Commentaries - June 2012
[EDITOR’S NOTE. The following are a reminder of the pivotal role played by Alison Knowles in what can be described in retrospect as the Fluxus revolution of the 1960s. With their deceptively simple surface Knowles’s performance works exemplified the thrust of many artists, poets & performers to build on what Allan Kaprow & John Cage spoke of as an erasure of the boundaries between art & life. In this Knowles herself was a seminal figure, something to which I called attention – or thought I did – in the commentaries to “A Book of Events” in Technicians of the Sacred (1968). So much of her work, I wrote elsewhere, “speaks for itself and through the simple/not-so-simple things through which she dreams and meditates. But she knows this far better than most of us, of course, and says it too: ‘It is important to remember that we are free to make art and poetry out of anything: a loaf of bread, some beans, a hasty jotting on the train.’” Fifty years after the “events” themselves, it’s curious to consider whether & how they still play out or to try to emulate them at whatever level.
Further works by Alison Knowles can be found at her web site www.aknowles.com & elsewhere on the web. (J.R.)]
Event Scores, involve simple actions, ideas, and objects from everyday life recontexualized as performance. Event Scores are texts that can be seen as proposal pieces or instructions for actions. The idea of the score suggests musicality. Like a musical score, Event Scores can be realized by artists other than the original creator and are open to variation and interpretation.
Following scores are taken from BY ALISON KNOWLES from A GREAT BEAR PAMPHLET (1965).
#1 Shuffle (1961)
The performer or performers shuffle into the performance area and away from it, above, behind, around, or through the audience. They perform as a group or solo: but quietly.
Premiered August 1963 at National Association of Chemists and Performers in New York at the Advertiser's club.
#2 Proposition (1962)
Make a salad.
Premiered October 21st, 1962 at Institute for Contemporary Arts in London.
#2a Variation #1 on Proposition (1964)
Make a soup.
Premiered Nov 9th, 64 at Cafe au Go Go in NY.
#3 Nivea Cream Piece (1962) - for Oscar Williams
First performer comes on stage with a jar of Nivea cream. The performer massages hands in front of the microphone. Other performers enter one at the time. They make a mass of massaging hands and leave one at a time following the first performer.
click here to listen to a recording from Fluxsweet concert at Harvestworks organized by Taketo Shimada
Premiered Nov 25, 62 at Alle Season Theater, Copenhagen at Fluxus Festival.
#3a Variation #1 on Nivea Cream Piece
Large quantities of Nivea Cream must be available, at least one large jar per person. The performers enter and each lathers up his arms and face, then his colleagues, in a fragrant pig pile.
#4 Child Art Piece (1962)
The performer in a single child, two or three years old. One or both parents may be present to assist him with a pail of water or a banana etc. When a child leaves the stage the performance is over.
Premiered at the Fluxus Festival, Staatliche Kunstakademie, Dusseldorf on Feb 3rd, 63.
#4a Variation #1 on Child Art Piece (1964)
Exit in a new suit.
Premiered June 27th, 64 at Fluxus Concert, Carnegie Recital Hall, NY. This variation was written for the NYC performance when the Society for the Preservation of Cruelty to Children forbade the performance of Child Art Piece in its original form.
#5 Street Piece (1962)
Make something in the street and give it away.
Premiered in Aug, 63. #9 and #11 are really variations on this piece.
#6 Shoes of your choice (1963)
A member of the audience is invited to come forward to a microphone if one is availlable and describe a pair of shoes, the one he is wearing or another pair. He is encouraged to tell where he got them, the size, color, why he likes them, etc.
Premiered Apr 6th, 63 at the Old Gymnasium of Douglass College, New Brunswick, NJ.
#7 Piece for Any Number of Vocalists (1962)
Each thinks beforehand of a song, and, on a signal from the conductor, sings it through.
Premiered May 11th, 1963 at Hardware Poet's Theater, NY, during the Yamdays.
#8 Performance piece #8 (1965)
Divide a variety of objects into two groups. Each group is labeled "everything." These groups may include several people. There is a third division of the stage empty of objects labeled "nothing." Each of the objects is "something." One performer combines and activates the objects as follows for any duration of time:
1. something with everything
2. something with nothing
3. something with something
4. everything with everything
5. everything with nothing
6. nothing with nothing
The Alison Knowles T Dictionary is a graphic performance of this piece, which uses words as one group of objects and image as the other.
#9 Color Music #2 (1963)
Print in the streets.
1st movement: orange
2nd movement: black
3rd movement: blue
Performed on Canal street, NY, in 1963.
#9a Variation on Color Music #2
As performed on Canal street, NY in 1963.
Same as above except that white, aluminum, and cerise were used.
#9b Color Music #2 (1963) revised version
Print in silkscreen on the pavements and streets of a city. This piece is dangerous. Have some ready excuses such as "This ink is water soluable."
#10 Braid (1964)
The performers, usually two, find something to braid, hair, yarn, etc., and do so.
Premiered Apr 11th, 64 at Fluxhall, in NY.
#10a Variation #1 on #10 ("String Piece," 1964)
Tie up the audience.
Premiered May 30th, 64 at Fluxhall in NY.
#11 Printing Piece
This piece is officially deleted from Alison Knowles canon. What happened was that on May 30th, 1964 at Fluxhall in NY Alison Knowles silkscreened images on any and all objects, animate and inanimate, which were brought to her for imprinting. It was felt to be too close to #5.
#12 Simultaneous Bean Reading (1964)
Using the Alison Knowles Bean Rolls and six to eight performers, unroll the rolls over the audience and start reading aloud. Have the audience join in. A single performer goes among the other performers with scissors, cutting out large sections of the rolls. This performer determines the length of the performance.
Premiered Nov 16th, 64 at Cafe au Go Go, NY.
#13 Composition for Paik (1964)
Select a platform, or any large square or rectangular area that is set apart, or raised above the room. Measure this area, using Paik as assistant, finding its center. Then drop a plumb line to this point from the ceiling. Find the center of this distance and mark the string with chalk. Build Paik a platform up to this point so that he may sit there for the duration of the performance.
Premiered Nov 16th, 64 at Cafe au Go Go.
#14 Chair piece for George Brecht (1965)
Locate an empty chair, before the performance, in the center of the center aisle, equipped with reading light and a book. If nobody has taken this seat by intermission, one of the other performers should do so.
#15 Wounded Furniture (1965)
This piece uses an old piece of furniture in bad shape. Destroy it further, if you like. Bandage it up with gauze and adhesive. Spray red paint on the wounded joints. Effective lighting helps. This activity may be performed with one or more performers, and simultaneously with other events.
Premiered July 19th, 65 at Cafe au Go Go, NY.
#16 Giveaway Construction (1963?)
Find something you like in the street and give it away. Or find a variety of things, make something of them. and give it away.
Premire date unknown. Note: this is a variation of #6.
#17 Color Music #1 (1963) for Dick Higgins
List your problems from one to five.
For each problem list the best solution you can think of.
For each problem also list a color.
Whenever the problem arises in your mind, think first of the best solution, and if you cannot act upon it immediately, switch to concentration on the color until an absolute necessity intervenes.
Premiered 1963 at 423 Broadway, NY.
Poetry by Lee Tonouchi & Meg Withers
When I turn left on Kahekili Highway near my house on the windward side of O`ahu, I turn toward my son’s baseball practice and many of his games in Kahalu`u. I also turn toward a community of coaches and parents who, for the most part, speak Pidgin English. (The language is actually Hawaiian Creole English or HCE, but people in Hawai`i call it Pidgin.) Many dads come from work in the bright green shirts of construction and road-workers; the moms, who speak less Pidgin, still live in its surround. If I turn right on Kahekili Highway, in the direction of Kāne`ohe Town and highways to Honolulu, toward my daughter’s soccer practices, I drive into a world of local people who, for the most part, do not speak Pidgin to each other. Kāne`ohe is the suburbs; Kahalu`u is still country. Baseball has a working class history in Hawai`i, especially among AJA, or Americans of Japanese ancestry; soccer is played in a suburban middle class present untethered to plantation or war histories. While the local bumpersticker that reads “Keep the Country Country” is in standard English, its sentiment is Pidgin. The response, or “Keep Town Town,” might be read with a local accent, but it’s hardly da kine.
Pidgin poetry is best known for its humor, its nostalgia, and its self-assertion (writing a poem about writing a poem in Pidgin is not uncommon, even now). Diane Kahanu wrote a poem that also became testimony before the Board of Education in 1987. It begins: “Ho. Just ’cause I speak Pidgin no mean I dumb. Pidgin short, fast, match.” A lot of work (and play) in Pidgin comes out of a comic tradition, typified by the work of Rap Reiplinger in the 1980s and now in books and plays by former stand-up Lee Cataluna. Her collection of vignettes, Folks You Meet at Longs, is very very funny, as is her play, Da Mayah. You can watch one of Rap’s most famous skits, “Room Service,” here. Even the Bible, translated into Pidgin as Da Jesus Book (2000), sounds funnier than the translators probably intended. The best book of Pidgin poetry, by most accounts, is Lois-Ann Yamanaka’s 1993 volume, Saturday Night at the Pahala Theatre (Bamboo Ridge Press); hundreds of people attended the launch. Yamanaka’s book seemed to promise a renaissance (or belated rebirth, even) of Pidgin literature in Hawai`i. Instead, it may have been one of moments in literary history when a new literature both begins and begins to end at the same moment. What was, in the early 1990s, called “local literature,” dominated as it was by local Asian writers, was soon called into question by Hawaiian writers and their advocates, including Richard Hamasaki. Mahealani Dudoit founded `oiwi journal, enrollment in Hawaiian language courses jumped. By contrast, the Charlene Sato Center for Pidgin, Creole, and Dialect Studies, founded in 2002, remains ensconsed in a small portable building on the University of Hawai`i-Mānoa campus. This is not to say that communities of Pidgin and Hawaiian speakers are separate; Pidgin is traditionally the language of Hawai`i’s working class, which includes local Asians, Haole (whites), and Hawaiians. Like so much that happens on islands, the smaller they are, the more complicated the linguistic/literary world becomes.
Lee Tonouchi has done more in recent memory than anyone to keep Pidgin in the ears of people in Hawai`i. He’s written a series of books, including Da Word (Bamboo Ridge Press), Living Pidgin (Tinfish Press), and now Significant Moments in da Life of Oriental Faddah and Son (Bess Press). The word “Oriental” is still used in Hawai`i; on the north American continent it’s considered an insult. The word still has currency here, as you’ll find out if you read Tonouchi’s poem about going to UC Irvine (he didn’t) and discovering that his Oriental faddah was “Asian American.” Tonouchi is best known as “da Pidgin Guerilla,” an avant-garde of one who argues for a Pidgin department at UHM, and long ago refused to speak or write in any language other than Pidgin. Tonouchi also put together Da Kine Dictionary (Bess Press) a rather glossy, yet quite serious, attempt at creating a lexicon for locals and tourists alike. Tonouchi’s very serious advocacy for Pidgin is delivered with the timing of a stand-up comic; his work is funny when it’s serious, seriously funny when it’s merely funny.
So Tonouchi’s new book of poems, many years in the making, seems to take him and his readers in a new direction. The collection forms a ficto-memoir of his life. The point of origin for his life as an artist and linguistic guerilla was the moment when, as a small child, he lost his mother in a car crash. He was seated next to her. This book tells that story, but also tells us why Tonouchi, more than most writers in Hawai`i, is so fascinated by Pidgin. He was mostly raised by his Okinawan grandparents. By virtue of their generation they would have spoken strong, “authentic,” Pidgin. That his grandmother coached the author on his Japanese lessons in college and (unknown to him) taught him Okinawan Pidgin instead, is one of the many funny/serious moments in this book. So family, language, and grieving are the central points in this work, and the way in which Tonouchi interweaves these elements strikes me as something new in Hawai`i’s literature. I’ve not seen any attention to Pidgin poetry and the elegy, but this book is an elegy to family (his father died before the book was published) and — one fears — proleptically to the language that family, like so many others, speaks. Juliana Spahr’s blurb puts it well: the book “also reminds that funny is the straight line made vulnerable."
Tonouchi’s usual pitch, tone, is spoken: he hears and records Pidgin-speaking voices as well as anyone. A couple of very short poems tell this story. First, “‘Wot Village You From?’"
Grandma axes my friends
wit Okinawan last names.
I dunno why,
cuz she always gets
when dey tell
Pālolo is a neighborhood in Honolulu, das why laugh. Then, in a response poem on the next page, comes another village poem, “Wot Village I From”:
Grandma makes me memorize
in case somebody axes
one day, she sez.
Nobody eva does.
Tonouchi’s grandmother clearly made him the family historian, the guardian of place names, of an entire language. That this poem portrays him as one who knows, but is never asked, may explain why Tonouchi has been so adamant over the years to get his work out. Fail to ask, and he will tell you anyway. Oddahwise, pau da culture. Or, in old Pidgin, it “make die dead lidat.” (Make is pronounced “makay” and means “dead.)
Less successful as poetry, perhaps, but part of what is striking about this collection, is the piece, “Da Photo Album My Mom Made,” which is in a very written, literary version of Pidgin. It’s not spoken by a voice, but by a poet’s writing. In some ways the poem seems a throw-back to work by Eric Chock in the late 1970s and early 1980s, but in Tonouchi’s work it’s something new:
She left me,
as one dying away
one cloth-covered photo album,
with my name stitched
on da cover
in cursive letters.
There’s much to remark on here, like the sad turn on a "going away present." And there’s the way in which the poet’s mother so carefully wrote his name in cursive, the way she learned to in school, a school that doubtless discouraged the use of Pidgin. The rest of the poem might sound maudlin to anyone who doesn’t know Tonouchi. To one accustomed to his brash wit, it comes as a surprise, however, this naked expression of sentiment, loss, regret. This writtenness.
Meg Withers, who now lives, teaches and writes in northern California, tended bar in Waikiki in the 1980s at the height (depth) of the AIDS epidemic. Her customers were gay men who dressed in drag; they had already suffered the traumas of self-recognition in a world that did not recognize them. Their suffering was psychological, but as her book, A Communion of Saints, records, it was also physical: the last poem in the book lists more than two dozen “saints and angels” who died. The book is full of voices; I had a University of New Orleans low-res MFA class one summer take on its many voices, and literally call them out from the Mexican rooftop where our class was held. Many of these are Pidgin voices. Withers is that rare person, a second-language Pidgin speaker and writer. So her Pidgin sometimes sounds odd, even to this other second-language Pidgin listener, but she’s recording important, vanished, voices. In a prose poem about “our rella mae,” we read: “i like keep my figure sistah no eat notting for make me fat...i name for cinderella...wait da kine prince charming like dat billy blonde guy tennessee...i like him give me one crystal slippah on my foot” (29). Withers has nestled rella mae’s voice between a quotation from W.S. Merwin (“...one must always pretend something among the dying...”) and another from the Bible (“...i gave my back to the smiters, and my cheeks to them... i hid not my face from shame and spitting...Isaiah 50:6”) (29). The narrative thus moves from hiding to going naked, from acting to playing it straight (if not exactly “being straight"). Her book moves from written quotation to spoken quotation and then back again; these voices enter the same room, could almost be said to overhear each other, as we did in our roof-top classroom in Mexico.
Withers’s book is organized in three parts, appropriate for a volume whose every poem is followed by a Biblical quotation. The first introduces us to our cast of characters, the second begins to take them away from us, and the third promises a kind of resurrection — not literally, surely, but elegiacally. Where Milton and Shelley found their lost friends in the very constellations, “ourgirl” (Withers) and her friends find their in the “na po mokole,” as they look out from a seawall:
no mo da kine take money from da tourist jus’ because i can...see in heaven how na po mokole bless us but wit’ love...ancestors watching over us...tell us how to live wit’ grace/wit’ gratitude fo’ gift of life...when old ones give us mana we no mo need worry now...jus’ live da lives in kindness/love fo’ ourselfes/others...ourgirl/keoki walk from wall into the newest world of all... (54)
Na po mokole is the night rainbow, a ghosted and ghostly presence. Less tangible than the stars, it’s still a recurring feature of the night sky in Hawai`i, and reminds the poet and her friends of their own shades. The quotation from Revelation that follows this poem ushers in a “mighty angel” with “a rainbow . . . upon his head.”
I began this commentary by noting the way in which a left turn at the main road is for me a turn toward Pidgin and a right turn a turn away from it. But there’s a catch, and not just in the exceptions I can think of off-hand (like the people I see in both places). Because when I sit at my son’s baseball practice or at his games and listen intently to the dads speaking Pidgin to one another (sometimes talking about fishing for opihi and killing pigs that end up in their yards), I hear their sons talk back to them in standard English. However strong a local accent the son might have, he’s almost never speaking Pidgin. Nor do the kids speak Pidgin to one another aside from an occasional “you like bat?” This is also true for my daughter’s soccer teammates. Those whose dads or moms speak Pidgin do not have daughters who speak it back to them. The generation gap is profoundest where it involves a shift in languages. The evidence is circumstantial, but it leads me to fear for the future of Pidgin as a language spoken in Hawai`i. There are no courses in speaking Pidgin, as there are in speaking and writing Hawaiian or other standard languages. The national media (to say nothing of video games) spits out a steady diet of anything but. It’s still an outcast, outlier. And, ironic for a language whose origins were economic — given plantation workers from all over Asia and elsewhere, how do people talk to each other about their work? — the current economies of money and culture do not need Pidgin. If the local economy is mostly based on tourism and the military, both of them national and international in scope, who needs to speak this peculiarly local language? And if the Hawaiian renaissance of the past few decades asserts the necessity to revive and use Hawaiian language? Pidgin finds itself in the no man’s land of Yiddish, caught somewhere between Brooklyn English and Israeli Hebrew. I fear the poems I’ve been looking at are not simply laments for family and friends; they might be proleptic elegies to the language in which they were spoken and written.
I want to thank Tiare Picard and Donovan Kūhio Colleps for having a look at a draft of this piece, especially at the Pidgin content. Colleps, who lives in `Ewa, which was a plantation area, writes this important exception to my argument: "Here in ʻEwa, the youngsters speak nothing but Pidgin . . . I mention the docufilm because there is a group of Waiʻanae teenagers ( pre-2010, I think) confirming their love for Pidgin." My status as an English professor doubtless marks my experiences of Pidgin; I can say, however, that I never hear Pidgin being spoken on my campus. I ask students to read aloud from Pidgin texts, and most of them clearly cannot ("cannot" being a Pidgin word) speak the language well. Tiare Picard was the Pidgin editor for Meg Withers's book when it was in manuscript at Tinfish.
You can hear some Pidgin and learn a bit about the language here. Kent Sakoda is one of the talking heads; he's a major advocate for Pidgin in the state. Lee Tonouchi also appears, and there are photographs of him with his grandparents. In the comment stream you can see some of the emotions involved in talking about Pidgin, and in who gets to talk. Here are some schoolkids from Waianae talking Pidgin. And more here. And again.
Most contemporary Pidgin literature in Hawai`i has been published by Bamboo Ridge Press.
There have been several “literacy narratives” about growing up speaking Pidgin, including a chapter in Morris Young’s book, Minor Re/Visions: Asian American Literacy Narratives as a Rhetoric of Citizenship (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2004). Another essay/chapbook, Sista Tongue, published by Tinfish Press, is by Lisa Linn Kanae. Lee Tonouchi’s Living Pidgin: Contemplations on Pidgin Culture participates in that subgenre, as well.
Lois-Ann Yamanaka reads her poem, “Boss of the Food,” on the United States of Poetry.
Other Tinfish titles with Pidgin in them include books by Bradajo Hadley, Gizelle Gajelonia, and Tinfish 18.5: The Book, which includes work by Jill Yamasawa, Ryan Oishi, Tiare Picard, Kai Gaspar, and Sage Takehiro. A broadside by Kimo Armitage and Michael Puleloa is free off the website.
I blogged elsewhere about the current state of Local Literature in Hawai`i. You can find the blog post here. Needless to say, not everyone agreed with me. Another blog post came out in 2009, after Tinfish Press republished books by Kanae and Tonouchi. A commentary this length inevitably leaves out acres and acres of historical and cultural information. So have a look at the resources, and keep looking!
Also: Renate Stendahl on the witch hunt
Two essays have been added to the Gertrude Stein war years dossier:
Christopher Sawyer-Laucanno, “‘Courage to Be Courageous’: The Last Works and Days of Gertrude Stein,” from The Continual Pilgrimage: American Writers in Paris, 1944–1960 (1992). Thanks for the author for letting us include this chapter of his book.
And, just out yesterday:
Renate Stendahl, “Why the Witch-Hunt Against Gertrude Stein?,” Tikkun, June 4, 2012.
We at Jacket2 are pleased to announce that Jerome Rothenberg joins us a commentator. His previous postings to “Poems and Poetics” (heretofore a blogspot site) are all linked to his J2 commentary page, and he is now publishing new commentaries here:
Improvising an academic paper?
I’m thinking about an idea that I heard Grammar Girl (Mignon Fogarty) talk about—“so-called attempts to legislate language change”—how and when uses of words vanish, how and why there are “made-up” words, etc. I also participated in a workshop with Peter Elbow on speaking onto the page. So, today, my question is this: how does one really change a language or become confident enough in his or her own language fluency to take real risks in the face of traditional usage? Elbow said something early in the plenary that really stuck with me since—“culturally, we tend to think of writing as harder than speaking.” In other words, the resistance to writing may people experience is actually a cultural construct that has the potential to be undone or overthrown.
I’m immediately reminded of Steve Benson’s work, particularly the improvisation/talk he gave at the Segue Reading Series on May 12, 2007, as part of a panel on Language Poetry and the Body that Tim Peterson and I hosted (see Issue 4 of EOAGH). Benson’s performance included the following notes on his process (while the process was occurring):
don’t know what I have to say, so I recorded some notes on a tape cassette,
which I’m playing in my pocket, and there are little wires that run up to my ears,
so that I can hear through the wires what I recorded on the cassette
and help me know what I might talk about or what words I might use…
I love how Benson invites the audience into his composing process, as well as how Benson consistently challenges the way speaking and writing are taught to us. When students are asked to give a talk or a presentation--they are nervous, they read off a paper, they fear the language they need to use, and they often don't let their bodies know what they know.
So, what do Benson’s process of composition, Elbow’s ideas of “speaking to write,” and Fogarty’s phrase “legislate language change” all have in common? I think that each gestures towards what Elbow calls “finding the words […] with conviction.” When we teach prose writing, how often do our students really read out loud? How often do we meet the student who speaks brilliantly in class, but that rhetoric never makes it onto the page? Elbow writes, “all too often people write ineffectually because they don’t fully own or inhabit their words. This is a common problem since so often they write only because someone (like me) is making them write” (Vernacular Eloquence 237). Why not work improvisation, risk-taking, talking the paper, transcription of an orally composed work…into a freshman’s regular composition experience? Might this be a new way to “legislate language change”?