Impressions of Annihilation

I wasn't expecting apocalypse.

"I'm changing the theme of the Macabre show," said Pamela, "Instead of just scary images, I want more Apocalyptic visions: your worst fear of what the world would become if we didn't do anything to stop it. I think that would be more relevant, what do you think?"

"Definitely, you're on the right track," I encouraged her.

"Do you want to do a piece for the show?"

"Let me contemplate my nightmares for awhile," I hesitated.

I knew other artists who showed at Stockwell Gallery considered it a good gallery: more committed to social and artistic concerns than "commercial" galleries. I wanted to show there again, but some artists refuse to do commissions or requests. I suppose they feel it sidetracks their real work.

Finally I decided some sidetracks are necessary. I felt Pamela was right, artists also have an obligation to help make society's warning signs. So, contemplating the horrific, atomic explosions flashed through my mind.

To build my atomic bomb, I cut the shadow mask shape of a mushroom cloud into a sheet of cardboard. Through this appalling aperture I flashed various small lights. A suitably ominous image began radiating through the translucent cloth surface of the work.

But what of the foreground? I couldn't think of anything to wish nuclear destruction upon. I considered leaving the surface blank: total annihilation. I postponed a decision and meanwhile decided to talk to Pamela about the piece.

I dialed the gallery's number, "I'm sorry, the number you have dialed has been temporarily disconnected." I dialed again, perhaps- no mistake, she hadn't paid the phone bill. Maybe she sent it in late. I called again the next day: still incommunicado.

A week later the phone was still out, and I resigned myself to being without a Manhattan gallery again. Why were my favorite galleries always the ones that closed down? Endemic to being non-commercial? Decided to trek over to the East Uillage and investigate. Ah, the galley was open. What to say about the phone? Better avoid discussing it. Tell her about the atomic bomb.

"Great, bring it by tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, the show opens on Wednesday, so we have to start hanging it tomorrow."

"O.K.," I replied, and rushed out.

Tomorrow! I'd been so convinced the gallery was closing, I'd completely ignored when the opening was, could I finish the piece overnight? I still needed a foreground image and a circuit to flash the lights automatically.

I buy the parts on the way home and start wiring immediately. Sometime after dawn it's exploding: the lights are programmed to flash destructively. I turn back to the problem of the foreground.

I briefly consider drawing Pamela's gallery (after all she was the one who wanted an Apocalypse). Then my neural network triggers an image of Three Mile Island. From my pencil emerge distant cooling towers on a low and desolate horizon. Periodically as I draw, the towers disintegrate in a burst of light, as the impressionistic mushrooming explosion fills the graphically barren sky. I felt I had found the seed of my fear now flowering in apocalyptic light.

"Impressions of Annihilation," I title it. It isn't subtle, but then warning signs require directness, not subtlety.

I consider this criticism: Baudrillard would say this was only simulation, i.e. dealing with an image, the hyperreal, not the real problem. I suppose that depends on whether there's a neuron anywhere which remembers this image and responds to it: influences someone's decision, or someone's vote and helps avert a disaster. I suppose making, or collecting art is always an act of faith that someone will be affected by it. An act of faith which enables artists and collectors to feel connected to their culture, to feel part of something larger than the daily details.

A week or so after the opening the gallery's number had gone from being, "temporarily disconnected," to "no longer in service." I decided to visit. It was the middle of the week, during normal gallery hours, but the steel qate was pulled down, with no sign explaining why.

I tried again on the weekend, which is usually a busy day in East Village galleries. As I approached I saw the qate was up, but the curtains were drawn. One of the neighborhood children was knocking on the door, but suddenly ran when he saw me coming. Just as I got to the door, Pamela opened it and looked out. "Oh, Flash! I'm sorry, but the kids have been knocking on the door just to annoy us. Come in."

Papers were scattered over the floor and Pamela was sorting through them. In another corner Collette, her gallery assistant, was applying gesso to a large canvas.

"We're doing a performance at the Hot Rod Club tomorrow night," Pamela informed me, "it's in your neighborhood. I'll put your name on the guest list."

"Great," I exaggerated diplomatically.

"Want to see a picture of me dressed as a vampire?" she reached into to one of the piles and handed me an envelope."

I removed an 8 x 10 glossy of Pamela at a party wearing nothing but fangs and black net stockings. She was smiling. "You portray a happy vampire," I offered tactfully.

"Pamela, you went to a party like that?" Collette seemed incredulous.

"Not exactly, but I did a performance piece where I played a vampire stripper," Pamela explained.

Two of the troublesome children walked in, "Pamela, is it true there going to turn off your electricity?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Pretty soon, listen the gallery isn't really open now, we're trying to qet some work done. Come back another time, o.k.?"

"0.K.," they left, but as they left I heard a strange sound behind me, a crackling, splattering sound.

"OH NO!" screamed Pamela, "Those bastards threw another stink bomb!"

The stench of rotten eggs began to permeate the gallery. "I'm never letting them in here again," Pamela started crying like someone pushed over the edge. "I'm never letting any children in here ever again!"

I helped her open the steel shutters on the rear window. The air began to clear. After the mess was cleaned up, she seemed composed again.

"See you tomorrow night," I promised as I left.

But the next day, Apocalypse: six stories of brick rip from a building's side and spew down on a parking lot I always cut across. Crowds gather to stare at the carnage- rescue trucks begin arriving- subways are shut down- the crowds grow larger- staring into the gutted space of other peoples lives so violently exposed to them- the floors filled with cartons- the floors with desks- looking out other people's windows through the ruins of their work place- staring into annihilation- the police cordon off the neighborhood.

By nightfal1 the rescue operation is immense. Emergency vehicles fill the surrounding streets. I'm distressed by the incongruity of going to a performance while all this is going on. But there's nothing I'd be allowed do to help- too late for warning signs here. I duck under the barricades grateful to be able to escape.

The Hot Rod Club is huge, done in an automotive motif, with sections of cars, gas pumps, etc. decorating the walls. The place is packed, and I can't believe Pamela has drawn a crowd this size. Must be other acts on the bill. I make my way to the stage area where the crowd is denser. On one side of the stage is a giant floral display. Red chrysanthemums form the tip, flesh colored flowers form the shaft and scrotum, and a surrounding wreath completes the phallic image with green pubic hair.

An attractive woman steps on stage and announces, "Welcome to AI Goldstein's 2Oth Anniversary party for Screw Magazine!" Am I in the right place?

"We hove some great entertainment for you tonight, starting with an unusual performance by Pamela Stockwell and Collette Miller, two emergent East Uillage cult figures who will produce a work depicting the demonic imagery and debauchery which Screw has championed for the past twenty years!"

The lights go down, fog fills the stage, and a strobe light starts flashing. Weird space-punk music comes over the P.A. system, the best part of the performance so far. Nothing seems to be happening on stage. The music continues but nothing is visible except fog and light.

Some people ahead of me are standing on tip-toes, trying to see the stage floor over the heads of those in front. Must be writhing on the floor now, I conjecture based on the performance piece she did at the opening of the Macabre show. It's impossible to see, but I wait patiently. Remembering her last performance, I'm expecting the less dedicated to give up. Slowly the crowd begins to thin, and I work my way forward.

Pamela stands up momentarily and growls at the audience. Her lips are blackened, hair still orange. She's wearing a fur "cavewoman" vest that exposes one breast. She drops to the floor again.

The crowd continues to thin, and I continue moving closer. I think I hear my first name being called, but I realize the crowd is requesting the type of performance they expected to see, "Flesh! Flesh!"

Momentarily I glimpse the floor and realize they are on the large canvas Collette had gessoed, and they are working with many cans of paint. Then they both stand up, turn their backs to the audience, and remove their tops. Now they're wearing only fur bikini bottoms. They cover themselves with paint, and drop to the floor again.

Finally the music ends and they raise the canvas for all to see. "Bravo! Beautiful!" the crowd shouts in appreciation of their work. It's a large gestural abstraction with striking colors, no taint of formal composition. In fact there's so little taint of deliberation, I'm impressed that every inch of canvas is covered with paint. I realize that seeing the performance has influenced my perception as much as seeing the painting.

"Now no one can say AI Goldstein doesn't appreciate fine art," the announcer asserts.

I ponder the relation of simulation and stimulation, and decide to wait for Pamela to emerge from the dressing room. Will anyone here be moved to seek an emotional/sexual charge from performance art instead of pornography? Another act of faith? Is life itself really just a simulation, an image of ourselves we project on the world's stage?

Hasn't the hyperreal existed in all ages? Haven't there always been artists expressing views of their culture? And don't some of these views become the culture? Until those views no longer represent reality for people, until they become only hyperreal. Until some are driven to find such antitheses as these? I realize I'm trying to apply Baudrillard to bawdry.

The next act is Annie Sprinkle who sings happy birthday while covering her bare ample breasts with frosting, icing, whip cream, candles, etc. I look around trying to spot Pamela. I don't see her, but I do see someone I would never have expected to find here, the host of a conservative television show. Several people ask him for autographs, and since he's only a few feet away I can't resist going over to speak to him.

"Excuse me Mr. Downey, you're quite outspoken in defending your principles on your TV show, but I can't help wonder if your presence here contradicts them?"

"Not at a11!" Morton replies with a smile, "First amendment, you know. I may disagree with Al, but he has a right to his viewpoint, and he's a friend of mine, so I don't see anything wrong with coming here to honor him tonight. The people on my program hate my being here tonight, but fuck 'em"

I nod and think about principles, and I think about making art, and I leave without waiting to speak to Pamela- for all I know she's left already. I walk back to my studio along deserted city streets, under a full moon. I walk back to continue my own attempt at synthesis, to resume my life before being sidetracked by this current intrusion of the Apocalyptic, but my path is blocked by police barricades, and a policeman checks my identification and address before escorting me past the fire trucks, and emergency vehicles, past the police communications van and the news trucks, past the rescue crews still working under flood lights, past the ambulance and Red Cross truck to my front door.

How do you cope with Apocalypse next door? How do you deal with having seen your gallery owner strip for Screw Magazine while Morton Downey watched? How do I cope with life at all, except that I walk back into the studio, pick up my tools, and continue my work.