Trailer for Light the Barricades (30 seconds)

A preview trailer for Light the Barricades, a series of electrified shrines across Los Angeles that Candy Chang and I created as part of the exhibit Walls: Defend, Divide, and the Divine at the Annenberg Space for Photography.

Annenberg Community Beach House, Santa Monica

We were distracted. We were stuck. We were cruel. We wanted to reflect and atone, but we found only billboards shredding our attention and screens destroying our dignity. So we sought new rituals for sitting side by side while contemplating the barricades within.

Light the Barricades reimagines the wall as a site for contemplating our inner obstructions in an age of distraction. Shining a light on the difficult emotions that thwart our progress, this public installation is inspired by the ancient I Ching, a philosophical system of diagrams first carved into the wall of a prison cell three thousand years ago. Believed to be one of the oldest books in the world, the I Ching provides a guide for weathering the flux of life, particularly the emotional obstacles of resentment, judgment, and doubt—qualities that increasingly seem to dominate American life today. Emphasizing the value of communal as well as personal introspection, the I Ching reminds us that “keeping still when faced with obstruction provides an opportunity to turn inward and resolve our difficulties.”

Inspired by these instructions, Candy Chang and I created a series of three electrified shrines that combines the wisdom of the I Ching with the rituals of pilgrimage and silent contemplation observed by the world’s faiths. Illuminated from within, each lightbox represents an emotional barrier that fuses the widescreen perspective of Chinese landscape paintings with today’s textures of metal, noise, and alienating architecture. Light the Barricades offers a ritual that invites passersby to walk along the border of each lightbox while reading an illustrated fable before sitting for a five-minute reflection with an illuminated hourglass and a pointed question about resentment, judgment, or doubt.

The Doubt wall on the beach in Santa Monica

Commissioned by the Annenberg Space for Photography, the lightboxes were located at Grand Park, the Annenberg Community Beach House, and the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County from September 6 through September 22, 2019 and then be displayed at the Annenberg Space for Photography from October 5 through December 29, 2019 as part of Walls: Defend, Divide, and the Divine, an exhibit that examines the historical use and artistic treatment of walls over centuries. Extending into the gallery, Light the Barricades also encourages visitors to anonymously share their inner obstructions while considering the experiences of others through a video installation of select responses. By reconfiguring the experience of Chinese landscape scrolls, luminaries, and private devotional images, Light the Barricades provides a modern ritual for these distracting times.

The Resentment wall at Grand Park, Los Angeles
30-second trailer for Light the Barricades

Los Angeles, 2019. On view at Grand Park, the Annenberg Community Beach House, and the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County from September 5 through September 22, 2019. On view at the Annenberg Space for Photography from October 3 through December 29, 2019.

Three 27′ w x 8′ h lightboxes; 21′ x 18′ gallery installation. Lightboxes: Chinese ink, photomontages, solar panels, aluminum, polycarbonate, vinyl, LED lights, concrete. Gallery: concrete, projection, audio.

Commissioned by Katie Hollander and the Annenberg Space for Photography. Exhibition curated by Dr. Jen Sudul Edwards. Project management by Stephanie Brown.

Scene from Lars von Trier’s Melancholia (2011)

I woke up with Melancholia on my mind. Six days after watching it, I cannot shake the airless world of this film that lives in the twilight between calamity and silence. The Earth is about to collide into a mammoth planet hiding behind the sun, yet the volume is turned down to a whisper. There are no news reports here, no fighter jets or people yelling in the streets. Instead we listen to the murmuring of two sisters as they wander the immaculate lawn of a plush country home. When Melancholia was released in 2011, I dismissed it as one of Lars von Trier’s exercises in hype and masochism. But that was a time when the world still felt relatively stable.

Today this story of cataclysmic extinction feels like prophecy. Nearly every weather-related headline contains words like unprecedented and record-breaking: Floods across America. Reservoirs evaporating in India. Europe in the grip of a heatwave that forced Germany to curb speeds on the Autobahn to prevent the pavement from cracking and buckling. Last week Alaska hit ninety degrees. And fires burn everywhere.

How does one face the end of the world? One sister maintains faith in the daily rituals of breakfast, lunch, and bedtime stories; the other withdraws into the fog of depression until her favorite meal tastes like ashes. In Melancholia, the ennui that can wreck any hope of managing a relationship, a career, or a smile becomes a valuable asset when obliteration arrives. Detachment becomes the sturdy voice of reason. This is a film about reckoning with “toxic knowledge,” the environmentalist Richard Heinberg’s term for information that forever colors our perception. “Once you know about overpopulation, overshoot, depletion, climate change, and the dynamics of societal collapse, you can’t unknow it,” he says, “and your every subsequent thought is tinted.”

This tinting leads to the image of a woman lying naked in the grass at midnight, gazing at an alien planet with desire in her eye, daring the apocalypse to come closer. “The Earth is evil,” she says. “We don’t need to grieve for it.” The lines between stoicism, detachment, and nihilism can be blurry. At its heart, pessimism is self-congratulatory because it suggests we are too good for this world. And as our world begins to heat up and turn strange, I find myself chilled—and occasionally invigorated—by this centuries-old adage from Leibniz: we live in the best of all possible worlds.

Further reading: Melancholia; notes on “toxic knowledge” and David Wallace-Wells’s The Uninhabitable Earth; Gottfried Leibniz on the best of all possible worlds (a stance that Voltaire considered idiotic in light of the 1755 earthquake in Lisbon where tens of thousands were killed while praying on All Saints’ Day. This inspired him to write Candide).

Sun Moon Lake Wen Wu Temple, Taiwan

I stood before the gods on a rainy Monday morning at a gigantic temple overlooking Sun Moon Lake in Taiwan. Once again, the question came to mind that haunts me when I approach any kind of altar: Am I allowed to pray before you if I don’t understand you?

And how do I pray? Forty-something years old and I still do not know even though sometimes I try. Thankfully these temples offer a ritual that kept my anxieties in check: toss two moon-shaped blocks, ask a question, draw a numbered stick, and receive your fortune from a machine. A beautiful collision of technology and ancient rite. Soon I was gripped by a Vegas-style fever as I tried to upgrade my “very inferior fortune” to a superior one. Setting luck and superstition aside, the simple act of articulating a wish forced me to remember what matters in my life, followed by a small catharsis. Leaving the temple, I passed an elderly woman in a t-shirt that said “Stay wild and free.”

McIntosh County Shouters

Wade in the Water, Vol. 2: African-American Congregational Singing

Here is another book that describes the end of our world. I did not want to spend 228 pages thinking about climate change, so it sat untouched on my desk for several weeks until I realized this was like plugging my ears while a doctor delivered the diagnosis. And David Wallace-Wells delivers the news with painful clarity: “The climate system that raised us, and raised everything we now know as human culture and civilization, is now, like a parent, dead.”

Wallace-Wells writes beautifully about the days of fire and flood to come, diligently translating “the eerily banal language of climatology” into an eye-popping portrait of a world utterly transformed within decades. He forced me to look beyond the narrow fixation on the sea level and contemplate the wider landscape. Like a modern day Virgil, he guided me through a weaponized geography of fire, mud, drought, floods, toxins, contagions, and monstrous winds “tugging trees out of earth and transforming them into clubs, making power lines into loose whips and electrified nooses, collapsing homes on cowering residents.” His vivid rendering of climate change brings new energy to Schopenhauer’s question: “For where did Dante get the material for his Hell, if not from this actual world of ours?”

More critically, Wallace-Wells reckons with the knotty blindspots that prevent many of us from taking action, outlining a list of psychosocial reasons from distrust to greed to fatigue to simply living through these bizarre days that require a permanent suspension of disbelief: “Perhaps it was because we were so sociopathically good at collating bad news into a sickening evolving sense of what constituted ‘normal’.”

“Toxic knowledge” is the environmentalist Richard Heinberg’s term for information that forever altars our sense of the world. “Once you know about overpopulation, overshoot, depletion, climate change, and the dynamics of societal collapse, you can’t unknow it,” he says, “and your every subsequent thought is tinted.” This book is filled with toxic knowledge: air filled with plastic, parasites awakening in our bellies, and the fragile aberration of social stability. Sunny day flooding. Rain bombs. Damage mechanics. The grammar of tomorrow’s weather shimmers with dread, and The Uninhabitable Earth maps the tribalism, autocracy, and retreat into dogma that are emerging as a response. We are rapidly moving beyond the Romantic notion of nature’s sublime terror towards a terror that is only manmade.

Yes, this is a book filled with toxic knowledge, but it also gives some cause for hope. Wallace-Wells reminds us that “what may sound like stoic wisdom is often an alibi for indifference.” We have agency. We have options. We already have the resources to end hunger, poverty, and hundreds of other ills, but we collectively choose not to. We can change course. If we do anything about climate change, we’ll probably dim the sun or paint the sky rather than rethink the religion of capitalism. One day soon we might awaken to a science fictional world with swarms of robots scrubbing the sky. If we are lucky.

Meanwhile, we live in a world that, as Wallace-Wells puts it, is “a running car in a sealed garage.” But change is coming, one way or another.

The Uninhabitable Earth by David Wallace-Wells (Tim Duggan Books, 2019); Richard Heinberg quote from p.207.

Somewhere in Kentucky

My screen delivers footage of strangled sea turtles and disoriented walruses plummeting off a cliff. The United Nations says we’re on track to extinguish one million species from the planet. Meanwhile we worry about the health of the stock market. Wall Street’s anxieties dominate the news after the president tweeted his way into a pyrrhic trade war with China. I keep scrolling, fighting the urge to click a headline that says “Ten things you’re doing wrong at restaurants.”

I stand in an Econo Lodge parking lot in the hour of the wolf, bronzed by the glow of the Walmart and Waffle House logos across the street. The only noise tonight is the highway and it sounds like the sea. I’m fantasizing about the desert again, a place for transforming a messy life into myth. One of these days I’ll point the car west. An hour ago I stood in line at the Gas ‘n Go behind a furious man with a pistol tucked into the elastic waistband of his sweatpants, yelling that the cashier only gave him three Powerball tickets when he should’ve gotten four. I bowed my head and thought about patience and chance. The manager intervened and everybody narrowly avoided getting shot.

Near pump number nine, a woman in the passenger seat of a jumbo pickup truck wiped away some tears. She caught me looking and I turned away and began fiddling with the radio. A chipper advertisement encouraged me to order nutrients harvested from jellyfish. A news report at the top of the hour told me that we’re still arguing about whether guns kill people and kicking around new ways to hurt the poor. Standing in the grass near every highway ramp, there is a man holding a cardboard sign. Sometimes it says veteran, sometimes it says father, but it always says hungry. Sometimes I give him a dollar, sometimes I look the other way. I hate these moments when my nation not only feels ugly and cruel, it looks like a mirror. I stand in the Econo Lodge parking lot and think about what to do next.

The Detroit Escalator Co. — Shifting Gears

from Soundtrack [313] | Ferox, 1996 | Spotify

A selection from Neil Ollivierra’s gorgeous slow-motion score for post-industrial introspection. Motored by quietly churning machines, Soundtrack [313] rides a rare line between the plaintive and the hopeful. There’s an excellent in-depth interview with Ollivierra at Ambient Music Guide.

Somewhere in South Dakota. Neon Jesus is the best Jesus.

Another school shooting, an event so common nowadays that it’s reported like the weather. Because we’ve acclimated. We’ve adjusted. We can adapt to anything, even if it’s awful. I try to pin down the moment we lost the capacity for national shock. Probably somewhere in the years between the killing of twenty first-graders and the election of a vicious game show host for president.

Meanwhile, our constitutional crisis deepens. The president remains defiant while Congress sputters and squawks, determined to follow the rules of a game no longer being played. They pass a resolution to hold the attorney general in contempt. A subpoena is issued for the president’s son. Sanctions and saber-rattling against Iran. We might be gearing up to manufacture another war. I turn off the news.

The motel manager was unnervingly chipper when I checked in, a shine in his eye that could have been religion or drugs. Now he’s walking the perimeter of the parking lot at midnight, staring straight ahead and making perfect ninety-degree turns. I close the blinds. Today would have been my parents’ 45th wedding anniversary and I’m not sure how to observe this fact. I do not want this information to disappear with me. I think about praying but I still don’t know how. Instead I fall asleep thinking about the origin of the word hotel until I become convinced it is a portmanteau of home and tele. A distant home. In the morning, some billboards tell me that God owes us nothing, love is an action verb, and the key to forgiveness was hung on the cross.

I drive with the windows down, thinking about forgiveness and my fifth grade teacher. I wanted to play the saxophone but she said my hands were too small. She made me play the violin and I was terrible. At our Christmas recital, she told me to just pretend my bow was touching the strings.

The towns in South Dakota have solid names like Reliance, Interior, and Alliance. A sign near at a rest area says several hundred victims of smallpox are buried nearby. Inside the travel plaza, giant flatscreens teach us the history of random celebrities. (Julianne Moore’s maiden name was Smith.) I wander the parking lot looking for the rental car, exchanging intense looks with a woman wearing a sweater that says “I’m not bossy, I just get everything I want.” I stare at the electrified gates of golf courses named after slain tribes. I speed past a dozen military planes propped up on concrete blocks like offerings to the machine gods.

Spiritualized – Lord Can You Hear Me?

from Let It Come Down | Arista, 2001 | Spotify | More info

A dazzling oscillation between hush and chaos and back again.

South Dakota

North Korea is firing its weapons again, launching missiles into the Sea of Japan. Meanwhile our president is busy arguing with the internet, concerned there isn’t enough hate speech circulating through the already poisoned wells of social media. The Speaker of the House worries that he won’t cede power if he loses the election, an observation that would have been unthinkable three years ago. Our president. Strange how I am embarrassed to write his name, a name that looks like an obscenity on the page. Maybe it’s because I thought we deserved a worthy villain.

Eight years ago I was sitting in a Waffle House when my telephone buzzed with a CNN news alert: White House has pix of #Osama bin Laden with open head wound, his burial at sea, scenes from raid. The face of mass murder, hashtagged and hyperlinked next to the word “pix.” Then I saw a headline that said, “12 Pop Stars Tweet About the Death of Osama bin Laden.” Eight years later and I still can’t get that phrase out of my head. It was a modern koan, a signpost of things to come. American suicide rates continue to climb. Eight reasons why shampoo is a waste of money. Troops open fire on protesters. Your pets might smother you while you sleep. The trivial sits next to the catastrophic like never before, producing creatures like our president.

I remember racing against the sun to reach the Badlands before dark but I didn’t make it because I kept pulling over to photograph little white churches that flashed like teeth. I visited a tractor museum and a family playhouse. I cruised the streets of a leafy little town whose name I’ve already forgotten. When I reached the edge of South Dakota, the Badlands lay out there unseen, crouching in the dark. That night I dreamt of Natalie Wood, leaping and yelling hit your lights on the edge of a cliff, her arms swinging through the headlights again and again, my mind looping the scene until it felt like a critical message.

Dirty Beaches – True Blue

from Badlands | Zoo Music, 2011 | Spotify

From Alex Zhang Hungtai, Badlands is a perfect 26-minute record that soundtracked my drive across the Dakotas. “True Blue” loops The Ronettes into a beautiful blur of AM radio drums and desert twang that sounds like memory.

Woke up to news that they’re talking about dimming the sun. We’d rather mess with the sky than rethink our economy. A million people were evacuated from the coastlines of India and Bangladesh as a massive cyclone churned in the Bay of Bengal. But there was a gangbusters report on job growth in the USA. The presidents of America and Russian celebrated by spending an hour on the phone together. Meanwhile, words like kompromat, dezinformatsiya, and maskirovka circulate through our screens.

At an academic mixer, a consultant from Brussels asked everyone to draw the shape of their lives on a Post-It note. I made a scribble and people began approaching me as if I’d scrawled a cry for help. “But is the Bible considered fiction or non-fiction?” a woman asked nobody in particular. Cut to a hospital waiting room where an infomercial babbled to a row of empty chairs: “This rare melon defies the aging process, allowing you to stay fresher and firmer.” Later that night, a stern middle-aged man would turn to the camera and say, “My mattress topper performs as promised.” In the meantime, a headline scrolled across the screen: The Food and Drug Administration Warns Against Buying Young People’s Blood to Prevent Aging.

I heard a voice in the hallway say, “We’re all survivors here.” He’s right. We’re still here. Doing our best to survive these confusing days. Learning to function in a society that would rather tear itself to pieces than give up its myths and try something new. Anger or compassion? The answer must be compassion because it’s so much harder. Then again, it might be time to end the American experiment. Break it into city-states and clear the stage for a better show.

Autechre – Garbagemx

from Garbage | Warp, 1995 | Spotify

An industrial symphony that feels not only emotional, but generous. Recorded twenty-five years ago when Autechre was at the apex of merging melody with machine junk before heading down a brittle and academic path.

Flipped on the television to watch our government fall apart. Members of Congress talked to an empty chair. A flurry of subpoenas, refusals, and baroque legal theories filled the airwaves. Meanwhile floodwaters continued to shatter records in Iowa. There was something nervy and haunted in the faces on my screen, a jittery energy that reminded me of a man I met at a gas station in Bakersfield.

He had long gray hair and a tight leather jacket and he warned me about the desert. “When you get out there, don’t listen to anybody who dares you to walk,” he said, sending his half-smoked cigarette skittering across the parking lot where it sparked against a pick-up truck. He clamped my shoulder, fingertips digging into my bones. “I’m serious, brother. People get in trouble like you wouldn’t believe. They’ll challenge each other to walk ten miles into Death Valley without any supplies and then walk ten miles back. They wager money on it.” I tell him I’ve never heard of such a thing and he stares beyond me, watching the late night traffic. “Yeah, you can make good money on a bet like that,” he said, “but I lost some good friends that way.” I watched the tension in his jaw, the cords pulsing in his neck. God knew what he was remembering. I turned to go. “Don’t forget,” he called, “if you’re out there and you’re thirsty, you’re already dehydrated!”

No wonder so many religions began in the desert. The raptures and visions of the ancients were the most rational response to so much sky. And the higher the waters rise and the faster the wildfires burn and the quicker we lose faith in our institutions, perhaps we will return to otherworldly thinking, grasping at dogma, ritual, and rites. New prophets and cults will appear, promising salvation or at least an explanation. A future of old men in the desert, throwing fistfuls of salt and daring people to do dangerous things.

Enchanted Desert

American Decay, 2015 | More info

A track I built from a blurry loop of ‘Enchanted Sea’ by The Counts (Sea Crest Records, 1964). From American Decay, a collection of loops and reverberations recorded between 2009 and 2014.

It’s a strange sensation, living a life divided between these days of pixels and a childhood defined by magnetic tape. My first impressions of the world were delivered by audio cassettes and VHS, each unit of entertainment bound in plastic that occupied space and respected the logic of time: oxidized information gradually deteriorating whenever the tape was played, eventually dissolving into garbled images and hiss. Now it’s all so much static. No orientation, no sense of time. Perhaps my generation is uniquely positioned to be disappointed by the humiliations of today’s clicking and scrolling. After all, I still remember the optimism inherent in phrases like world wide web and information superhighway.

These are destabilizing days when there always seems to be a screen playing something upsetting in the room. Endlessly breaking news bleeds through the walls while opinion merchants spread outrage and contempt like new forms of weather. Today the Attorney General of the United States scowled before the Senate and encouraged us to deny our senses, breathing fresh life into Orwell: “The party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.” No, you did not see the president do that. No, you did not hear him say that. The adults have left the room. The calvary is not coming.

There’s an uneasy shiver in my nerves each time I turn on a screen, bracing for live images of another massacre or disaster, the latest inhuman act. Somebody could tell me the entire Eastern Seaboard has been quarantined and I would believe it. This is the age of the permanent suspension of disbelief. And each bizarre episode is quickly forgotten as we lurch from one shattered norm to the next, left with no option except to adapt to increasing weirdness while we fight to hold onto our attention and our grip on reality. It’s not an easy fight, and to everyone who manages to get dressed, go outside, and not yell at the sky: I salute you.

Bi Gan’s Long Day’s Journey into Night is the best film I’ve seen in years. Built from red neon, broken clocks, haunted karaoke, and endless rain, it’s a puzzle that will never be solved—and it perfectly captures the architecture of dreams and the looping logic of regret. I never thought wearing 3D glasses could be so heartbreaking.

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