The Collected Writings of Steve Murakishi

That Sound

2010-01-22T04:47:00.000-08:00

A man and his wife had just crossed the railroad tracks.

The snow made a temporary journal of their travels.

It had just turned to dusk as they walked to their car.

They were talking about a movie they had just seen.

At first he heard a sound; but could not connect it to anything.

Then he felt something smack him in the side, just above his right hip.

If this was an scene from a comic book, the sound would be graphically registered as a "splattt-tt" or a "tha-wock".

The man looked up and saw a SUV with the passenger side window rolled down. It was too dark and the windows were too tinted to see anyone. Darkness surrounded the vehicle, as it slowly drove away.

The man was dumbfounded.
He looked down at his side and saw a dark stain growing on his jacket.

The only thing he could say to his wife was, "Why ? "She answered his question with a question,

"Would an explanation even help ?"

They went back to talking about the movie.

Seeing is deceiving, hearing is believing.

Before

2010-01-20T04:28:00.000-08:00

The night before she had gone to a seafood restaurant. She was seated directly on a floor of clear, glass tiles. The tiles were about 18” square and 1" thick cast glass. It reminded her of the "rustic" glasses with tiny air bubbles frozen in a bluish vitrification. She sat atop an architecturally sized aquarium. The entire floor below appeared to be about 15' deep, painted that awful aqua-toothpaste color community pools are sometimes painted. She pointed to a fish and a guy in a hachimaki opened a trap door and used a net on a very long pole to snare her dinner.

She arrived with a small, independent film crew. Not exactly sure what the director's vision was; she thought a little escape was in order. The young filmmaker went for a walk by herself. She knew nothing about Kyoto. Sighting a mountaintop, she headed down the many winding streets and alleys ways. The tiny vans and pick-up trucks sounded like motor scooters as she navigated to the outskirts of the city.

Now the dense urban collage transitioned into a sparsely populated landscape. Suddenly, the many possible options narrowed to a single pathway that snaked into a green bamboo forest. The trail rose gently, but it was easy to follow. She was young, and felt happy to be alone.

There was an open grassy area after the bamboo forest ended. Ahead, she saw something she never even imagined existed. Glowing, unmistakably in front of her, was a forest of pink pine trees. The trail now became a carpet of pink pine needles. Sunlight filtered through the pine needles; making pink light on the pink forest floor. As the wind blew through the trees, the swirling needles, became pink sparks that jumped into the air, from an imaginary camp fire. She thought she might never leave. Maybe she would just live there forever. For the first time in over an hour she stood still, breathing in the pink moment.

The trail got much steeper. She found herself pausing for a second before pushing forward. At this point, she could rest and hold onto the wooden rail. The cedar wood felt clean and perfect to her touch. A carpenter of great skill had constructed this spectacularly humble structure. She continued to pull herself up using the rail. When she reached the end of the rail, there was a rice ball placed on a simple but beautiful ceramic dish. She thought about picking it up, even tasting it; but she thought it might be the wrong thing to do.

The incline became extreme. If she were to stand erectly, she might lose her balance and topple backwards. The trail changed dramatically, it narrowed to a path about 10" wide. Steps were replaced with embedded stones, whose natural surface was sculpted to fit her hand exactly. One crouching step after another got her to a stage where directly above her 7 or 8 nearly vertical hand holds. For the first time she wondered if she should keep going? What could possibly be at the top of this remote place? She thought about the rice ball and something inside her made her reach up to the next stone.

As she pulled herself up from the final step, she wondered if she had enough strength to climb down the mountain. Standing up straight for the first time in 40 minutes, she took a deep breath. In front of her were a "torii" and the mountain's cliff. A torii is a ceremonial gateway, meaning "where birds reside". This torii was different. About seven feet high, this gateway was constructed from cedar. Hanging from the torii's horizontal member were two amber colored ropes. The ropes were attached to a cedar plank that formed a swing. The torii framed a magnificent view of the highest mountaintop in the distance. The sky was a color it had never been before.

She sat down on the swing, looked over the edge and pushed herself off. In that moment she swung out into a space that was no longer mountain, it belonged only to the sky. Her toes stretched out. She leaned back as far as she could stretch and the mountain disappeared. She looked up and saw sky for the first time.

photo credit: Michael Levin "Torii Gate"

Chinatown

2010-01-18T08:47:00.000-08:00

It was frightening, to consider of all the things he did not know. The fact was, he never really had a job before. In college, he studied sculpture. His youthfulness did not realize the world was not going to come to him.

A temp agency had sent him to a grand, old department store, across from Union Square,in San Francisco. He had no experience.

Together with seven Chinese kids, they would do inventory in a stockroom on the top floor.

The view was magnificent. They did not have palm trees in the Midwest. The young sculptor noticed, rich people had a particular fondness for things; he knew he would never need.

By noon they had accomplished very little, but had become very hungry. Everyone put down their pencils and clipboards and took the creaky service elevator to the ground floor. They were a group of kids cutting down alleys, and taking shortcuts through stores.Their happy voices made conversations and they spoke as if they were excited about living.

Not so surprisingly, they arrived at the gates of Chinatown. All the buildings seemed pressed together like the shiny skin of ducks hanging, gleaming and glowing. They entered a building, ran up 4 flights of narrow, twisting stairs, dodging annoyed waiters and cooks gesturing angrily. Reaching the top floor, they walked across rooftops, under lines of laundry and entered another building. Through the noisy chaos, smells of fish and garbage, they descended 3 more flights of stairs, to a table set for eight.

There were no menus and no one spoke English. He only really knew one Chinese dish to order.

Noodles.

It was the best bowl of noodles he would ever eat in his life. Actually, he ordered the same thing for the next 4 days.

Sometimes not knowing is the key to learning.

Heaven

2009-11-13T17:45:00.000-08:00

He could tell by the woman's deeply creased, too tanned face and froggy voice;
she would lite up as soon as they landed.
Looking down, big things became smaller.
That reminded him of the only time,
he ever saw the shadow of his plane passing over a vast nubby carpet of clouds.
It was like the first time he peed in the woods.
Something more magnificent and powerful was occurring; he just wasn't sure what it was ?

Now that he was airborne, he looked for markers that would be an absolute indication where he was.
He looked for roads, highways, rivers and lakes.
Bodies of water were particularly fascinating.
From above, the blues, greens and purples seemed to paint an abstract of the water's depths.
Another palette called out to the sandbars that ribbed the coast.
Below him stretched out farmland, cities, baseball diamonds and gravel pits.
The predictability of the suburbs displayed patterns of small geometric dots.
People lived in those dots.
At night, the greenish street lights lit the roadways, and the whiter beams of cars made a slow procession of flickering lights.

In remote regions, he liked to follow trails that might wind around mountain terrains.
It was like tracing spirals in the sand.
Sometimes they might lead to a fabulous resort or a stunning lodge or just an old abandoned cabin.
The pathways he liked the best, were the ones that led nowhere.
They were like a pointless conversation, that just trailed off.

He was particularly interested in seeing golf courses, sports stadiums and nude sunbathing.
Fortunately, there were a lot of golf courses.
The fluffy white clouds could be conjured into an elephants, squirrels or manatees.
Once they were at cloud level he wondered if he actually believed in heaven ?
Making up animals or believing in the afterlife were really very different measurements of certainty.
Something he did learn; was water vapor forms tiny droplets or ice crystals, about 0.01 mm in diameter.
Clouds become visible when billions of icy crystals are suspended in the atmosphere above earth.
Every day he looked up into the sky and listened to the clouds.

He wondered what people thought they meant, when they talked about heaven.
Talking and believing are so different.
He wondered if people knew, that heaven was a place for hydrogen molecules.

The Map Maker's Mother

2009-02-28T04:43:00.000-08:00

A cartographer’s mother made cards to send her daughter.
The mother saved stamps from different countries.
The daughter knew her mother would steam the stamps, releasing them from the letters.
She would mount the stamps on colorful paper.

The daughter studied maps of places that no longer existed.
As she paused, the cartographer would think about her mother's life.
She hoped her mother was happy with the life she lived.
It made the map maker think about her life too.

Being there is not a place.

Watson and the Shark

2009-02-16T11:36:00.000-08:00

The boy's favorite painting was called "Watson and the Shark".
He would stand for hours and gaze deeply into the painting.
What intrigued the boy so much ?
Maybe it was how menacing the shark looked or the grave peril the boy felt for Watson ?
One day while studying the painting, a group of people crowded around him.
They were listening to a woman in a blue jacket.
She said the man holding the rope and the man in the water were doppelgangers.
The boy wasn't sure what this meant, but he could almost feel the savagery of shark's bite.
Given a choice, he'd rather be the man in the boat.
When he grew up, he would bring his children to see the painting.
They would all stand around the painting and talk about who they would be:
Watson, the Shark or the man with the rope.

Identity is in the eye of the beholder.

"Watson and the Shark" John Singleton Copley 1778

The Avatar and Zebras

2009-02-16T06:23:00.000-08:00

When an economic crisis came to the ecosystem,
all the animals of the savanna were affected.
Maybe hardest hit were the zebras.
During tough times, nobody really liked black and white stripes.
Historically, belt tightening was a conservative preoccupation.
As hard as the zebras tried to become either all black or all white;
it never seemed to work.
They asked for assistance from a higher power.
Vishnu summoned Parasurama; Rama-of-the-axe to go the savanna
and quiet the crisis.
Although Parasurama was a warrior god; he was revered for his ability as a strategist.
The problem as Parasurama saw it, was one of perception.
Because everyone was concerned about the economy,
the zebras stood out as petulant and uncommitted.
Parasurama decided to make it rain and turn the arid savanna
into a mud bath.
All the animals became cloaked in a dark, muddy suit.
Everyone looked the same.
Now the animals focused on solving the problems; rather
than only assigning blame.
Eventually, peace and prosperity returned to the savanna.

Parasurama took his axe and ascended to the higher spiritual realm.

Perfection is unattainable, but acceptance is another story.

Photo credit : Peter Bland

Avoidance Theory and the Greyhound

2009-02-11T12:34:00.001-08:00

This Italian greyhound was rescued from a life of racing and poor treatment.
With the largest heart and percentage of fast twitch muscle of any breed, this greyhound was exceptionally gifted.
He was a solitary dog; preferring only the company of his beautiful mistresses.
They called him Manny.
When time came for a walk and the taking care of business;
Manny was expedient, staying well clear of other butt sniffing dogs.
His belief was a good day meant no contact with anybody,
especially other dogs and people who felt they should pet all dogs.

One day, Manny was curled up and nice and cozy dreaming about running with a pack of other greyhounds.
It was like everything was shiny, in slow motion and he was happy.
Suddenly he awoke, stretching his long body and yawning.
The dream intrigued him because he wondered if he had it all wrong.
Manny was most introspective, even for a greyhound.
He decided to change; he would smile, sniff butts and nuzzle people.
Precisely at that moment, he realized the glory of life was living.
At last, Manny felt the pure joy of simply being Manny.

Three Wishes

2009-02-09T11:25:00.000-08:00

Three black crows were perched in a dogwood tree.
The first crow asked "If you could have a wish come true - what would it be ?"
The second crow said, "I'd wish for a winning lottery ticket."
The first crow said, "I'd be the winner of a reality show."
They asked the third crow, "What to you wish for ?"
The third crow, who was slightly depressed said, "I'd be happy to sing show tunes all day long."

Only you can truly know, what makes you happy.

The Line and the Sea

2009-02-09T10:55:00.000-08:00

It was a December day in Boston.
A man and woman walked towards each other.
Neither one could see the other because there was a hill between.
They were both dressed in black.
Even as they got closer, they were still unsure.

They met at the top of the hill.
After 30 years the man and woman were together again.
They had been lovers in art school when they were young.
In those days they made prints and paintings together.
One night she had too much to drink, crawled underneath a car and would not come out.

They had no idea how to put back the many years that separated them.
At first they were overjoyed to be back with each other, then overwhelmed by the history they no longer shared.
On this cold wintry day; but they decided to go for a walk on the beach.
They found a stick and drew a long, long line in the sand.
Then the man and the woman marked off each one of the 30 years.
For each mark and each year, they told the other a story of what had happened.

The next day they returned to the beach and the long line in the sand.
Over night the tide had washed the line away; and returned it to the sea.

There are no lines in the sea.

Untitled [Big Sea #1] Vija Celmins

The Mathematician and the Squirrels

2009-02-08T06:33:00.000-08:00

A mathematician lived alone in a little white house, near a tall oak tree.
On Tuesdays he ate tuna casserole.
Each day he spent 6.5 hours working on equations and theories.
On Sunday he went for a long walk and would try to identify every tree he would pass by.
When he went to work at the college, he only walked on streets that began with the letter "B".
One day he saw two gray squirrels chasing each other.
As they raced onto the street, they were both crushed by a large black moving van.
The driver did not seem notice he had taken the lives of these two squirrels.
Ironically, the gilded letters of the truck said, "Death Wish Piano Movers".
The mathematician was stunned.
He thought there must be a connection, but he couldn't be certain.

Sometimes simplicity breeds ambiguity.

Too Short Shorts

2009-02-06T05:53:00.000-08:00

Too Short Shorts
There was once a homeless man called "Too short shorts".
He would wear black bicycle shorts that were uncomfortably too small and too tight.
Too short shorts, would stagger and sway from too much drink and would ask people to give him a dollar.
Apparently he felt he needed to be very specific.
The people of the town had generous hearts and many times gave him money or
asked him what he wanted to eat and they would buy it for him.
One day people turned away from Too short shorts.
It may have been the pink furry slippers he wore or possibly the lime green tube top he had on.
No one was really sure.

Always dress for success.

The Woodcutter and the Forest

2009-02-06T05:50:00.000-08:00

The woodcutter and the forest

A woodcutter had three sons.
As the boys grew to be men, they left the forest, to live in the city.
The oldest son became an urban planner.
The middle son got into retail.
And the youngest son became a writer.
The woodcutter missed his sons, but knew they must make their own way in the world.
To keep him from being so sad, the woodcutter carved 3 statues of his sons.
One day a fire burned down the forest.
The woodcutter fled the burning trees, barely escaping.
When the fire subsided, he returned only to find his house reduced to smoldering ashes.
The forest was burned down, so he had no way to make a living.
The statues of his three sons survived, remaining miraculously intact.
The woodcutter was torn about what to do.
Should he stay in the burned forest with the statues of his sons ?
Should he cut them down and take them with him ?
In the end he decided to leave the statues in the blackened forest.
The woodcutter hoped one day, the trees would grow back and the forest would return.
He hoped one day a grandson or granddaughter would return to the forest and become a woodcutter.

In life, you always hope to return to the forest.

The Berserk Man and the Donuts

2009-02-05T16:15:00.000-08:00

A young man in a white t-shirt, went berserk in Dunkin' Donuts.
First he opened the refrigerated cases and smashed gallons of whole, 2% and low fat milk on the floor.
Then he went behind the counter and crashed trays of donuts with colored sprinkles, jelly filled, maple sticks,
éclairs, French crullers, Boston Kreme and glazed munchkins; to the floor.
The donuts and the milk mixed crazily on the speckled tiled floor.
Customers ran out, the homeless ran in; but nobody said a word.
It just smelled like milk and donuts.

The pairing of things is sometimes very mysterious.

The Girl Who Loved Giraffes

2009-02-05T05:39:00.000-08:00

A girl with dark hair loved giraffes.
She drew pictures of giraffes on her bedroom walls.
She took photographs of things on fire.
Her room was on the third floor, above a restaurant that had a good Zagat rating.
A collection of miniature plastic animals filled her wisteria colored room.
The girl with dark hair adopted a humpback whale named "Gary".
When she felt happy she would go on top of her roof and smile at her world.
Sometimes she blew bubbles so they might cascade around people's heads walking below on the sidewalk.
This angered the old lady, who lived across the street.
She called the police to complain.
The police told the girl she was breaking the law.
Boston had an ordinance called disturbing the peace.
The girl didn't think it made sense, but she wanted to be in compliance.
She knew when she left Boston she'd go to her roof, blow bubbles and smile at the world.

Peace and happiness are not the same thing

Christopher Walken and the Blue Frame

2009-02-05T05:08:00.000-08:00

A shopkeeper ordered a beautiful blue picture frame.
Many times he would match photographs from Vanity Fair to put into the frames.
He thought this made them more appealing and easier to sell.
This time he found a great picture of Christopher Walken.
When he slid Christopher Walken's picture into the frame it was like magic.
The frame shone and Christopher Walken looked crazier than ever.
Because it was so stunning, the shopkeeper wanted to show it off and placed it in a position of great distinction;
high a top a shelf across from the cash register.
One day, a tall, young woman in a dark coat came in and apparently admired it too.
The shopkeeper did not notice when the woman took the frame and put it into her bag.
She left without paying for it.

In difficult economic times, people will steal crazy things.

Planet Jawbone

2008-09-09T10:19:00.000-07:00

Futura
This presentation, was prepared for the Southern Graphics Council and CommandPrint 2008 Conferrence; convened at Virginia Commonwealth University, in Richmond, VA.

Our practice has undergone enormous changes – both technologically and conceptually. We are on a path of transformation. We know Futura as a classic, yet unassuming typeface. Designed in 1927 by Paul Renner, it is a font that carries the sensibilities of modernism forward. It’s clean essential lines, sans serif and geometric shapes sing pure and simple. You see Futura in your font menu and it’s used in logos from VW to Ikea. Its typological legacy can be traced back to Johannes Gutenberg.

I’ve heard it said, you can think about type as, living in space. It’s that space, that is part of the page, surrounding each letter and each word. The horizontal spacing between letters creates timing. There is a rhythm and flow, to those words and meanings. Ultimately, print becomes language, feeling and vision.

It was forward thinking in 1927. As the name implies, Futura reached into the future, to locate what its time is about. Eighty-one years later we are at another critical point; again reaching forward into the future of Print Media.

Tommy Lee Jones
The Coen brother’s film, “No Country for Old Men” opens with a voice over by Tommy Lee Jones. His character, Sheriff Bell, speaks of a cold-hearted killer, then turns his observations, inward, to his own introspection. He says , “…. I think it is more what you are willin’ to become.” I’d like to understand the implications between willing and becoming. Print Nation is faced with a future of spectacular possibilities. Futures are often guided – by what already happened. I’m interested in the stories about the journey. Let’s agree on two things: first; all of us are on some sort of pilgrimage and second: the world is for finding.
I call this Planet Jawbone.

Elijah’s Cup
Elijah’s Cup. In the Jewish tradition, Passover is celebrated with a Seder dinner. In a special glass or cup, wine is poured for the prophet Elijah. In the Old Testament, Malachi says, “Behold, I will send you Elijah, the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord.” Elijah’s cup is left full and the wine untouched. The door to the house is opened to let Elijah come in and drink the wine.

Being Johannes Gutenberg Johannes Gutenberg/John Malkovich
Charlie Kaufman wrote, “Being John Malkovich”. This story is part fact - actor Malkovich, plays himself. Part fiction - for 15 minutes, you can be John Malkovich or at least, inside his head. We enter the story on floor 7½. A floor between floors. We discover a portal that transports us into the cerebral consciousness of John Malkovich. That’s the basic premise. What if …..
Charlie Kaufman wrote “Being Johannes Gutenberg”…. and each of us found that mysterious portal and were transported into Gutenberg’s brain. Here’s the scene….We open in a darkened studio, in Bavaria, the year is 1440. Gutenberg is played by Steve Carell and his assistant is Jason Schwartzman. We pass through the mysterious portal - and enter Gutenberg’s brain. The moment is profound. But we are too freaked out with issues, like: the plague and no cell phone reception. Four hundred years later, Kodak introduces the camera. In 1987 Apple, introduces the personal computer. In five centuries, we have the critical technologies to make fabulous print media and the power to redefine it. If the Holy Grail of Print is to produce and distribute image and information – now we can propel it instantaneously. Three questions…Where are we going ? How do we get there ? What will it take to make it better ?

“Deep Water”
The object was to sail, single-handed – non-stop from the shores of England; 27,000 miles, around the world. In 1968, the Sun Times called, the race the “Golden Globe”. Not to be confused with the film award. This was before GPS, and reality TV. Only one sailor would complete the race.

Why tell this tale ? As J. Peterman might say, “As we search our souls, seeking the compass of our destiny - failure and truth side by side, history is gnawing at our water-logged kiesters. We seek the uncertain winds of the future, raging full in our face. Sleep tight matey’s in your blue chambray night shirts”.

Ask the big question: Where are we going and why ? Take this cautionary tale of one sailor’s race. Even before starting Donald Crowhurst was in trouble. He was at best - a weekend sailor, in deep financial debt. To make matters worse, his vessel, was not seaworthy.

Donald looked reality in the eye. What he saw was failure and bankruptcy. What he did was devise a new plan. Instead of sailing the treacherous waters, he cut off communications and drifted, undetected in the South Atlantic. Much later, he re-established radio contact, saying he rounded Cape Horn and was heading for home. He falsified his logbooks and created a phony tape-recorded diary. As a surprise winner, his logbooks would be scrutinized and his deception revealed. After more than 240 days alone at sea, Crowhurst wrote a last entry in his logbook. “It is finished. It is the mercy. It is the end of my game. The truth will be revealed.” Crowhurst’s body was never recovered.

Why tell this sad story of deception and failure? I think it’s about how you find your way. Individuals can make choices with tragic results. We - are a membership, a professional organization, and a tribe. True, a group can get lost, - even lose faith, but the dynamic here is to collectively bargain, to negotiate, to find the vision and win the race.

Change
Two things:
First, I remember Dave Hickey, art critic and author of “Air Guitar”, and “Invisible Dragon” referring to printmaking as “an antique technology”. At the time, I was horrified; partly because of his indictment of obsolescence, but mostly because he said it in such an uncharacteristically kind and generous way.

Second. The governing Astronomical Union stripped Pluto of its title of planet. It decided, Pluto no longer met the definition. As a result, the 2006 word of the year was plutoed. “To Pluto” is to devalue or demote someone or something.
Question. Is printmaking like the former planet Pluto?
Are we sitting in the back of the bus and don’t know it? In the academic alignment of planets, printmaking seems to be a minor star in the constellation of fine arts. Are we simply an aproned legion of second teamers?

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
“Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” is another story by Charlie Kaufman -exploring the nature of love and memory. Joel and Clementine begin a quirky, endearing romance - not realizing they are former lovers. After their bad break up, she has a “cerebral procedure” – erasing her memories of their romance. This is a mild form of brain damage, similar to a “night of heavy drinking”. He has the same procedure – but his subconscious realizes; he doesn’t want to lose those memories.

Does Printmaking need a mind alteration? Maybe just a linguistic bridge ? A new word, like Printification. The suffix fication; to make, may seem redundant – so let’s consider this tiny alteration. Instead – let’s say fication means, to become or becoming.

Clintonian Triangulation
This is a centrist’s position, where “trump” is the middle. Take your opponent’s best points and make them your own. Bill Clinton said he could split the difference on any issue. Jesse Jackson said, Clinton has no core beliefs…only an appetite. Barack Obama has used triangulation to deconstruct and nullify Clinton’s achievements and Hillary’s credit. Why Clintonian triangulation? To a certain degree, this conference is a referendum. It’s the ultimate GPS to evaluate - will we make it better?

Avatar
In Sanskrit, avatar means descent. From Hindu philosophy, an avatar is a Supreme Being who has descended onto Earth, to make something right. Recently, the term avatar has been loosely applied as your on screen “incarnation”. Your avatar can take the virtual world form of your choice. Think of it as a cyber-doppelganger. Your “second life” is an immersion in simulacra, trading projection for perception.

For the most part, the future of print/media will be played out in the real; but there is a compelling component that will exist only in the pixels. The internet has created a new individual, personal space. New space – new rules. The same hierarchies and authority that govern the art world have no leash on the avatars. We walk a new path of alteration.

Jawbone of an Ass
Let’s end with The Book of Judges and a story about Samson. Samson was sort of an Old Testament Hercules – a man of incredible physical strength; but weak in the judgment department. He lived in a time when the Israelites were under the rule of the Philistines.

Samson captured 300 foxes; tied each pair, tail to tail, attaching a torch, between them. He lit the torches, sending the foxes running through the Philistines’ fields of grain setting them ablaze. In retaliation – the Philistines burn Samson’s wife and father-in-law to death. Samson seeks revenge – “He found a fresh jawbone of a donkey, reached out his hand and took it, and killed a thousand men with it.” Does a jawbone of an ass strike you as an odd choice of weapon? In our time of weapons of mass destruction, a jawbone hardly sounds lethal? Technically, the jawbone is a lower mandible. For humans, it is critical to the mechanics of speech. The colloquialism “jawboning”, means… to influence through strong persuasion.

I’d like to conclude with this:
We are Planet P.
P is for Print, and Command Print, not the former planet Pluto.
Planet P, has let the foxes loose, to run afire, burning new paths, in a new world. Look into the night sky and you will see an old star with a new orbit - Planet Jawbone. Our legacy is the creative production of what is true and real. We proudly fly the flag of heavy persuasion.

I have learned from the prophet Elijah, from Charlie Kaufman and most of all from you – the door and sometimes portal is always open.

Steve Murakishi
2008

looking back the end

2008-09-09T10:11:00.004-07:00

Did I tell you about the time I almost died?
Really….no shit?!
When I was an undergrad at Michigan State – back then I was a sculpture major; as opposed to being a currently, unemployed Bostonite,
I danced with death.
Looking back I can see how accidental deaths should be their own genre – you know like comedies, coming of age films or road pictures.
I was maybe 19 at the time. It was March and I was walking back from the studio. In my memory was it was about 2PM. Do you ever play this game with yourself – where you pretend to erase the snow and trick your mind into thinking that it’s really spring? Although, spring break was just a few weeks away, there were still patches of stubborn snow on the ground and the river was semi-frozen. Actually the river had reverse islands, where thawed out portions of dark water were like a connect the dots-thing. Granted, it was ill advised, but I’ve always been a roll-the-dice kind of guy.
I started out and the ice seemed firm enough. I zigzagged my way across until I got to the mid way point. I made a nearly fatal decision to head underneath the bridge which seemed like a good idea… Occluded by constant shadow, figuring the ice would be thicker since it was shielded from the melting rays of the sun; it would be a smart, safe move. At that point, I thought I had beaten the odds and had short-cut the dreariness of conventional wisdom and plodding conventional foot traffic.
I heard the ice gently crack, but thought I had time to get to some solid physicality.
Instead, it got so fucking quiet - below the ice. At first I couldn’t tell which way was up or down. I felt like I was tumbling in slow motion – like when you were a kid and rolled down a grassy hill.
Visiting a slow motion death surprised me. It was dark – not like nite time, but more like dusk. I must have sunk down about 15 feet below the surface by the time I figured out top from bottom. Above me was sort of a paint by numbers outline of where the ice was thick and thin. The thinnest iced portions were a gray greenish white. I remember how quiet it got. I realized life might end. It was peaceful, but I wondered if I would fight to survive or just let death take me.
The current was stronger, the water much deeper below the bridge. I could see myself being pulled beyond the hole – now just kind of a glowing halo. I struggled to swim toward the hole but the cold water made my muscles atrophy, shrink down like a car running out of gas. I knew I couldn’t reach the hole, so just let the current take me. I thought I would drown. I played with screenplay, that no one would find me until my bloated body would be discovered by a couple canoeing romantically down the river.
I knew this was my last chance, I felt my lungs collapsing and I rose to the surface. There was that gray-green puddle of light I tried to reach. I tried punching through the ice but the physics of my blows were useless. My last ditch effort was to flip on my back and kick . Surprisingly this worked. I tried using my frozen, numb hands to lift myself out – like when you’re at the edge of swimming pool and can gracefully rise out of the water. The ice kept breaking and I thought how ironic – I’ve come this close. Instead, I tried laying out on my stomach and started to swim out. This worked.
I got to the edge of the river and shivering uncontrollably and went into the nearest building to warm up and tell some one about by narrow escape from death. Erikson Hall was home base to Michigan State’s future teachers. Classes were just getting out and when those dry exiting students saw me they commented, "Shit, it must be raining…"
At times when I’m really stressed, I will sometimes think about looking up at the hole in ice – that gray-greenish-white hole and know there must be another way out.

steve murakishi “recycling ophelia” site installation
Death
Well I am Death, none can excel,
I open the door to Heaven or Hell
O Death traditional ballad

What is our future? More than ever we need the domain of creative expression to reach deeper into our lives - to help us voice what is so inexplicable. We live in a complex time where the consumer can act simultaneously as the producer and client. We have tremendous opportunities for growth and freedom. Now is not the time to fear, it is a time for courage.
Change is a good thing.

“axis of evil' damage control

2008-09-09T10:11:00.003-07:00

In America’s growing concern over terrorism, President Bush stated in his State of the Union address Iraq, Iran and North Korea were part of an "axis of evil" developing weapons of mass destruction and the US would not wait for provocation to take aggressive steps to counter this threat.
In terms of damage control, Condoleeza Rice, national security adviser tried to explain President Bush’s “axis of evil” comment was a clear strategy to define a complex problem with direct language.
President Bush visited the demilitarized zone between North and South Korea and stated “No wonder I think they’re evil.” He just learned of a 1976 incident that had led the deaths of two U.S. servicemen. The axes used to kill the men where on display in a North Korean museum just across the border.

portability, modularity, connectivity

2008-09-09T10:11:00.001-07:00

a few years ago I purchased a new portable hard drive. usually I have sort of disdain for packaging but the phrase caught my eye. I now believe it is the new mantra.

the sublime

2008-09-09T10:10:00.000-07:00

the sublime somehow defines what it means to be human. human beings can recognize something that transcends God or nature. while transcendence is the key to sublimity, we seem to comprehend the sublime when it is adjacent to death.
the dude abides…
the Big Lebowski

In a recent address to the United Nations, NY Mayor Rudolph Guiliani, began a statement decrying terrorism with the phrase "The era of moral relativsim ..."
British Prime Minister Tony Blair, stated, "This is the moment to seize. The kaleidoscope has been shaken. The pieces are in flux. Soon they will settle again. Before they do, let us re-order this world around us.”
I certainly do not wish compare the recent tragic events in any way to our own ambiguous conflict. I simply say, we are in a shaken and destabilized condition - but we were before any of this took place.
The cataclysmic events of September 11th have changed our world forever. The way we know life and mortality have been changed forever. Will art change after these enormous events ? Will the ego that makes up an artist change? Will our belief in a future be shaken?

We are unserious people living at an unserious time. Pat Roberts on POV

2008-09-09T10:09:00.001-07:00

point of view shots. your viewpoint is over the shoulder of the listener. the camera watches the speaker talk. somehow we are to believe that we are there – in the conversation somehow. TV has made the POV nearly obsolete. Being there, really translates into watching a conversation on TV.
Less and less we see the filmic language of tracking shots or establishing shots – unless it’s in the opening scene and credit roll. Now we have multiple narrative tracks. Kubrick – like - elliptical structures of multiple narratives - what happened – from different perspective loop. yes, Tarrantino uses this a lot. maybe this gets us to the equilibrium between what really happened or what seemed to happen.

deferred materiality/materiality

2008-09-09T10:08:00.002-07:00

We have real stuff. objects. physical things. We like real stuff. eBay is a remarkable example of our requirement for things. Revenues went from $47 million in 1998 to $749 million in 2001. On the other hand we have digital fragments of things that aren’t real. They may become real – like chair real or not. deferred materiality.
I’ve recently moved from the metropolitan Detroit area to Boston. I used an online quote to secure a moving company. They arrived a day late in a shiny 18 wheeler. I’m now in Boston, a month later with no stuff. When I tried contacting them online – phone calls led to unbearable holding patterns and no returned calls – they were tagged with a warning label from Better Business Bureau. I remember seeing all my possessions boxed up on the sidewalk and thought how unreal – everything that is me is in those boxes. Now I have the image of all my stuff vibrating with the select all key being deleted. gone.
deferred materiality in reverse.

The film, American Beauty, seems to be a video surveillance about a slow motion, car crash of middle age turmoil. Maybe - it’s about suburbia as a metaphor for quiet imprisonment. The more I think about it, it seems like it’s about evaporation. It’s about putting a face on pleasure, happiness, or fear; and ultimately having that face- blown away. What this present generation seems to be searching for - is the face of a new, pragmatic humanism.
What is our American Beauty? We are at the most dramatic crossroads of our existence. We have, in effect two different worlds we exist in. Like Madonna said, “I’m a material girl and I live in a material world.” That material world of representation and “stuff” is linked to a place of less material, - what I’d call - deferred materiality. The influence of the digital and virtual has effectively eroded our navigation of narrative, linear time. We live in the fragmentation of moments of hovering above certainty.

Boss-tone

2008-09-09T10:08:00.001-07:00

I’m in a new place. Not so much the phase, but in an entirely new life.
I was driving on a viaduct [basically an overpass/bridge], there’s a tight shoulder on the right and a two cars pulled over on this narrow shoulder. There are what seems to be a large percentage of psychotics walking around [maybe so many really bright people living w/in reoccurring dreams]. So this guy starts walking out into oncoming traffic. I have no choice but to slightly into the next lane. It’s a hot spring day so I’ve got the window, sunroof down. Not so unexpectedly there is honking – urgent honking. I look over and a large man in a burgundy van is gesturing and yelling at me. He speeds ahead. I take the opportunity to pull up next to him at the light. I look over, w/ all the Dee-troit panache I feel like mustering and give him the “what…” look. He’s yelling loudly and I only hear the volume not the words. I say, “what the fuck…did you want me to hit the guy? ” Now I can finally make out what the large man is saying. I’m stunned. He’s apologizing. “I wasn’t honking at you – I was honking at the guy walking into traffic…” This never would have happened in the Motor City.
Really…

dreams

2008-09-09T10:07:00.000-07:00

I have a recurring dream from childhood. Besides the emotional and psychological scars I have acquired, it’s something I can’t seem to shake – even though disconcerting it’s kinda comforting to know it won’t go away. I still have it now on rare occasions. As dreams go it’s like sex in a long, long term relationship. There is some one – monster, scary looming force that is chasing me. When I think I’ve alluded it – it traps me behind a furnace. I wake up when I can smell burning hair. It’s the hair smell that gives me away.
I have a friend who has a reoccurring dream too. It’s about the end of the world. Something apocalyptic…..She refuses to tell me about it.

just stories….

2008-09-09T10:05:00.000-07:00

My oldest son, Michio, is in his 20’s, finishing grad school and is the dynamic force in his band, "Johnny Bad Habit". One of his tunes is called something like, "My friends come over and puke on my couch". The other tune is called, "Mary Kate and Ashley". Anyway, he’s something of a raconteur, but has earnest appreciation for language and it’s variables. My favorite voice message is, "for the sake of continuity, please leave a message".
Michio has a friend who is something of a provocateur. I also know him as a former graduate student. He goes by Stevil. That’s Steve and evil, in case you just weren’t sure. LA was calling Stevil. It’s probably a good match for a lad from Milwaukee. Stevil had amassed a stake of 5K. He was concerned that kind of money and his persona may lead law enforcement officials to assume it was ill gotten drug revenues. To counter act this miss assumption he placed the money in coffee cans – I presume with a healthy dose of Folgers; and made his way west. I can just imagine Stevil paying for groceries at Safeway with coffee tainted greenbacks.

Ichiro is a glorious baseball player. I have 3 sons and every summer I try to go to a ballgame with each of them. I took my youngest son to see Ichiro. We saw the [sorry ass] Detroit Tigers and Seattle Mariners. We even took the Pepsi Challenge at the ballpark. Baseball is a game played on a beautiful green, transcendent field. When I saw Ichiro, he looked so tiny on the field, but he played with unmatched grace and power. He was in a word, exquisite.
This season “bobblehead” dolls are very hot. They are a better product these days – not as “cheesy” to borrow from the vernacular; as they once were.
Bobbleheads are essentially 2 formed pounds of ceramic likeness, standing about 7.5 inches high, hand painted with oversized heads, that bob, jiggle and nod nonsensically; as they maintain a fixed stare. They are in some ways, a means to re-animate, possess, maybe even mock the celebrity, that escapes us. John Updike said, "Celebrity is a mask that eats into the face." We look at their bobbing reaction to our touch as an ironic affirmation of something that will never be.

Remember reading Goodnight, Moon as a bedtime story to the kids or maybe it was to my niece. Do you remember it? Anyway, there is a goodnight game version that goes like this:
“Goodnight, moon.”
“Goodnight, Baywatch girl.”
“Goodnight, Visa bill. ”
“Goodnight, brownies I shouldn’t have eaten.”
“Goodnight, roommate from hell.”
“Goodnight, damaged boyfriend.”
“Goodnight, whatever…”

Really

2008-09-08T11:55:00.000-07:00

Really is an approximation of belief.
It must be measured from one point – as a declarative factual statement. On the other end, it can be inflected to register disbelief or uncertainty. You know really. You’ve known it all your life. Really comes from real – reality. It’s an adverb that modifies verbs that pronounce the status, condition or action. Really says it has a relationship to something about life or its perception. Those"perceptions" have dramatically changed because our proximity, speed and our tenuous relationship to the uncertain.

Example.
We could sample some defining modifiers – supposedly actually could be substituted for really; but it doesn’t carry the range of what really can do. Actually keeps its ties to factually. Really takes on that approximated space of reality and not - that we’re comfy with. We could double up – really, really…. Dramatic but redundant. You could go with the total vernacular devastation…really fucking unbelievable…. Exponential is always impressive.
The always New, has come to symbolize better, closer, more convenient, more selection, more options, better deals, new experiences. The New is not a promise for lastingness or permanence.
The continual process of new construction, under construction and renovation, has come to symbolize the fresh state of the New. We have embraced the state of always New. We like the feel of the New, the smell of the New - even the ritualized packaging of the New. We make a place for the New in our lives. We simply prefer, the New. Perhaps, the always New has replaced the old version eternity.
My youngest son Esei gave me another example of really.
His friend Barnes said, "I need to use the restroom."
Esei countered with, "When did you start saying 'restroom' instead of 'bathroom'? Barnes."
"I’ve always said 'restroom'."
Esei. "Oh, really….?"

….life the endless march, an endless army…
The world, the race, the soul – in space and time the universes,
all bound as is befitting each – all surely going somewhere.
- Walt Whittman: Going Somewhere: 1887

betwixt

2008-09-08T11:50:00.000-07:00

Fabula is actually a word. Located somewhere between fable and fabulous in your Webster’s. I interpret fabula to mean an extraordinary story. Fabulation is the act of inventing or retailing fantastic tales or unrestrained otherworldly visions. A fabulist is a prevaricator.

It’s not all shopping.
To me, this exhibition is more about cultural expression, media and language, than a critique on consumption. Creativity is alive and well in the agency of retail and communication. This exhibition is a way to investigate Printmaking’s a.ka. PrintNation’s practice, program and creative production – through mediating sources from contemporary culture, media, technology and communication systems. Like “prêt-à-porter” ready to wear, Fabula locates the merging currents of art, fashion advertising and design.

The girls…
Perhaps film analogies are overdone but I see the concept of Fabula; somewhere between Breakfast at Tiffany’s [1961] and Basic Instinct [1992]. Audrey Hepburn [Holly Golightly] and Sharon Stone [Catherine Trammell] give us two different types of “playgirls”. Holly finds the building of attraction and allure of elegant consumption to be the skin of her identity. Catherine Trammell is really a character constructed out of pornography. She is a lethal fetishized bisexual object of deadly desire. Both women are somewhat perverse constructions gender, of their times – authored by Truman Capote and Joe Eszterhas. Capote is also the notable author of In Cold Blood . Capote deals with prescriptions of substitution for symptoms of loss, anxiety and restlessness. Eszterhas makes Basic Instinct a neo-noir style of television mediation – sort of what TV wants to be.

Maybe in typical fashion, let’s compare the visualization of identity and possession from the stills in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” and “Basic Instinct”. In the opening title sequence of Breakfast’s credits, we see this condition of betwixt. The scene begins w/ Holly Golightly standing outside the elegant Tiffany’s display window, peering inward. The camera then moves inside, framing Holly in the display, looking outward, on to Fifth Avenue. That image, merging interiority and exteriority together - locate what is between wanting and having. In her black gloved hands Holly holds a cup coffee and a breakfast roll, seemingly denying her ability to grasp what she wants to possess.