When this past spring finally arrived in Washington, DC, I reluctantly opened the window near my bed, in my small, studio apartment in Dupont Circle, enjoying the fresh air but a bit irritated by sirens and horns and garbage trucks and helicopters. The view from my place is a concrete alley with buildings, dumpsters and a chain-link fence with barbed-wire on top. But there’s a young sugar maple growing amidst it all, the only “nature” I can see from my studio. The other morning, a crow landed in the budding tree and started cawing away, loud and proud, reminding me of other crows and their cousins, the ravens, back home in Montana; a comforting song indeed. I never thought a small, lonely little tree and a boisterous, scruffy black bird could take on such significance in my life. But here, in the midst of concrete and people, even a touch of wildness stands out, like finding an old hunting knife in the middle of the wilderness.
Last fall, while bulls were bugling in the Bitterroots, I packed up and moved to the nation’s capital to start a new job and get my head on straight. Now, with a half-year of hindsight, I know it was a futile attempt to escape troubles; such things travel with you as long as your head is still attached. Fortunately, that same brain-housing-group (as we called it in the Marines) also carry’s memories of elk country where I frequently find solace as an antidote to the insanity of city life. After a frustrating, maddening day of busy sidewalks and traffic and horns and sirens and jets and helicopters (DC sometimes still seems like a military zone in post-9/11 days) and rudeness and pretentiousness and arrogance (expected in a city laden with smart, ambitious people vying for political influence and power), I return to my apartment, lay in bed, close my eyes and drift off to the places and adventures I cherish most.
There’s a lifetime full, and then some, that gently swirl through my head like a windy September snow in the high country. The maple and crow trigger such memories; sometimes it’s other various sights, sounds and tastes. Like the squealing breaks of a bus that sound (to me) a bit like the bugling of a bull, or walking by the wolf statutes in front of Defenders of Wildlife headquarters on 17th Street across from the wildlife photos hanging from the widows of the National Geographic building, or the pungent odor of white pine scattered through the city, or the frequent dinner invites from my friend in Mt. Pleasant to enjoy elk steaks cut from the bull he killed in Idaho last fall, or a walk to Roosevelt Island on the Potomac where a large monument of Theodore himself helps return me to my hunting and conservation roots.
It all makes me think of an elk calf I met last spring – wondering if she (or he?) is still alive, or perhaps succumbed to cold and snow, tooth or claw, virus or disease or bow or rifle. Perhaps, even as I write, some fortunate hunter is savoring a tender piece of backstrap or rump roast carved from its bones. Such is life in the wilds – the last remnants of the real world, as I like to think of it – where nature, life and death, serenity and violence, splendor and repugnance (judgments, I suppose, from my homocentric view of things) continue on as always.
I met the calf serendipitously, on an unusually warm May day, back in the Selway Bitterroot Wilderness in the Idaho backcountry, a half day’s hike from the Montana border. Retreating down from deep, post-holing snow still lingering in the high country, breaking out of a maddening thicket of alder into a dark copse of massive Doug fir, I pretty near tripped over the calf – who lay stiff, silent and scentless in a sunny spot near a large, rotting log. The newborn would have been easy to miss; donning spotted tan, chocolate and cream camouflage -- a level of concealment I could only hopelessly imagine matching back in my stealthful Marine Corps days. There were no cows in site, though I sensed I was being watched, and no sign of other life. Just silence. So I lay next to the calf, a few feet away and, well, just said “hello.” I was met with big black eyes, staring back at me with what seemed more curiosity than fear, which makes sense, since aside from what instinctive notions this new life might be born with there was unlikely any experience to judge what might be harmful, dangerous or not. I have no doubt I was the first human this elk had ever seen. Which brought concerns to mind: Could I be teaching this young elk that we humans are harmless? I even envisioned me stalking elk come fall, bow in hand, only to have a yearling run over, lay down, and expect me to say “hello.”
Lots of conflicting thoughts raced through my mind: I wondered what it would be like to pet him (though I didn’t); I wondered how good it would be to eat him (though I didn’t), and I wondered how his (or her?) life would turn out (I’ll never know). I didn’t linger long. I got up, said “goodbye,” and wished him good luck. “Beware of wolves, and lions, and bears . . . and hunters like me.”
Life’s laden with such seemingly contradictory notions and emotions of joy, violence, love and turmoil. I’ve been coping with a heap of such things myself over the past several years – the death of my father; unexpected twists and turns; confusing matters of the heart; full-blown mid-life crisis. Sometimes, I sought futile, misguided solace in alcohol and other various vices. On my better days, I would head for elk country, year round, by foot, skis or snowshoes, hunting or seeking sheds or just wandering and looking. Well, at least I did during the 23 years I lived in Montana, and now I know I grew to take it all for granted, now that it’s so far away, and I feel like I’ve lost a part of my heart – similar to the feeling I get being on the opposite side of the nation from my child.
With 48 years behind me, I should know better than an elk calf. That young, inexperienced life has no choice but to face up to challenges, do the best she (or he) can do, face life and go on. But I’ve spent far too much time the past few years wallowing in self-pity, avoiding and evading life and responsibilities, drifting from my roots, spending far more time in the 14 bars I could stumble home from than any of the surrounding wild country I used to roam on a regular basis. I had even stopped hunting elk – something that used to passionately consume my life, like an athlete obsessed with triathlons might do; preparing, anticipating, training, visualizing, pursuing, killing, boning out and packing meat, cutting and wrapping and eating and starting again for the next fall. It was the very core of my identity. So friends were surprised, even concerned, when I fell into depression and laid down my bow. For a few years after, I still headed out, rifle in hand, to put meat on the table. But it became routine, and felt more like something I should do because I was supposed to, because that was me. I questioned my motives, and wondered if I hunted for the right reasons, or merely to prove I was a tough, macho guy who could regularly find and kill big bulls. A few times – watching bulls die slow deaths with my arrow sticking from their sides – I was overcome with guilt and sorrow. So I stopped.
I envy that calf I met; no doubt approaching life with simplicity – not overanalyzing and complicating and torturing itself with a crazy human mind. But the longer I live far from the mountains of Montana the more clear things become, and the more I relive the moments that made life so good, so worth living. Like the day I met that elk calf. And a plethora of other memories that run through my brain like a broken record, over and over, bringing me back home. These are a few of my top “hits:”
The crisp fall day in a remote part of the Selway Bitterroot Wilderness bushwhacking with my pack on when my chocolate lab, several yards ahead of me, abruptly stopped, hair up, and let out a nervous “woof.” With the breeze in our face I could smell elk, so I hurried to her side to see what she saw, and there, less than 50 yards ahead, stood a stocky white wolf who, when seeing me, sped off in a blur. Another 100 yards ahead we found two dead calves, torn open and blood still steaming, lots of wolf tracks in the surrounding mud. Apparently, we disrupted a feast. Another time, not far from that very spot (as the raven flies) I secured my own winter feast – the largest bull I ever killed (a hefty 6x7) after bugling, and grunting and cow-calling and chasing and retreating and moving back in from dawn till dusk until it finally all came together and I sent an arrow through both lungs. It took me four arduous days boning and packing meat out – something I am not so sure I could or would even want to do today. A few drainages over, I once heard a strange grunt below me, on a steep slope of dark spruce, while pursuing a vocal bull who entertained me with songs most the day but never let me see him. So I reluctantly abandoned his tempting taunts to check out the “grunt.” It turns out the sound came from a black bear gorging himself on elk. I spent an hour or so crawling close, hid behind a hefty spruce, notched an arrow, leaned over and shot him right through the heart. The boar was nearly 7-foot long and from the worn-out teeth I have a hunch he was near the end of his days regardless. The roasts were delicious. There’s a nameless lake not far from there, far from any trails, where it’s easy to make a meal out of fat, naïve cutthroats. I used to lay my sleeping bag out close to the shore, under a thick alpine fir, between days of chasing bulls, and sleep a deep, sound sleep on soft needles like I have never experienced on the best of modern mattresses. One night, I awoke under a full moon and saw a mountain lion, several yards away, looking at me, then quickly slip away like a dream. Then I barely heard the distinct squeal of a bull far, far in the distance. One winter, feeling overly ambitious, I loaded my pack, strapped on skis and spent 10-days making my way through the Bitterroots from the Montana side to Elk City Idaho. Down along the Selway River – one of the only wild, protected winter ranges surrounded still by wilderness – I saw hundreds of elk, struggling through a brutal winter, and several carcasses from the ones who didn’t make it, and I came upon fresh, bloody moose tracks in the snow alongside small lion tracks, laying out a tale of a botched, messy attempt at a kill. I found the moose, still alive, standing and stumbling in an icy creek with her right flank torn up. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, and left her alone, hoping the cat would return and finish it off quick. Such is life in the wilds, where we can all fall prey to the everyday drama of life and death. I’ve had a few close encounters with grizzlies (which always bring to mind the words of William Kittredge: “We need grizzlies around if, for nothing else, they teach us a little humility”), have come close to drowning in foolish efforts to cross tumultuous creeks filled with spring snowmelt, fell off a cliff once and got caught in an avalanche. Then there’s the days of refreshing naps on sunny hillsides; skinny dipping in clean, cold creeks and lakes or building a fire on a cold November day while boning out an elk, throwing some ribs on the fire, and gnawing on fresh meat while tossing scraps to the friendly grey jays (camp robbers) who have a knack for showing up at kill sites often before I do. Several years ago I loaded a pack and spent eight weeks hiking mostly off trail from Missoula, Montana to Waterton, Alberta, and only crossed three roads; I am not sure I have ever felt so good, so happy, so alive. But the adventure, all the adventures, all the sights, sounds, smells and feel of it all are there, still there, in the grey matter between the ears, helping me through day by day; elk and mountain goats and pine martens and bears and lions and wolves and hawks and eagles and whitebark pine and lodgepole and menziesia brush and alder (that damn menziesia brush and alder!) and wild rivers and trout and fire and flood and snow and rain and sunshine and bugling, bugling, bugling, always the bugling going through my head like a song that won’t go away.
And that elk calf. It’s been almost a year now, and I still frequently think of her (or him?) often. Though my scientific side resists anthropomorphic thoughts, I can’t help but wonder: does that calf ever think of me? If that young elk survived the year there’s no doubt some harsh and valuable lessons have been learned. Such is life. Here’s something I’ve learned from elk country: westerns forests evolved with and are well-adapted to wildfire; they often seem devastating at the time but forests are healthier for it in the long-term. Things always green up. Such is life.
I recently listened to Weezer’s Heartsongs, in which vocalist and songwriter Rivers Cuomo sings of all the music that influenced his life and career --- the works of Gordon Lightfoot and Cat Stevens and Eddie Rabbit and Jon Lennon and Bruce Springsteen and Iron Maiden and Judas Priest and Michael Jackson and Nirvana.
These are my heartsongs
They never feel wrong
And when I wake, for goodness sakes
These are the songs I keep singin’
And so it is with memories of elk and elk country and wild, remote places; they never feel wrong, and so I keep singin’, until I return. So now I find myself thinking again of fall, and planning my move back home. I want to dust off my bow, clean my rifle, get back in shape, and seek winter meat. Of course, as all us hunters know, it’s more than roasts, steaks and burgers – it’s the constant quest, the total, complete emersion into the predator-prey world of life in wilds that I’ve only felt while hunting. It truly is me, it’s when I feel most alive, it’s a critical part of my very core. Perhaps next fall I will meet that calf again, now full grown, and with a tinge of sadness, but a smile on my face, I would not mind carrying him from woods to freezer. I am, after all, a hunter.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Seeking Gay Date: Just Don't Tell Anyone
By David Stalling
Being new to DC (having moved to Dupont from the rural Rockies), and excited to experience what it might be like to live in a "gayborhood" of sorts, I am a bit surprised by how many gay guys in this town seem ashamed, afraid and so deeply closeted. Not that I can't relate; I spent much of my life in various stages of denial, suppression and hiding. Perhaps us "came-out-late-in-life" sort of guys can be as equally sanctimonious and irritating as ex-smokers and born-agains. On the other hand, the times they are a changing, and homosexuality is hardly shocking and unacceptable to most people nowadays. Much of the internalized homophobia I've seen here seems related to the very nature of our Capital City, where many people appear overly-obsessed and concerned with image and connection to power—hence, have fears and insecurities (real and perceived) about getting shoved off the hetero-dominated achievement ladder. Here's a recent example:
I got lucky, and received two tickets to Obama's inaugural address from one of my Senators, Jon Tester of Montana (they were distributed equitably to constituents who requested them). I attempted to turn my good fortune into more luck, and placed the following ad in the "Men Seeking Men" section of Craigslist:
Looking for Date to Inauguration (I have two tickets)
My senator confirmed today that I will be receiving two tickets to Obama's inauguration. I would love to find a date for this historic event. I am fit, active, energetic, smart, passionate, fun, down-to-earth, funny and an all-round good guy. My interests are many and diverse, and include: hiking, backpacking, mountain biking, snowboarding, reading, writing, cooking, dining out, watching movies, dancing, exploring the city and good conversation. I tend to like younger, or at least youthful, intelligent, energetic, interesting, skinny/lean guys who look at the world differently, and are totally out and single. I would want to meet a few times, to see if we hit it off, before the inauguration. I'm not so bad in bed if it comes to that! Send pics and stats if interested.
I included a few pictures, one a simple mug shot and the other one of me in board shorts with my chocolate lab along the Blackfoot River in Montana—no more revealing, say, then photos of Obama's recent shirtless jaunt along an Hawaiian beach (though I am not as hot as our president-elect.) I was flooded with responses—most from the usual assortment of "I want to fuck your hole"-"rim your ass"-"tie you up" whack-jobs that were immediately deleted. But a handful was from seemingly smart, interesting, good-looking guys. Unfortunately, most of them said they were closeted, or married, or in "committed" relationships with boyfriends who would be out of town, and required total "discretion" and "secrecy." Several wanted assurances I didn't "act" or "look" gay so nobody would know they were on a gay date. (If a guy is "straight-acting," wouldn't he be on the "Men Seeking Women" thread?) And so I (sometimes reluctantly) deleted them too. But perhaps the strangest, most irritating response came from an anonymous guy who wrote:
"man, you better pull this ad before it ends up in the press. you might get more coverage than you think or than you want -- including for your senator/senator's staffer who got the tix for you....that will burn that relationship."
I wrote him back, curious, as to what he thought seemed so newsworthy, scandalous or remotely, potentially embarrassing to a senator in regards to my ad? What would the headlines read? "Gay Man Trying to Find Date to Inauguration!" I envisioned myself in a 60 Minutes interview with Lesley Stahl leaning forward, a somber look on her face, asking, "So, Mr. Stalling, you planned to take a man to the inaugural address, and potentially have sexual relations with him?" I would fidget around a bit, hesitate, and finally reply, "Uh, um, err, ah, yeah, I guess, if I found the right guy." Of course, as silly and improbable as it is, I would welcome the coverage: it would merely widen my search for a date.
And how would Senator Jon Tester reply? Well, considering he has an openly, out gay son (who he loves, accepts and is proud of, as any good dad should) and is a pretty fair and reasonable guy, I would like to think (and quite certain) he would say something along the lines of, "He received two tickets from my office, who he takes with him is his own damn business."
Okay, so perhaps the "not so bad in bed" comment could perceived as a tad bit inappropriate, if not narcissistic. But I can provide references. And it seems most every magazine I see on the Newsstand nowadays touts an article or two about how to improve one's sex life. I recently read one that recommended having more and better sex as one of the top ten ways to live a healthier, happier life—seems worthy of a New Year's resolution to me! I hope Sen. Tester and his wife—and Obama and Michelle, for that matter—aren't bad in bed and can mutually satisfy each other. Are we such a puritanical society that we should only read about such things but not talk about it? (I guess that's why I prefer Dr. Ruth over Dr. Laura.)
Of course, Mr. Anonymous likely would not have responded as he did if I was a heterosexual seeking a female date. Yet I assume, since he was searching through and reading ads on the "Man Seeking Man" section, that he is not so straight. So why would he be so judgmental of my ad? I didn't get to find out. His reply to my questions: "Do not email me again, I have put you on my spam filter." So the search goes on.
By the way: any cute, smart, openly out and single guys looking for a date? I promise it won't embarrass our senators!
By David Stalling
Being new to DC (having moved to Dupont from the rural Rockies), and excited to experience what it might be like to live in a "gayborhood" of sorts, I am a bit surprised by how many gay guys in this town seem ashamed, afraid and so deeply closeted. Not that I can't relate; I spent much of my life in various stages of denial, suppression and hiding. Perhaps us "came-out-late-in-life" sort of guys can be as equally sanctimonious and irritating as ex-smokers and born-agains. On the other hand, the times they are a changing, and homosexuality is hardly shocking and unacceptable to most people nowadays. Much of the internalized homophobia I've seen here seems related to the very nature of our Capital City, where many people appear overly-obsessed and concerned with image and connection to power—hence, have fears and insecurities (real and perceived) about getting shoved off the hetero-dominated achievement ladder. Here's a recent example:
I got lucky, and received two tickets to Obama's inaugural address from one of my Senators, Jon Tester of Montana (they were distributed equitably to constituents who requested them). I attempted to turn my good fortune into more luck, and placed the following ad in the "Men Seeking Men" section of Craigslist:
Looking for Date to Inauguration (I have two tickets)
My senator confirmed today that I will be receiving two tickets to Obama's inauguration. I would love to find a date for this historic event. I am fit, active, energetic, smart, passionate, fun, down-to-earth, funny and an all-round good guy. My interests are many and diverse, and include: hiking, backpacking, mountain biking, snowboarding, reading, writing, cooking, dining out, watching movies, dancing, exploring the city and good conversation. I tend to like younger, or at least youthful, intelligent, energetic, interesting, skinny/lean guys who look at the world differently, and are totally out and single. I would want to meet a few times, to see if we hit it off, before the inauguration. I'm not so bad in bed if it comes to that! Send pics and stats if interested.
I included a few pictures, one a simple mug shot and the other one of me in board shorts with my chocolate lab along the Blackfoot River in Montana—no more revealing, say, then photos of Obama's recent shirtless jaunt along an Hawaiian beach (though I am not as hot as our president-elect.) I was flooded with responses—most from the usual assortment of "I want to fuck your hole"-"rim your ass"-"tie you up" whack-jobs that were immediately deleted. But a handful was from seemingly smart, interesting, good-looking guys. Unfortunately, most of them said they were closeted, or married, or in "committed" relationships with boyfriends who would be out of town, and required total "discretion" and "secrecy." Several wanted assurances I didn't "act" or "look" gay so nobody would know they were on a gay date. (If a guy is "straight-acting," wouldn't he be on the "Men Seeking Women" thread?) And so I (sometimes reluctantly) deleted them too. But perhaps the strangest, most irritating response came from an anonymous guy who wrote:
"man, you better pull this ad before it ends up in the press. you might get more coverage than you think or than you want -- including for your senator/senator's staffer who got the tix for you....that will burn that relationship."
I wrote him back, curious, as to what he thought seemed so newsworthy, scandalous or remotely, potentially embarrassing to a senator in regards to my ad? What would the headlines read? "Gay Man Trying to Find Date to Inauguration!" I envisioned myself in a 60 Minutes interview with Lesley Stahl leaning forward, a somber look on her face, asking, "So, Mr. Stalling, you planned to take a man to the inaugural address, and potentially have sexual relations with him?" I would fidget around a bit, hesitate, and finally reply, "Uh, um, err, ah, yeah, I guess, if I found the right guy." Of course, as silly and improbable as it is, I would welcome the coverage: it would merely widen my search for a date.
And how would Senator Jon Tester reply? Well, considering he has an openly, out gay son (who he loves, accepts and is proud of, as any good dad should) and is a pretty fair and reasonable guy, I would like to think (and quite certain) he would say something along the lines of, "He received two tickets from my office, who he takes with him is his own damn business."
Okay, so perhaps the "not so bad in bed" comment could perceived as a tad bit inappropriate, if not narcissistic. But I can provide references. And it seems most every magazine I see on the Newsstand nowadays touts an article or two about how to improve one's sex life. I recently read one that recommended having more and better sex as one of the top ten ways to live a healthier, happier life—seems worthy of a New Year's resolution to me! I hope Sen. Tester and his wife—and Obama and Michelle, for that matter—aren't bad in bed and can mutually satisfy each other. Are we such a puritanical society that we should only read about such things but not talk about it? (I guess that's why I prefer Dr. Ruth over Dr. Laura.)
Of course, Mr. Anonymous likely would not have responded as he did if I was a heterosexual seeking a female date. Yet I assume, since he was searching through and reading ads on the "Man Seeking Man" section, that he is not so straight. So why would he be so judgmental of my ad? I didn't get to find out. His reply to my questions: "Do not email me again, I have put you on my spam filter." So the search goes on.
By the way: any cute, smart, openly out and single guys looking for a date? I promise it won't embarrass our senators!
Monday, December 22, 2008
Virginia is for Lovers (Unless you're Gay and Drive too Fast)
By David Stalling
I can't be absolutely sure my homosexuality had anything to do with me being jailed overnight in Virginia, humiliated, denied basic rights and roughed up by the cops; although they repeatedly called me "faggot," and even preached some good-old-fashioned Christianity to help set me straight. Officially, I was detained for "reckless driving." A gay guy driving too fast.
Both Lambda Legal and the American Civil Liberties Union reviewed my complaints, and determined there was "insufficient evidence to substantiate a strong case" against the police or county—not enough witnesses, no photos, that sort of thing. In other words: the cops didn't beat me up in front of others, and didn't film it. It's just my word against theirs. And apparently, in Virginia, citizens show a great deal of respect and admiration for authority; I don't blame them—you might get the shit kicked out of you otherwise. So I have no civil case; just fond memories and my side of the story:
On September 4, 2008, at 2:24 pm, I was pulled over by a Virginia County Sheriff for speeding while driving a rental car on Route 657 (.2 miles east of route 267) on my way from Washington DC to Dulles international airport. I had been in DC a few days interviewing for a job with a nonprofit gay rights organization. I was driving 85 in a 55 mph zone, and the cop informed me that in Virginia that is deemed "reckless driving." He was stern, serious, stoic and treated me as if I had just robbed the collection plate at a Baptist Church. And this is speculative on my part: but he seemed to pay extra attention to, and show particular disgust by, a small stack of circumstantial evidence on the passenger seat: a copy of a "Queer Guide to DC," several gay rights magazines, and information regarding efforts to repeal the military's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy.
The policeman informed me that I had to sign a citation promising to appear in a Fairfax County Court regarding the charges. This confused me, because back home, in Montana, you have the option of pleading guilty and paying the fine on the spot, or mailing the fine in before the scheduled court appearance. I informed the police officer that I lived in Montana, and could not afford to come back to court, and asked for clarification and inquired as to how I could plead guilty and mail the fine in. He became angry, impatient and told me to just sign it. I told him I was confused and wanted an explanation, and again asked if there were other options. He told me if I did not sign it he could arrest me and put me in jail. Still confused, suspicious, and now upset, I asked, "You can arrest me because I can't afford to come back to Virginia?" I said I wanted to make a quick phone call to a friend of mine (who is a lawyer in Montana) to clarify what he was telling me. I reached for my cell phone lying next to the gay literature. He became very aggressive and told me to get out of the car. He shoved me against the car, handcuffed me extra tight, and informed me I was under arrest. Still confused, I asked why. Because I refused to sign the promise to appear in court, he said. Finally understanding the severity of the situation, I told him I did not refuse, but wanted clarification, but would now, of course, consider signing it. His response: It's too late for that, faggot." And so it was. I was hauled off to the Fairfax County Adult Detention Center and assigned inmate number 20051851773. I missed my flight home to Montana.
They took an unflattering mug shot (not one I would put on ManHunt), fingerprints, had me empty pockets and turn everything over, then placed me in a small, 15-by-20-foot or so concrete holding cell with approximately 20 other inmates. They told me that I would have to spend the night and appear before a judge in the morning. There were two rows of chairs in the room and a TV mounted in the corner (playing cheesy reality shows all night, including COPS), and a small bathroom (a stainless steel toilet with a drinking fountain built into the top). The only place to sleep was to find space among the other inmates on the floor.
I was told I could make four calls from a phone on the wall, but only collect calls. I tried calling several people, including a lawyer, but received answer machines, which cannot accept collect calls. I finally got hold of my brother, Tim, who is a policeman in Fairfield, Connecticut, and he decided to drive from Connecticut to Virginia that night to see what he could do. He did not arrive until the next morning. During the night, I was harassed by several cops and repeatedly called a "faggot." I was laughed at and denied all requests for a reasonable, realistic chance to call a lawyer, or even get a phone book so I could look up phone numbers for local lawyers. I would occasionally curl up on the floor, using my arm as a pillow, and begin to doze off. But every hour or so, up to six cops would swing open the iron bars, rush into the holding cell and yell for everyone to "get on your feet" so they could take attendance, demanding we all speak to them in a "yes sir, no sir" manner, reminiscence of my days in Marine Corps boot camp.
At about 2 am, they brought in a young man—25 or so, and cute--who appeared drunk. They treated him pretty roughly. He asked a question, and one of the officers screamed, "You will address me as Sergeant. You are in my jail and you will treat me with respect." To which the young man replied: "Why don't you show me some respect?" Several officers grabbed him, put him in an arm lock, and hauled him away. An hour or so later, they brought him back, threw him back into the cell, and he was wearing a few new bumps and bruises on his face and arms.
I was angry, scared, and asked what was going on. "How can you treat people this way?" I asked. "What country is this?" One cop laughed and told me to "shut up faggot." I replied: "You can't treat people this way." I then found out the hard way that, indeed, they can. Several cops (about four, I think) grabbed me, put me in a painful arm lock, and took me to a very small, concrete holding pen. Again, I was called a "faggot" several times and heard one officer say "We need to teach this faggot a lesson." They pushed me down on my knees, pushed my face into the corner, kneed me and kept me in an arm lock. One of them screamed, "You will lay here with your face against the floor until we tell you to move, do you understand?" I replied: "I would like to call a lawyer." They slammed my face a bit harder into the concrete and yelled, "You will answer 'yes sir,' do you understand?" Again, I requested a lawyer, and again they slammed my face into the wall. This occurred several times, and I was again repeatedly called a "faggot." I finally told them they could break every bone in my body if they wanted, and it would only make my case better when I finally did get a lawyer. They backed off.
I was left in the solitary confinement cell, and felt pretty sick. I spit up some blood, was bleeding from my nose, and my eyes and nose were in pain. Twice I requested medical treatment and was laughed at, and again called a faggot. (They seem to love the word.) One cop threw a rag into my cell and told me to clean up my mess. I refused, and again requested medical attention and was again denied. One cop with sympathetic-leanings told me to "cooperate" and they would treat me better, and said they had to separate me from the others and do what they did because I might otherwise "incite a riot." I remained in solitary confinement the rest of the night, with occasional visits by cops who would smile, laugh, and continue their incontrollable urges to repeatedly use the word "faggot."
At about 8 am, September 5, I was handcuffed and led to a room to speak to a judge, via TV screen, not in person. It was like watching Judge Judy while also being in her show all at the same time. A cop told her that I was arrested for reckless driving, lived out of state, and that I had refused to sign the paperwork promising to return to Virginia to appear in court. I awaited my chance to speak, but it never came. "Well, in that case, I set your bail at $5, 000," she said. That was that, no chance to respond, and I was rushed out of there and taken back to the main holding cell, with the others, apparently no longer a potential inciter of riots. A cop told me I could use the phone on the wall—another collect call—to arrange bail. But the phone did not work. I mentioned it to one of the cops, and he told me to try again. I did. There was no dial tone. I informed the cop again. He seemed agitated, but entered the cell to check the phone. He told me that it wasn't working, but said he would make arrangements to find me another phone to use. Then he left. I waited for more than an hour, when another cop arrived and told me and several others to follow him. I assumed I was going to finally get to use a phone so I could arrange to pay bail and be free. I was wrong.
Instead, I and the others were led to another part of the building and told to wait in line, where a cop was sitting at a desk filling out forms and asking other inmates questions. I asked several times what was going on and he told me to shut up. Eventually, I figured out that this was a "processing step" for being transitioned into the regular, permanent jail. I tried to explain to the cop that I had already appeared before the judge, and was told I could make a phone call to arrange bail and go. He asked me why I did not make the call in the main holding cell. I explained to him that the phone was not working and another cop had told me he would arrange for me to make a call, but it never happened. Again, he told me to shut up and continued asking me questions as part of the processing procedure. One of the questions, which I had already heard him ask others, is whether I identified as a "heterosexual, homosexual or bisexual." I said homosexual. He replied, "So you really are a faggot?" My response: "Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with this place?" He told me to watch my language, and not to bring Jesus into it. "He is your lord and savior," he said. "And now you're going to preach to me?" I asked. "As a matter of fact, I will," he said. And he did, rapidly reciting several bible passages, but more in a manner to show off his knowledge of the Good Book. I wasn't impressed.
I interrupted him to once again try and explain my situation. He asked, "Are you going to listen to me, or do you just want to talk?" To which I replied, "As a matter of fact, I would like to talk." He sat back with his hands behind his head, with a smug smile, and sarcastically said, "Well go right ahead and talk, faggot." So I did, and tried yet again to explain that my bail was already set and I just wanted a chance to arrange bail, or call a lawyer, and that until I could see a lawyer I did not feel comfortable answering any more questions. "Are you done?" he asked. "Yes," I replied. Then he became aggressive, yelled for me to get on my feet, turned me around, put my hands behind my back, held me by the wrists, and took me back to the solitary confinement cell. On the way, he shoved me ahead of him and used my face to open some double, swinging doors. "That's not very Christian like," I said. He didn't seem to care. When he left me in the cell and shut the door, he smiled and said, "Good luck getting out of here, faggot."
I was left in there for another few hours. In the meantime, my brother Tim had arrived from Connecticut, paid my bail, and was asking when I would be released. The only response he would get from cops was, "Your brother is causing trouble, and not being very cooperative." About the same time, an officer told me I could be released if I were more "cooperative" and "showed more respect." At my brothers continued insistence, I was finally released in the early afternoon. I had two black eyes and a sore nose, and my mouth and teeth hurt. I smoked a cigarette, and went and had a few drinks.
Though I did get my injuries documented at an emergency room, I could not interest any civil rights groups in the case, and could not afford a lawyer to take on the cops or the county. It was all I could do to afford another plane ticket home. In the weeks that followed, I received numerous solicitations in the mail from Virginia lawyers. "This charge, as you may know, carries with it the potential for a sentence involving up to a year in jail," one of the letters stated. "Whether you are guilty or not, it is very important you have an attorney," read another. "They will vigorously prosecute you by trying to prove your guilt and to get as heavy a punishment as they can," yet another, and another . . . "We have been attorneys for over 30 years, and we practice in all the Courts in Virginia and know the prosecutors, Judges, and the systems peculiar to the Court where you must appear." . . . "We charge reasonable and competitive fees." . . . "My office is located in Lawyers' Row, directly across the street from the Fairfax County Jail/Courthouse Complex. I conduct business in the Fairfax County Courts almost every business day. Perhaps you can benefit from my personal representation?" And so on. Speeding is apparently a lucrative business for all in Fairfax County, Virginia.
I paid one of the lawyers $700, and he appeared in court on my behalf, on September 5, so I did not have to fly back to Virginia. My charges were reduced to speeding (the speed changed to 65 mph), and I paid a $250 fine in addition to a $62.00 processing fee. But I got a decent beating for the deal, and even a bit of preaching.
My religious beliefs fall close to those of writer Edward Abbey's: "There has got to be a God; the world could not have become so fucked up by chance alone." If, by chance, the Christian notions of a particular Fairfax County Sheriff are correct, it would be fun to observe his judgment day. But I have a hunch God doesn't allow witnesses, and certainly won't be filming it.
Postscript: A few weeks later, driving with some friends, I was pulled over for doing 90 in a 75 in rural Montana. The highway patrolman gave me a warning, told me to slow down, be safe and enjoy my trip. I love Montana.
I can't be absolutely sure my homosexuality had anything to do with me being jailed overnight in Virginia, humiliated, denied basic rights and roughed up by the cops; although they repeatedly called me "faggot," and even preached some good-old-fashioned Christianity to help set me straight. Officially, I was detained for "reckless driving." A gay guy driving too fast.
Both Lambda Legal and the American Civil Liberties Union reviewed my complaints, and determined there was "insufficient evidence to substantiate a strong case" against the police or county—not enough witnesses, no photos, that sort of thing. In other words: the cops didn't beat me up in front of others, and didn't film it. It's just my word against theirs. And apparently, in Virginia, citizens show a great deal of respect and admiration for authority; I don't blame them—you might get the shit kicked out of you otherwise. So I have no civil case; just fond memories and my side of the story:
On September 4, 2008, at 2:24 pm, I was pulled over by a Virginia County Sheriff for speeding while driving a rental car on Route 657 (.2 miles east of route 267) on my way from Washington DC to Dulles international airport. I had been in DC a few days interviewing for a job with a nonprofit gay rights organization. I was driving 85 in a 55 mph zone, and the cop informed me that in Virginia that is deemed "reckless driving." He was stern, serious, stoic and treated me as if I had just robbed the collection plate at a Baptist Church. And this is speculative on my part: but he seemed to pay extra attention to, and show particular disgust by, a small stack of circumstantial evidence on the passenger seat: a copy of a "Queer Guide to DC," several gay rights magazines, and information regarding efforts to repeal the military's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy.
The policeman informed me that I had to sign a citation promising to appear in a Fairfax County Court regarding the charges. This confused me, because back home, in Montana, you have the option of pleading guilty and paying the fine on the spot, or mailing the fine in before the scheduled court appearance. I informed the police officer that I lived in Montana, and could not afford to come back to court, and asked for clarification and inquired as to how I could plead guilty and mail the fine in. He became angry, impatient and told me to just sign it. I told him I was confused and wanted an explanation, and again asked if there were other options. He told me if I did not sign it he could arrest me and put me in jail. Still confused, suspicious, and now upset, I asked, "You can arrest me because I can't afford to come back to Virginia?" I said I wanted to make a quick phone call to a friend of mine (who is a lawyer in Montana) to clarify what he was telling me. I reached for my cell phone lying next to the gay literature. He became very aggressive and told me to get out of the car. He shoved me against the car, handcuffed me extra tight, and informed me I was under arrest. Still confused, I asked why. Because I refused to sign the promise to appear in court, he said. Finally understanding the severity of the situation, I told him I did not refuse, but wanted clarification, but would now, of course, consider signing it. His response: It's too late for that, faggot." And so it was. I was hauled off to the Fairfax County Adult Detention Center and assigned inmate number 20051851773. I missed my flight home to Montana.
They took an unflattering mug shot (not one I would put on ManHunt), fingerprints, had me empty pockets and turn everything over, then placed me in a small, 15-by-20-foot or so concrete holding cell with approximately 20 other inmates. They told me that I would have to spend the night and appear before a judge in the morning. There were two rows of chairs in the room and a TV mounted in the corner (playing cheesy reality shows all night, including COPS), and a small bathroom (a stainless steel toilet with a drinking fountain built into the top). The only place to sleep was to find space among the other inmates on the floor.
I was told I could make four calls from a phone on the wall, but only collect calls. I tried calling several people, including a lawyer, but received answer machines, which cannot accept collect calls. I finally got hold of my brother, Tim, who is a policeman in Fairfield, Connecticut, and he decided to drive from Connecticut to Virginia that night to see what he could do. He did not arrive until the next morning. During the night, I was harassed by several cops and repeatedly called a "faggot." I was laughed at and denied all requests for a reasonable, realistic chance to call a lawyer, or even get a phone book so I could look up phone numbers for local lawyers. I would occasionally curl up on the floor, using my arm as a pillow, and begin to doze off. But every hour or so, up to six cops would swing open the iron bars, rush into the holding cell and yell for everyone to "get on your feet" so they could take attendance, demanding we all speak to them in a "yes sir, no sir" manner, reminiscence of my days in Marine Corps boot camp.
At about 2 am, they brought in a young man—25 or so, and cute--who appeared drunk. They treated him pretty roughly. He asked a question, and one of the officers screamed, "You will address me as Sergeant. You are in my jail and you will treat me with respect." To which the young man replied: "Why don't you show me some respect?" Several officers grabbed him, put him in an arm lock, and hauled him away. An hour or so later, they brought him back, threw him back into the cell, and he was wearing a few new bumps and bruises on his face and arms.
I was angry, scared, and asked what was going on. "How can you treat people this way?" I asked. "What country is this?" One cop laughed and told me to "shut up faggot." I replied: "You can't treat people this way." I then found out the hard way that, indeed, they can. Several cops (about four, I think) grabbed me, put me in a painful arm lock, and took me to a very small, concrete holding pen. Again, I was called a "faggot" several times and heard one officer say "We need to teach this faggot a lesson." They pushed me down on my knees, pushed my face into the corner, kneed me and kept me in an arm lock. One of them screamed, "You will lay here with your face against the floor until we tell you to move, do you understand?" I replied: "I would like to call a lawyer." They slammed my face a bit harder into the concrete and yelled, "You will answer 'yes sir,' do you understand?" Again, I requested a lawyer, and again they slammed my face into the wall. This occurred several times, and I was again repeatedly called a "faggot." I finally told them they could break every bone in my body if they wanted, and it would only make my case better when I finally did get a lawyer. They backed off.
I was left in the solitary confinement cell, and felt pretty sick. I spit up some blood, was bleeding from my nose, and my eyes and nose were in pain. Twice I requested medical treatment and was laughed at, and again called a faggot. (They seem to love the word.) One cop threw a rag into my cell and told me to clean up my mess. I refused, and again requested medical attention and was again denied. One cop with sympathetic-leanings told me to "cooperate" and they would treat me better, and said they had to separate me from the others and do what they did because I might otherwise "incite a riot." I remained in solitary confinement the rest of the night, with occasional visits by cops who would smile, laugh, and continue their incontrollable urges to repeatedly use the word "faggot."
At about 8 am, September 5, I was handcuffed and led to a room to speak to a judge, via TV screen, not in person. It was like watching Judge Judy while also being in her show all at the same time. A cop told her that I was arrested for reckless driving, lived out of state, and that I had refused to sign the paperwork promising to return to Virginia to appear in court. I awaited my chance to speak, but it never came. "Well, in that case, I set your bail at $5, 000," she said. That was that, no chance to respond, and I was rushed out of there and taken back to the main holding cell, with the others, apparently no longer a potential inciter of riots. A cop told me I could use the phone on the wall—another collect call—to arrange bail. But the phone did not work. I mentioned it to one of the cops, and he told me to try again. I did. There was no dial tone. I informed the cop again. He seemed agitated, but entered the cell to check the phone. He told me that it wasn't working, but said he would make arrangements to find me another phone to use. Then he left. I waited for more than an hour, when another cop arrived and told me and several others to follow him. I assumed I was going to finally get to use a phone so I could arrange to pay bail and be free. I was wrong.
Instead, I and the others were led to another part of the building and told to wait in line, where a cop was sitting at a desk filling out forms and asking other inmates questions. I asked several times what was going on and he told me to shut up. Eventually, I figured out that this was a "processing step" for being transitioned into the regular, permanent jail. I tried to explain to the cop that I had already appeared before the judge, and was told I could make a phone call to arrange bail and go. He asked me why I did not make the call in the main holding cell. I explained to him that the phone was not working and another cop had told me he would arrange for me to make a call, but it never happened. Again, he told me to shut up and continued asking me questions as part of the processing procedure. One of the questions, which I had already heard him ask others, is whether I identified as a "heterosexual, homosexual or bisexual." I said homosexual. He replied, "So you really are a faggot?" My response: "Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with this place?" He told me to watch my language, and not to bring Jesus into it. "He is your lord and savior," he said. "And now you're going to preach to me?" I asked. "As a matter of fact, I will," he said. And he did, rapidly reciting several bible passages, but more in a manner to show off his knowledge of the Good Book. I wasn't impressed.
I interrupted him to once again try and explain my situation. He asked, "Are you going to listen to me, or do you just want to talk?" To which I replied, "As a matter of fact, I would like to talk." He sat back with his hands behind his head, with a smug smile, and sarcastically said, "Well go right ahead and talk, faggot." So I did, and tried yet again to explain that my bail was already set and I just wanted a chance to arrange bail, or call a lawyer, and that until I could see a lawyer I did not feel comfortable answering any more questions. "Are you done?" he asked. "Yes," I replied. Then he became aggressive, yelled for me to get on my feet, turned me around, put my hands behind my back, held me by the wrists, and took me back to the solitary confinement cell. On the way, he shoved me ahead of him and used my face to open some double, swinging doors. "That's not very Christian like," I said. He didn't seem to care. When he left me in the cell and shut the door, he smiled and said, "Good luck getting out of here, faggot."
I was left in there for another few hours. In the meantime, my brother Tim had arrived from Connecticut, paid my bail, and was asking when I would be released. The only response he would get from cops was, "Your brother is causing trouble, and not being very cooperative." About the same time, an officer told me I could be released if I were more "cooperative" and "showed more respect." At my brothers continued insistence, I was finally released in the early afternoon. I had two black eyes and a sore nose, and my mouth and teeth hurt. I smoked a cigarette, and went and had a few drinks.
Though I did get my injuries documented at an emergency room, I could not interest any civil rights groups in the case, and could not afford a lawyer to take on the cops or the county. It was all I could do to afford another plane ticket home. In the weeks that followed, I received numerous solicitations in the mail from Virginia lawyers. "This charge, as you may know, carries with it the potential for a sentence involving up to a year in jail," one of the letters stated. "Whether you are guilty or not, it is very important you have an attorney," read another. "They will vigorously prosecute you by trying to prove your guilt and to get as heavy a punishment as they can," yet another, and another . . . "We have been attorneys for over 30 years, and we practice in all the Courts in Virginia and know the prosecutors, Judges, and the systems peculiar to the Court where you must appear." . . . "We charge reasonable and competitive fees." . . . "My office is located in Lawyers' Row, directly across the street from the Fairfax County Jail/Courthouse Complex. I conduct business in the Fairfax County Courts almost every business day. Perhaps you can benefit from my personal representation?" And so on. Speeding is apparently a lucrative business for all in Fairfax County, Virginia.
I paid one of the lawyers $700, and he appeared in court on my behalf, on September 5, so I did not have to fly back to Virginia. My charges were reduced to speeding (the speed changed to 65 mph), and I paid a $250 fine in addition to a $62.00 processing fee. But I got a decent beating for the deal, and even a bit of preaching.
My religious beliefs fall close to those of writer Edward Abbey's: "There has got to be a God; the world could not have become so fucked up by chance alone." If, by chance, the Christian notions of a particular Fairfax County Sheriff are correct, it would be fun to observe his judgment day. But I have a hunch God doesn't allow witnesses, and certainly won't be filming it.
Postscript: A few weeks later, driving with some friends, I was pulled over for doing 90 in a 75 in rural Montana. The highway patrolman gave me a warning, told me to slow down, be safe and enjoy my trip. I love Montana.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Christo and Jeanne-Claude: Colorado Fish Wrap (A River's Scream of Freedom)
By David Stalling
Christo and Jeanne-Claude have been wrapping things up for more than 50 years. They started off small, in 1958, with a dumpster-size, black-glob of a package wrapped in fabric, lacquer and rope. They wrapped up oil barrels, a night table, a Vespa motor bike, and by the mid-1960s they were wrapping up fountains and towers in Italy. They wrapped Switzerland's Kunsthalle in translucent plastic and wrapped Chicago's Museum of Contemporary Art in greenish-brown tarpaulin. Then they began wrapping up nature, covering cliffs, rocks and beach with erosion-control fabric along a 1.5-mile stretch of Little Bay on the coast of Australia. In 1972 they ventured to Colorado, and hung a 1,250-foot orange, nylon curtain across a Valley in the Grand Hogback Mountains. It looked like a giant dam.
In the 1970s and 80s, they wrapped up a Roman wall; created a 24-mile fence of white nylon hung from steel cables across the hills near San Francisco; made a walk way of yellow fabric in Kansas City; surrounded 11 islands with pink, floating fabric off the coast of Florida, and then covered up the Pont Neuf in Paris. On October 9, 1991, they had 1,800 workers simultaneously open 3,100 giant umbrellas spread throughout the landscape in both California (yellow umbrellas) and Japan (blue umbrellas.) They wrapped the Reichstag in an aluminum-surfaced fabric; stacked 13,000 colorful oil barrels inside the Gasometer in Germany, and covered 178 trees with polyester in Berower Park, Switzerland. Then off to the Big Apple, in 2005, where they hung 7,502 panels of saffron-colored fabric across the gates of Central Park. From the high vantage of a skyscraper, it looked like a flowing golden river of flags blowing in the breeze. Or laundry hung out to dry.
Now they want to cover a river--a 40-mile stretch of the Arkansas River between Salida and Canon City in south-central Colorado--with silvery, luminous fabric suspended from steel cables anchored into the river banks.
A few weeks after moving from Missoula, Montana to Washington, DC, I received an invite to a private, pre-opening exhibit called "Over the River: A Work in Progress," at the Phillips Collection just a short walk from my apartment in Dupont Circle. It was a pleasant, relaxed gathering with white wine only (lest you spill red on the samples of translucent fabric on display) and tasty hors devours. We 50 or so folks attending were the "first to survey the artists' preparations for their next widely anticipated work of art," I read, "tracing the development of this ambitious project over the last 16 years." I forgot my glasses, and so had to stand close and squint to see the collages, conceptual drawings, photographs, technical diagrams, maps, writings and sample fabric panels and cables hanging on the walls and set up on the wooden floors throughout several rooms. Christo and Jeanne-Claude haven't started the actual installation of anchors, cable and fabric yet, as they await completion of an Environmental Impact Statement and other bureaucratic, time-consuming reviews, public scoping meetings and approval from the Bureau of Land Management, the federal agency responsible for management of that portion of the river and land around it.
If the agency treated this proposal as thoughtlessly, carelessly and hastily as they allow gas, oil and coal-bed methane wells, roads, power lines and pipelines to permeate and scar our public lands and rivers, Christo and Jeanne-Claude could have proceeded long ago. But this is art; hardly worthy of the same time, attention and "priority status" given to the extractive industry, as ordered by the Bush administration. (Perhaps the artists could wrap up the Whitehouse, topped with a big red ribbon, as a house-warming gift to Obama.) Then again, we will need plenty of C02-emitting fossil fuels to power planes, cars, trucks and SUVs for the 560,000 people Christo and Jeanne Claude estimate will flock to the area during the several years covering installation, completion and eventual removal.
Modern art: creative, inspiring, lucrative. Like everyone working to persuade anyone of most anything nowadays—particularly Westerners in struggling rural communities—Christo and Jeanne Claude present an alluring economic case. On their website, here's how they put it:
"Many visitors will spend the night in areas surrounding the Arkansas Valley, bringing economic benefits to many communities, including Pueblo, Denver, Colorado Springs, the San Luis Valley and a host of smaller towns on the Western Slope. The total number of visitors represents slightly more than twice the number of persons who raft the Arkansas River in any given year and approximately the same number of yearly visitors to Mesa Verde National Park. Three out of five Over the River visitors are anticipated to come from out of state, spending an average of 4-5 days in Colorado for their trip. . . . In total, Colorado may garner more than $195 million in new direct visitor spending, more than what is projected for the Democratic National Convention ($160 million) and over twice the impact of the National Western Stock Show ($84 million)."
Which explains why nearly ever chamber of commerce, visitors' bureau and tourism council in the area, as well as several outfitting and expedition companies and organizations, have endorsed the project. As have art councils and cultural centers, who are duly pleased to have the accomplished, famous duo back in their part of the world.
Christo and Jeanne-Claude were both born within the same hour on June 13, 1935 (he in Bulgaria, she in Morocco) and met in Paris in 1958. They've been collaborating ever since. Their art is unique, creative, inspiring, and has been described as "transcending the traditional boundaries of art, profoundly shaping the way in which we see and experience our environment." Jeanne-Claude describes their art as "works of joy and beauty," but is reluctant to classify. "Christo and I believe that labels are important, but for bottles of wine, not for artists, and we don't like to put a label on our art," she said in a 2005 interview. "If one is absolutely necessary, then it would be environmental artists because we work in both the rural and the urban environment." To which Christo added: "Our work is a scream of freedom."
When an interviewer once asked how they respond to the critics who say their work is "more engineering than art," Christo responded, "Well, that is simple because, if you try to imagine a human being doing chemistry, mixing pigments, adding an egg, putting a little bit more oil, more of a different pigment. Now, that is pure chemistry? Or is it Leonardo DaVinci or Michelangelo preparing to paint a fresco on the wall? So, you could say that's chemistry, but it's definitely art. If you imagine two ironworkers with their hardhats and a forklift, lifting giant slabs of steel, now is that construction work or is Alexander Calder preparing a sculpture?" (Which brings to my mind an Albert Einstein quote: "All religions, arts and sciences are branches of the same tree.") Christo and Jeanne-Claude seem smart, bold, feisty, energetic, ambitious, genuine, sincere, honest and nice, if not a tad arrogant and quirky. I recently read about an interview in which Jeanne-Claude told a photographer, "You're too close. We are 73, and I don't want to be seen from so close. Then, I look like a fish."
There are fish in the Arkansas. Brown trout and rainbows, mostly, thriving in the cool, clear waters of the upper portion that meanders through Colorado. Originating from snowmelt in the Sawatch Mountains near Leadville, the Arkansas River is the sixth longest river in the country, flowing 1,469 miles through Colorado, Kansas, Oklahoma and Arkansas before merging into the Mississippi. Like most rivers, unfortunately, much of the Arkansas has been tamed, altered, defiled and otherwise subjugated to human greed, needs and desires—the usual sad assortment of ailments including dams, mining wastes, erosion, sedimentation and artificial introduction of non-native species such as brown trout and rainbow trout; An ongoing utilitarian, homocentric quest to mold and modify nature into what we want it to be. But parts of the river, in the headwaters of Colorado, remain wild—a tumultuous torrent of water cascading through and over and down ledges and narrow canyons in a series of waterfalls, rapids, riffles, pools and eddies. Spend enough time in or around wild rivers and you learn they are living, breathing entities in themselves, with their own distinct sense of smell, sound, taste and feel. Beauty and joy, indeed! Wild rivers, too, are a scream of freedom.
Needless to say I felt a bit uneasy at the Philips Collection exhibit. I was selfishly, provincially relieved that Christo and Jeanne-Claude did not choose any of my favorite rivers in Montana during their 5,000-mile quest for the "right one," in which they checked out 89 rivers in five states. I read the artists' vision of "waves of fabric," "playing off the natural lighting throughout the day, transitioning from shimmering pink in the morning light, to shiny silver in the mid-day sun, to golden as the sun sets," and I wondered: have they ever just sat along the bank of a wild river in solitude at sunrise or sunset or times in-between? Can such things be improved? "From the water level, rafters, kayakers and canoeists on the Arkansas River will view blue sky, white cloud formations and the undulating mountain skyline through the fabric," Christo and Jeanne-Claude state. "Cars and buses on US-50 will also get a unique view of Over the River from the roadway, where the fabric will reflect the colors of the sky."
Is this like altering the Mona Lisa to better fit one's own notion of beauty? Plastic surgery for Mother Nature?
"There's a sense that this kind of '70s-era 'environmental art' has more links to heavy industry -- to old-fashioned well-drilling and dam-building -- or to industrial-scale tourism than to some more recent art that's been made with genuine ecological feeling," wrote Blake Gopnik in the Washington Post, in regards to the Phillips Collection exhibit. "This whole exhibition feels more like a publicity campaign for a product than like a considered investigation of an important aesthetic event."
Indeed. Even the artists' response to concerns seem cut-and-paste from a gas and oil industry PR template: "Christo and Jeanne-Claude have a proven track record of avoiding and mitigating impacts associated with their works of art . . . Christo and Jeanne-Claude have proactively partnered with communities in the Arkansas River Valley to identify solutions to community concerns. . . Christo and Jeanne-Claude view wildlife as one of the Valley's greatest resources and are committed to ensuring that installation and viewing activities do not disturb wildlife. . . Christo and Jeanne-Claude understand the importance of the fishing and rafting industries to the Arkansas River Valley and are committed to working with them in the planning and execution of the temporary work of art." And so on. Regarding a hefty Environmental Impact Statement to be released, Jeanne-Claude stated: "And some of those who are against would say, 'Ah, you forgot about the butterflies, what about those butterflies?' Then the engineers who have prepared it will answer, 'If you look at page 257, you will see that we are talking about the butterflies.' That's just an example. If we have indeed forgotten something, which might happen, since this is only a draft there is time to correct it and say that no alligator will be endangered, for instance. (laughter)"
Ah, you forgot the inherent, intrinsic value of the free, wild river itself. What page is that on? If someone proposed temporarily wrapping my beautiful, 8-year-old son up on in translucent saffron plastic, so the light made his hair look more golden--even if they "mitigated" with a few breathing holes to ensure his safety--I would not be pleased. I feel that strongly about wild rivers. Like any love, like good art, it's difficult to grasp, never mind explain.
I tried, when asked, at the Phillips exhibit. My thoughts were met with apparent looks of disbelief, perhaps amusement, giving me a distinct feeling they felt, this guy just doesn't get it. Maybe I don't. But even after reviewing instructions, the "How To Read The Works" section of Christo and Jeanne-Claude's website (the Pont Neuf Wrapped, I learned, "could be seen as a very large sculpture, in a traditional sense of antique folds and draperies, however the bridge, while wrapped, remained a bridge."), I still don't quite get it; at least not the same as those who are excited about the project. Yet I think a purpose, the value, of good art is to evoke thought and discussion, to help bring out emotions and passion. In that regard, I commend Christo and Jeanne-Claude for their inspiring work.
In his book "The Abstract Wild," Jack Turner writes: "We treat the natural world according to our experience with it. Without aura, wildness, magic, spirit, holiness, the sacred, and soul, we treat flora, fauna, art, and landscape as resources and amusement. Fun. Their importance is merely a function of current fashions in hobbies." He talks about how most of our "wild" places are "photographed and exhibited" to the public, written up in guide books, plotted on maps and watched over by a "cadre of rangers." It's the "normal mode" of experiencing the wilds nowadays, he writes. "Most people know no other." So let's wrap it to look prettier! Fly to Colorado, rent an SUV, hire a guide, read the instructions, get a hotel room and buy a latte while we're at it.
I've spent a lot of time alone in remote places, listening to the ancient songs and stories of wild rivers running over rock on tumultuous journeys from snowmelt towards oceans; bathing in the clear, cool waters; watching the various lights and shadows dance across the surface; seeing, smelling, tasting and watching through ice and snow; thunderstorms and floods, clouds and sun, and shinning under stars and moon. Wild rivers are the greatest art of all, growing ever scarcer. Beauty and joy, they scream of freedom; we should listen, learn and leave them alone.
Christo and Jeanne-Claude have been wrapping things up for more than 50 years. They started off small, in 1958, with a dumpster-size, black-glob of a package wrapped in fabric, lacquer and rope. They wrapped up oil barrels, a night table, a Vespa motor bike, and by the mid-1960s they were wrapping up fountains and towers in Italy. They wrapped Switzerland's Kunsthalle in translucent plastic and wrapped Chicago's Museum of Contemporary Art in greenish-brown tarpaulin. Then they began wrapping up nature, covering cliffs, rocks and beach with erosion-control fabric along a 1.5-mile stretch of Little Bay on the coast of Australia. In 1972 they ventured to Colorado, and hung a 1,250-foot orange, nylon curtain across a Valley in the Grand Hogback Mountains. It looked like a giant dam.
In the 1970s and 80s, they wrapped up a Roman wall; created a 24-mile fence of white nylon hung from steel cables across the hills near San Francisco; made a walk way of yellow fabric in Kansas City; surrounded 11 islands with pink, floating fabric off the coast of Florida, and then covered up the Pont Neuf in Paris. On October 9, 1991, they had 1,800 workers simultaneously open 3,100 giant umbrellas spread throughout the landscape in both California (yellow umbrellas) and Japan (blue umbrellas.) They wrapped the Reichstag in an aluminum-surfaced fabric; stacked 13,000 colorful oil barrels inside the Gasometer in Germany, and covered 178 trees with polyester in Berower Park, Switzerland. Then off to the Big Apple, in 2005, where they hung 7,502 panels of saffron-colored fabric across the gates of Central Park. From the high vantage of a skyscraper, it looked like a flowing golden river of flags blowing in the breeze. Or laundry hung out to dry.
Now they want to cover a river--a 40-mile stretch of the Arkansas River between Salida and Canon City in south-central Colorado--with silvery, luminous fabric suspended from steel cables anchored into the river banks.
A few weeks after moving from Missoula, Montana to Washington, DC, I received an invite to a private, pre-opening exhibit called "Over the River: A Work in Progress," at the Phillips Collection just a short walk from my apartment in Dupont Circle. It was a pleasant, relaxed gathering with white wine only (lest you spill red on the samples of translucent fabric on display) and tasty hors devours. We 50 or so folks attending were the "first to survey the artists' preparations for their next widely anticipated work of art," I read, "tracing the development of this ambitious project over the last 16 years." I forgot my glasses, and so had to stand close and squint to see the collages, conceptual drawings, photographs, technical diagrams, maps, writings and sample fabric panels and cables hanging on the walls and set up on the wooden floors throughout several rooms. Christo and Jeanne-Claude haven't started the actual installation of anchors, cable and fabric yet, as they await completion of an Environmental Impact Statement and other bureaucratic, time-consuming reviews, public scoping meetings and approval from the Bureau of Land Management, the federal agency responsible for management of that portion of the river and land around it.
If the agency treated this proposal as thoughtlessly, carelessly and hastily as they allow gas, oil and coal-bed methane wells, roads, power lines and pipelines to permeate and scar our public lands and rivers, Christo and Jeanne-Claude could have proceeded long ago. But this is art; hardly worthy of the same time, attention and "priority status" given to the extractive industry, as ordered by the Bush administration. (Perhaps the artists could wrap up the Whitehouse, topped with a big red ribbon, as a house-warming gift to Obama.) Then again, we will need plenty of C02-emitting fossil fuels to power planes, cars, trucks and SUVs for the 560,000 people Christo and Jeanne Claude estimate will flock to the area during the several years covering installation, completion and eventual removal.
Modern art: creative, inspiring, lucrative. Like everyone working to persuade anyone of most anything nowadays—particularly Westerners in struggling rural communities—Christo and Jeanne Claude present an alluring economic case. On their website, here's how they put it:
"Many visitors will spend the night in areas surrounding the Arkansas Valley, bringing economic benefits to many communities, including Pueblo, Denver, Colorado Springs, the San Luis Valley and a host of smaller towns on the Western Slope. The total number of visitors represents slightly more than twice the number of persons who raft the Arkansas River in any given year and approximately the same number of yearly visitors to Mesa Verde National Park. Three out of five Over the River visitors are anticipated to come from out of state, spending an average of 4-5 days in Colorado for their trip. . . . In total, Colorado may garner more than $195 million in new direct visitor spending, more than what is projected for the Democratic National Convention ($160 million) and over twice the impact of the National Western Stock Show ($84 million)."
Which explains why nearly ever chamber of commerce, visitors' bureau and tourism council in the area, as well as several outfitting and expedition companies and organizations, have endorsed the project. As have art councils and cultural centers, who are duly pleased to have the accomplished, famous duo back in their part of the world.
Christo and Jeanne-Claude were both born within the same hour on June 13, 1935 (he in Bulgaria, she in Morocco) and met in Paris in 1958. They've been collaborating ever since. Their art is unique, creative, inspiring, and has been described as "transcending the traditional boundaries of art, profoundly shaping the way in which we see and experience our environment." Jeanne-Claude describes their art as "works of joy and beauty," but is reluctant to classify. "Christo and I believe that labels are important, but for bottles of wine, not for artists, and we don't like to put a label on our art," she said in a 2005 interview. "If one is absolutely necessary, then it would be environmental artists because we work in both the rural and the urban environment." To which Christo added: "Our work is a scream of freedom."
When an interviewer once asked how they respond to the critics who say their work is "more engineering than art," Christo responded, "Well, that is simple because, if you try to imagine a human being doing chemistry, mixing pigments, adding an egg, putting a little bit more oil, more of a different pigment. Now, that is pure chemistry? Or is it Leonardo DaVinci or Michelangelo preparing to paint a fresco on the wall? So, you could say that's chemistry, but it's definitely art. If you imagine two ironworkers with their hardhats and a forklift, lifting giant slabs of steel, now is that construction work or is Alexander Calder preparing a sculpture?" (Which brings to my mind an Albert Einstein quote: "All religions, arts and sciences are branches of the same tree.") Christo and Jeanne-Claude seem smart, bold, feisty, energetic, ambitious, genuine, sincere, honest and nice, if not a tad arrogant and quirky. I recently read about an interview in which Jeanne-Claude told a photographer, "You're too close. We are 73, and I don't want to be seen from so close. Then, I look like a fish."
There are fish in the Arkansas. Brown trout and rainbows, mostly, thriving in the cool, clear waters of the upper portion that meanders through Colorado. Originating from snowmelt in the Sawatch Mountains near Leadville, the Arkansas River is the sixth longest river in the country, flowing 1,469 miles through Colorado, Kansas, Oklahoma and Arkansas before merging into the Mississippi. Like most rivers, unfortunately, much of the Arkansas has been tamed, altered, defiled and otherwise subjugated to human greed, needs and desires—the usual sad assortment of ailments including dams, mining wastes, erosion, sedimentation and artificial introduction of non-native species such as brown trout and rainbow trout; An ongoing utilitarian, homocentric quest to mold and modify nature into what we want it to be. But parts of the river, in the headwaters of Colorado, remain wild—a tumultuous torrent of water cascading through and over and down ledges and narrow canyons in a series of waterfalls, rapids, riffles, pools and eddies. Spend enough time in or around wild rivers and you learn they are living, breathing entities in themselves, with their own distinct sense of smell, sound, taste and feel. Beauty and joy, indeed! Wild rivers, too, are a scream of freedom.
Needless to say I felt a bit uneasy at the Philips Collection exhibit. I was selfishly, provincially relieved that Christo and Jeanne-Claude did not choose any of my favorite rivers in Montana during their 5,000-mile quest for the "right one," in which they checked out 89 rivers in five states. I read the artists' vision of "waves of fabric," "playing off the natural lighting throughout the day, transitioning from shimmering pink in the morning light, to shiny silver in the mid-day sun, to golden as the sun sets," and I wondered: have they ever just sat along the bank of a wild river in solitude at sunrise or sunset or times in-between? Can such things be improved? "From the water level, rafters, kayakers and canoeists on the Arkansas River will view blue sky, white cloud formations and the undulating mountain skyline through the fabric," Christo and Jeanne-Claude state. "Cars and buses on US-50 will also get a unique view of Over the River from the roadway, where the fabric will reflect the colors of the sky."
Is this like altering the Mona Lisa to better fit one's own notion of beauty? Plastic surgery for Mother Nature?
"There's a sense that this kind of '70s-era 'environmental art' has more links to heavy industry -- to old-fashioned well-drilling and dam-building -- or to industrial-scale tourism than to some more recent art that's been made with genuine ecological feeling," wrote Blake Gopnik in the Washington Post, in regards to the Phillips Collection exhibit. "This whole exhibition feels more like a publicity campaign for a product than like a considered investigation of an important aesthetic event."
Indeed. Even the artists' response to concerns seem cut-and-paste from a gas and oil industry PR template: "Christo and Jeanne-Claude have a proven track record of avoiding and mitigating impacts associated with their works of art . . . Christo and Jeanne-Claude have proactively partnered with communities in the Arkansas River Valley to identify solutions to community concerns. . . Christo and Jeanne-Claude view wildlife as one of the Valley's greatest resources and are committed to ensuring that installation and viewing activities do not disturb wildlife. . . Christo and Jeanne-Claude understand the importance of the fishing and rafting industries to the Arkansas River Valley and are committed to working with them in the planning and execution of the temporary work of art." And so on. Regarding a hefty Environmental Impact Statement to be released, Jeanne-Claude stated: "And some of those who are against would say, 'Ah, you forgot about the butterflies, what about those butterflies?' Then the engineers who have prepared it will answer, 'If you look at page 257, you will see that we are talking about the butterflies.' That's just an example. If we have indeed forgotten something, which might happen, since this is only a draft there is time to correct it and say that no alligator will be endangered, for instance. (laughter)"
Ah, you forgot the inherent, intrinsic value of the free, wild river itself. What page is that on? If someone proposed temporarily wrapping my beautiful, 8-year-old son up on in translucent saffron plastic, so the light made his hair look more golden--even if they "mitigated" with a few breathing holes to ensure his safety--I would not be pleased. I feel that strongly about wild rivers. Like any love, like good art, it's difficult to grasp, never mind explain.
I tried, when asked, at the Phillips exhibit. My thoughts were met with apparent looks of disbelief, perhaps amusement, giving me a distinct feeling they felt, this guy just doesn't get it. Maybe I don't. But even after reviewing instructions, the "How To Read The Works" section of Christo and Jeanne-Claude's website (the Pont Neuf Wrapped, I learned, "could be seen as a very large sculpture, in a traditional sense of antique folds and draperies, however the bridge, while wrapped, remained a bridge."), I still don't quite get it; at least not the same as those who are excited about the project. Yet I think a purpose, the value, of good art is to evoke thought and discussion, to help bring out emotions and passion. In that regard, I commend Christo and Jeanne-Claude for their inspiring work.
In his book "The Abstract Wild," Jack Turner writes: "We treat the natural world according to our experience with it. Without aura, wildness, magic, spirit, holiness, the sacred, and soul, we treat flora, fauna, art, and landscape as resources and amusement. Fun. Their importance is merely a function of current fashions in hobbies." He talks about how most of our "wild" places are "photographed and exhibited" to the public, written up in guide books, plotted on maps and watched over by a "cadre of rangers." It's the "normal mode" of experiencing the wilds nowadays, he writes. "Most people know no other." So let's wrap it to look prettier! Fly to Colorado, rent an SUV, hire a guide, read the instructions, get a hotel room and buy a latte while we're at it.
I've spent a lot of time alone in remote places, listening to the ancient songs and stories of wild rivers running over rock on tumultuous journeys from snowmelt towards oceans; bathing in the clear, cool waters; watching the various lights and shadows dance across the surface; seeing, smelling, tasting and watching through ice and snow; thunderstorms and floods, clouds and sun, and shinning under stars and moon. Wild rivers are the greatest art of all, growing ever scarcer. Beauty and joy, they scream of freedom; we should listen, learn and leave them alone.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Out of the Shadows
by David Stalling
I cast desires into darkness
Denying, suppressing, hiding
My true self, My true heart
On stages of illusions
The void fills and builds
With anger, fear, shame, regrets
A deadly mass of blackness
Ready to burst into a flood of pain
Until I confront it
Fight it
Let it out
And then I am free
I cast desires into darkness
Denying, suppressing, hiding
My true self, My true heart
On stages of illusions
The void fills and builds
With anger, fear, shame, regrets
A deadly mass of blackness
Ready to burst into a flood of pain
Until I confront it
Fight it
Let it out
And then I am free
Freefall
By David Stalling
For years
I fed illusions
Of flying high
Until the ground grew frightenly close
Terrified, I suddenly realize
I am falling
Leaving the womb
Like leaping from a plane
Begins a tumultuous freefall
There are choices:
Remain frightened, out of control
Or get stable, and enjoy the ride
Until we meet the end
(and we will)
As sure as sky meets earth
Best to see it all now
Long before impact
While there is still time
Precious time
To enjoy an exhilarating ride
And make the most
Of the last 2,500 feet
So I will flare, flip and tumble
Through clouds and clear skies
And pretend I am flying, sometimes
Though I know better
But still it brings me joy
It's my jump, my journey, my fall
I'll do it as me, not to please others
Critics and skeptics be damned!
Who cares what they think?
They don't even know
That they too
Are falling fast
For years
I fed illusions
Of flying high
Until the ground grew frightenly close
Terrified, I suddenly realize
I am falling
Leaving the womb
Like leaping from a plane
Begins a tumultuous freefall
There are choices:
Remain frightened, out of control
Or get stable, and enjoy the ride
Until we meet the end
(and we will)
As sure as sky meets earth
Best to see it all now
Long before impact
While there is still time
Precious time
To enjoy an exhilarating ride
And make the most
Of the last 2,500 feet
So I will flare, flip and tumble
Through clouds and clear skies
And pretend I am flying, sometimes
Though I know better
But still it brings me joy
It's my jump, my journey, my fall
I'll do it as me, not to please others
Critics and skeptics be damned!
Who cares what they think?
They don't even know
That they too
Are falling fast
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
