French Textile Institute, and high on 4 hours of pure oxygen inhalation, Fournier will reverse Neil Armstrong’s legendary axiom: One giant leap for man, maybe, but one small step for mankind.
Of course, this is not so much about mankind; Fournier frames his feat, rather, as a rare moment of pure individualism in a world -- and a scientific community -- increasingly defined by structures of collectivity. With the success of his jump, his website preens, Michel Fournier will become “an archetype of the Happy Man That Lives Out His Dreams.”
Moreover, it will dwarf the previous record set at the dawn of the space age by Joseph Kittinger, the US Air Force test dummy of “Project Excelsior,” an Air Force venture ostensibly created to explore the increasingly important issue of flight crew safety at high altitude. Kittinger, arguably the first man in space, floated up to 102,800 feet in a military-issued balloon, strapped a camera to his helmet, and dove off, arms splayed. He fell for 4 1/2 minutes at the speed of sound through the nether regions of space before passing through the familiar clouds and into the thick atmosphere of Earth. The footage of this feat is literally crazy to watch.
In Einstein’s defense, parenthetically, Kittinger plummeted to Earth so quickly that he didn't feel as though he were falling: It was only by looking at the rapidly receding helium balloon that he even realized in which direction he was going. Fournier will climb higher, and fall faster. It stands to reason, then, that he might have more fun.
Now that commercial space travel looms closer, however, and NASA’s slated to send men back the moon, what’s the big idea with Fournier’s jump? Is this self-avowed altitude-junkie trying to grab onto a long-musty trophy, or does another staggering parachute leap through the ether warrant scientific merit of its own? The Super Jump team stresses the feat’s scientific worth; regardless of how strongly its solitude smacks of daredevilism (“I find myself perpetually battling the solitary nature of this,” Fournier acquiesced to me), the project is among the first to address the human body’s reaction to breaking the sound barrier, and emphasizes that establishing a high-altitude human presence will ultimately aid astronauts during pivotal moments of take-off and landing.
Fournier gives credit where it’s due, however, “Joe Kittinger is my idol,” he gushes, “I've always been obsessed with this notion that I could fly even higher than him.”
Perhaps Einstein was right, although not quite how he might have imagined to be. It may not be the emptiness of space, nor the feeling of disconnect from gravity’s influence that elicits such a strong desire to fly through the air, but rather the knowledge of being the one who flew the highest.