Empire Kanal (excerpt)

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EMPIRE KANAL 1 NOVEMBER 2018 – 21 DECEMBER 2018

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Columbus Circle, New York

20181031-1101 JFK | GATWICK Sutphin Blvd-Archer Ave-Jamaica station is the collision site of suitcase-wielding global travelers and hyperlocal homeless folks who are begging for unused metro cards, spare change and delivering threats to anyone who touches them. The travelers, who are mostly white, try to ignore the vagrants, who are mostly black, although it’s clear that not only does everyone see and flinch for a moment in fear, but they take a final note on their way out of New York; the former treat this area like a purgatory through which to pass before reaching a promised land; the latter treat the area as an fishing hole to try to lure those sympathetic tourists one last time.

The notion that there is some set of international etiquette as best understood by the British is a lingering sentiment from the Age of the British empire. The sense that one is entitled firstly to free space in a (pseudo) public forum and second that one has the right to try to enforce it is a disposition that has a specific point in the matrices of self-value and self-righteousness. Another, different point, is feeling that one doesn’t want to impede, doesn’t belong, or prefers to accommodate. The element of assertion and attraction to confrontation is unique. Of course, the disposition to face opposition, look it in the face and step over it, is unique also.

The station architecture must be the identical twin of the Port Authority, separated at birth: similarly it houses the visual repository of every suburban mothers’ worst dreams, Time Square circa 1980. Jockeying through the crowd and defunct escalator, one gasps for air outside the station entrance, where one sees Europa Bar, a gentleman’s club which may or may not be open for business, but still has a 2.5-star rating on Google maps. Options.

I’ve been anticipating this trip for over a year and what I recall of the positive excitement has evaporated. Now I’m just tired and stressed, trying to recall how to get back to creativity. Is creativity the way to positivity or the other way around?

Norwegian air is considered an economy airline but I made amends with my overweight luggage costs by considering the costs simply part of my flight fee, which, although would not have been the cheapest, it would have still been cheaper than some airlines and with the luggage costs would have been part of other airlines’ fees also. The flight was on a 787 Boeing Dreamliner. Gorgeous plane; this was the first time I’ve ridden one. They didn’t overlook any opportunity to remind the passengers of the features of the plane, which include blue LED lighting to be more relaxing, improved air circulation to reduce jet lag, and nine toilets, asymmetrically distributed through the cabin. The nearest to me was adjacent to the mast of the central seating row, on the starboard side. The most expedient way to get to the bathroom was to pass in front of the central row, between a wall and three passengers’ feet. A British couple seated there had been complaining about another couple who sat in my row–who appeared to be a mid-50s gym-junky and his busty, exotic wife 15 years his junior. The gym-junkies kept accessing their luggage, which was stowed above the Brits. I had overheard the gym-junky apologizing at one point, and earlier I had suggested the husband go to the bathroom across the aisle when I saw him waiting to pass someone in my aisle who was waiting for the bathroom. About an hour into the flight I went to the bathroom, also passing in front of them. On my return, I found the woman slouching down, almost lying in her seat, with her toe against the wall, in what I would learn as an attempt to inhibit my passage. When I excused myself to pass, her husband said, “I’m sorry but you’re not supposed to pass through here,” and extended his foot also. Without pausing I simply stepped over both to of them and then asked of him, “Oh really?”

Being over international waters, and neither of them wearing a Norwegian airlines uniform, I wondered about their expectations in dictating my behavior, or expressing their disfavor in having people passing in front of them. I wonder if their tickets were more expensive and advertised greater leg room.

The mental image of this trip has shifted from being solo to Vanesa accompanying me to being single but her being in Spain to a few couple trips while in residence. Mental images–creating them, befriending them, carrying them, spending time with them takes energy; recreating one, or aborting one is exhausting. Most recently, I’ve been looking at this trip as a chance to escape the daily horror that is the United States since Trump has taken office. The last week was particularly intense. It began with my patron-saint, George Soros, receiving a bomb in the mail. On Wednesday, CNN, located two blocks from my office received a bomb. The whole week was tense. When the finally caught the guy and some repose was in order, a psychopath attacked and killed 11 people worshipping in a Pittsburgh synagogue, in the neighborhood of a coworker. So my escape to Graz is a much-needed pause from the calamity that is the United States.

In the last months, my preparations have shifted from familiarizing myself with basic A1.1 German to reading about colonial era waste management. Most of the literature is academic and dry, with the exception of Daniel DeFoe’s Journal of a Plague Year. What’s remarkable about DeFoe is that his book is both about the utopian idea of a city and the description of calamity. In addition to being a proponent of the narrative form, DeFoe’s work is distinct from the canon of European plague literature that is ripe with existential and religious skepticism.

Technically my preparation has included buying more filming equipment, as I’m imagining two forms of production: studio interviews and ambulatory footage. It seems a shame to travel across the world and not walk around a city. But certainly, I’ve overpacked, or perhaps I should have brought a bigger crew.

The last time I was in London Gatwick was following the inside advice of Bob Limbocker who told me it would be cheaper to get to Barcelona by first laying over in London and then taking a cheaper regional airline. That was my introduction to Ryanair and easyjet. I had not recalled any details from that leg of that journey but visiting it now, I recall the place.

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London Gatwick doesn’t seem to have a distinctly planned shape but rather extensions that mutated off of various passageways as a necessity arose. Labyrinthian would describe it if there were only one possible exit or entrance, instead all passages seem to egress.

The area for special needs–blind, aged, or immobile–is especially humane and impressive. Immediately upon seeing it I noticed how many people were in the airport who were coming from or going to the area, or who were relying on the signage and symbols that emanated from it. It was awe-inspiring and beautiful to see some types of persons that my city doesn’t accommodate traveling internationally.

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I will say only this of JFK airport: TSA is a terrorist disorganization. Pure chaos. Pure stress, served with an appetizer of boredom. Ocasio-Cortez talks about ICE needing to be abolished, but I vote for abolishing TSA first. Since 2002, this theater has been diligently seeking out the rudest, least friendly, least intelligent members of American society and given them a position of encumbrance. The systematic security passage and friendliness of London Gatwick makes JFK look like FEMA in an emergency situation. In the 17 years since 9/11, the English have created rolling, hand-powered conveyor belts that carry empty trays below a doubled-wide table that allows six people to undress or unpack their bags while a person waits behind them. Whichever person finishes first, can pass his tray behind the tray of the anterior person via a second rolling table, through the x-ray screening. I would estimate that are 20 of such stations, which are fed by a complex web of stanchion paths, which are administered by a team of five individuals, one who sends travelers down a pathway of 1 of 5 pathways, which terminate at a junction of four possible paths which are administered by another individual.

Vueling didn’t charge me extra for my overweight luggage. Nor did they weigh my carry-on bag. The flight itself was about 10% occupied, although my row was fully occupied by two medium-sized, rotund Austrians. Of the 11 rows in front of me, four people were seated. But the two men who sat next to me were very courteous and well mannered, as one expects from Austrians.

Arriving to Vienna I picked up my luggage and noticed the City Express train selling tickets throughout the airport. Many airports offer this sort of privately operated transportation services targeted at tourists. They remind me of the children who beg for money from tourists in many city centers of poorer countries. Local travelers and those familiar with the city prefer to take the local transport; in Vienna that’s OBB. I bought my ticket to Graz at the same time, for 39 euros.

We passed a cemetery with high, rock walls. I wondered if they are walling people in or out. A group of military men were getting into their cars, parked outside the cemetery gates.

There is a lot of graffiti along the train line corridors.

I got off at Rennweg and rolled my suitcase to my airbnb on Landstraßer Hauptstraße.

My host sent me the combination for the key outside the door and I entered into the darkening passageway, not thinking to look for a light switch. The instructions were for apartment 10 on the first floor, but I forgot that the ground floor is zero in Europe, until a neighbor pointed me up to the first floor. The apartment is palatial but sparse. Every door hinge cried for oil. The toilet, a typical German style, ventilated to the hallway entrance to the apartment. I presume if one forgets his keys he could wiggle through this window. There are three bedrooms in the apartment, each with a number over the door. There are three hundred reviews for this place, and I presume that all three rooms appear like mine: two single beds with red sheets, and lumpy pillow, a gray comforter, folded to fit, a green recliner with matching footrest, table and two chairs. Curtains.

I dropped my things, showered and walked out to see the neighborhood. I learned that there was an U Bahn station only three blocks from the apartment, while my OBB station was almost 15 minutes walking. I found a T Mobile store, which was closed prior to termination of business hours, at which point I learned today was a holiday, All Saints Day. The streets were quiet. No business was playing music. Only restaurants and bars were open. People whispered on the sidewalk. No honking. It was tranquil. A horse and carriage passed down the street; above it were Christmas lights hanging, waiting to turned on. My hunger hadn’t caught up to the new schedule, so I decided to go to bed at 8 pm.

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Subway, New York

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Garbage bins of Vienna

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20181102 WEIN | SCHAUMBAD I woke at 6 am and texted Vanesa, who was still awake partying with the Telenovela that was sleeping on our couch. With only the morning in Vienna, I made haste into the crisp air, before the businesses opened, before the workers started their commute, before crowds formed.

My first stop was Stephensplatz. I wanted to film the Graben public bathrooms, which claim to be the oldest functioning public toilets in the world. Outside of the Herren bathroom were men working PVC piping into the ground. They were part of the many municipal workers out today; everyone awake at 7 am drove trucks or vans. The garbage men work in teams of four. One driver, one man hanging the garbage bings onto hooks at the rear of the truck and flipping the bins empty into the truck, one man bringing bins from the sidewalk to the truck, and one man bringing bins from businesses to the curb. The whole endeavor is fast and almost without litter. The garbage trucks are much smaller than in New York, having to fit into more narrow passageways and make tighter turns.

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The toilets’ operating hours are 8 am to 8 pm. One descends into a marble-lined Art Nouveau room with antique urinals encased in glass display, opposing modern, lowflow urinals. One passes through a door to enter the room for toilets where the sliding doors are locked open until one pays the attendant, who removes the lock. The stall has a fogged glass doors that slide on wooden frames. A sink fits in one corner, and the toilet in another, with a wooden seat and wood back–where I presume the pipes or water tank is hidden inside; it stands about five feet tall. At the top is a brass knob that one pulls up to activate the flush. All of this is within a four foot-square area.

whom I saw trying to figure out the automated machine, paid, as I had. On the trains I have not seen anyone enforcing the tickets.

Entering from the U Bahn into the Hauptbahnhof is strangely similar to the Jamaica station and JFK airport in New York. At first, there’s a sense that the architecture is functional but outdated. A long corridor opens into atriums with narrow stairways leaning against the wall, extending up to train terminals. A series of monitors states the departing and arriving train destinations, time and platform above a series of printed daily schedules of routes. The brick interior could be an old exterior, and feels like a child of the 1970s.

And, like the vagrancy of Jamaica station, a young man asked me for a Euro at Hauptbahnhof! But very soon, the old caste of transit centers as a machine for movement dissolves aways and the contemporary transit center as a place to shop, eat, drink and hang out unfolds.

I bought a pair of Nike shoes for the gym at a sports equipment store in Hauptbahnhof for 49 euros. Black. The public bathrooms are turnstile operated with a small fee, which seemed out of place, given the socialist tendency and advocation of the public sphere.

Though this is in keeping with the old toilets at Graber. Going up to the platform is impressive. The diamond-shaped apertures in the roof accentuate the waving undulations overhead. The platforms are only one story off the ground, but the designer, Swiss architect, Theo Hotz, made the space feel incredibly expansive and elevated.

In good Austrian manner, the train arrived and left precisely on time.

I ate breakfast at Anker, a chain of bakeries founded in 1891. I watched the steady flow of people come in and order and their manner of placing an order. Afterward I headed to T-mobile to get a European sim card with faster data. I stumbled over my bad German at the store, and the employee switched to fluent English and quickly sold me a an 8GB plan for 20€ and handed me the SIM card, but didn’t give me a paperclip to pop out my old sim, so I spent the next few hours passively glancing everywhere I was going to spy something small. I finally ended up nicking a sliver of a chopstick off, which I saved in my phone case for any future sim swap.

The train ride from Wien to Graz is gorgeous. After a few stops in Vienna, the train begins passing small villages with farming plots in rotation. Dairy cows grazing the hills. In almost every village we pass I saw someone jogging. The land becomes more mountainous and the patchwork of alpine trees becomes visible. By Payerbauch-Reichenou the full gamut of autumn colors had painted the hills. The train hugs one mountainside until finally shoring up the courage to cross a bridge over a canyon, the view opens up through a valley until the train can hug another hillside. Yellows. Burnt Sienna. The green fir trees. Lime undergrowth.

I seemed to have lost my sense of direction in Vienna. I blame this in part due to the winding streets, the German names, which I tend to forget easily, the frequency of paths to change names, and the existence of smaller, sort of entrances (hof?) that look like driveways but area actually streets. In the course of trying to find my bearing, I noticed the strange reoccurrence of the word ‘Vienna’ inscribed in some buildings. Not signs, but inscriptions, or bas reliefs. Why would the English name for this city be here? In other places, sure enough, ‘Wien’ can be found. There didn’t seem to be an order of age or style or function of building that carried the English name of this city.

The silence of the Austrians is a national treasure. The trains are so well engineered and maintained that it’s hard to tell that they’re moving. Even in the winding hills, the rails barely growl. I thought of the trains in the US–Amtrak, MetroNorth, and of course the MTA subways. At one point, we passed over a bridge and a light whir sound began. I waited until we were no longer on the bridge and when the whir didn’t stop, I realized it was actually the sound of forced air inside the train car.

I’m not convinced that people are paying for the Vienna U Bahn. I saw couples pass through the open gates at the entrance to the station, holding hands, and raised them in glee over the ticket validation station, without breaking hold. Only tourists from Spain,

No one is on the phone. I realized I was in the Quiet car when someone started to softly snore.

Breitenfeld metal recycling.

Mürzverbrand water treatment.

The train finally arrived to Graz and I stepped off, looked in both directions for which of the two exits made the most sense to try locate Franz, the receptionist from Schaumbad who was tasked to pick me up. On the third glance right I saw him emerge from the crowd and casually walked toward me as if I had seen him before and we exited together. Franz’s English was minimal, perhaps as little as my German. We drove in silence, with the exception of his pointing out the Schloßberg.

Iris met us at 2 Bürgergasse, Priesterseminar in front of the Dom. Franz helped unload my things and Iris showed me to my room, #339. The marble floors in the hallway recall the ancient past of this building, which has been well preserved, encased in modern windows and glass partitions that control movement, temperature and health. It was built in the 16th Century for priests. One can best see the eons past while descending the stairs, noting the worn porous stones, sloping in the center, which darkly contrast light gray marble in the hallway. On the ground floor an entire different stonework is present. Rough, aged, waxed.

Opposite my room was the town cathedral. I looked directly into a vertical stained-glass window protected by an aftermarket metal mesh. A pattern of three columns of circles, about the size of the bottom of beer bottles, run vertically down three columns of glass, which tapers at the top into three triangles divided by three leaf-shapes created by the sandstone framing. The translucent trinity.

My room was a one-bedroom with private bathroom. One enters through a solid wood door with an overlapping lip that seals the door frame. The entrance has wood panels and a low ceiling, so it feels like entering a ship. Two closets in the entrance and two bookcases inside the room, a single mattress, nightstand with lamp, two wooden Ikea chairs and matching coffee table, and a third white Ikea chair. All appeared new or close to new. A large writing desk sat in the corner near the double-pane windows, drapes and electric heater. The room colors were yellow birch wood, pale blue and white. I had a little anxiety about this living space; New Yorkers always do. We’re so accustomed to being shafted and jammed into sardine cans that our trauma becomes part of our quirky outlook on life; that dignity may be independent of how one feels at home, or that adapting to an extreme isn’t really adapting at all, but compromising with your own financial limitations. This room could be a luxury apartment in Manhattan. The bathroom has an English style toilet, with water in the rear, no platform. The shower has magnetic strips that seal the doors shut, perfectly flush.

Iris showed me the building’s administrative office on our way out, instructing me to introduce myself on Monday when it opened. We headed down Bürgergasse to Jakominiplatz to take the 5 tram to the studio on Puchstraße. On the way, Iris pointed out the construction site of the city’s combined sewage overflow system, which was what had attracted me to Graz in the first place. In comparison to New York’s perpetually failing system, the Austrian claim that all overflow of untreated sewage during heavy

precipitation can be diverted, stored and treated, was impressive. As part of the Illinois River Project, the conjecture of doing a project about a sewage system had seemed fitting, but I had imagined little more than a thematic outline. The need to renovate CSOs, including New York’s, comes from the increased levels of concentrated precipitation due to climate change. Transitions between seasons are shorter but the amount of precipitation is the same or greater, but during that shortened period. The result is flooding, and rainwater flooding sewer systems, causing untreated brown water to escape into the waterways, causing infection and disease or algae blooms.[1] How does one visualize a city-wide system? Sewage has been represented as messy mass, tubes, shown either in cross section or from within looking out, or bulky jointed pipes. But how can this be better understood? Intestines? Through the video of a colonoscopy?

We arrived to Schaumbad and Iris introduced me to Eva Ursprung, a founder of Schaumbad. She was exhibiting her work in the gallery space. Her collaboration with Doris Jauk-Hinz traced the water in the Mür and the Drava river. The project looks at the water quality, sensitive sites of the two rivers, and the appearance around the rivers.

The Schaumbad is an artist studio, cooperative, exhibition space and video production organization. It’s about ten years old. The space reminds me of my graduate school studios, only with more developed people and interiors, and more wealth of resources–a cyc wall, green screen studio, audio recording studio, wood shop, risograph, gallery, two kitchens, and a friendly cat named Baba. The program includes artists in residence, Sunday artist discussions, exhibitions and performances.

Returning to my room, I plugged in my power adapter and a surge protector, plugged in my computer and phone for charging, then saw the charge indicator wasn’t working; I flicked the switch on the surge protector and killed the power; wifi, lamps, everything but overhead lights, out. It was Saturday night, and the maintenance guy wouldn’t be back until Monday.

1. [Climate change impact on infection risks during bathing downstream of sewage emissions from CSOs or WWTPs, Ankie Sterk, Heleen de Man, Jack. F Schijven, Ton de Nijs, Ana Maria de Roda Husman, Water Research, August 2016]

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Couryard of Priesterseminar, Graz

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Priesterseminar, Graz

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Statue in Platz der Menschenrechte, Graz

20181103 GRAZ | PRIESTERSEMINAR No functional electrical outlets meant no wifi in my room and the need to hunt down a power source to recharge my techno-trash: laptop, phone, computer. I camped out in the floor Clubraum from 9 am until noon.

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From the size of Priesterseminar, the impressive repetition of windows and doors, the density of rooms per floor, I expected that several dozen people were inhabiting each floor and shared the kitchen. The first person I met was Daniel, an electrical engineering student. I introduced myself to him. We chatted a few moments; he went about making his breakfast and left. A little while later Emilia entered; a physics student, first year. I introduced myself and she ate and chatted with me and then left. In the afternoon a Zihua entered with the gaze of a person either lost or exploring his surroundings, I introduced myself. He was also an artist in residence, based in Canada. He left to further explore. An hour later Abraham entered; I introduced myself. He was eager for conversation and we chatted at length before he went about preparing his food, at which point I wondered how much of this introductory exchange was motivated by myself and whether the students would take the initiative to introduce themselves if I did not make a motion. So for the next three hours I worked at the table and simply said ‘Hallo’ when people entered, if they said ‘hallo’ to me, but none, not one, made took the initiative to introduce him or herself. I was curious of how the inhabitants of this shared space behaved by default.

Not only did the students not converse much with me, but the commingling between those who were in the kitchen at the same time was very limited. It’s hard to determine how much of this seemingly reserved disposition is due to the individuals who live here, the nature of Priesterseminar–it being architecturally and scholastically emphasized solitude–being culturally stereotypical, or a function of kids nowadays preferring to eat their food in front of youtube rather than hangout in a shared kitchen together. But in the end, very few–less than a dozen–students came into the clubraum, which confused me. Where was everyone else?

Abraham offered to give a tour of Priesterseminar. He showed me the laundry room, translated the operating instructions, and etiquette which directed the separation of the students who lived in one part of the building and the seminary students who lived in the other, and what parts of the drying room were reserved for which students, a large area was reserved exclusively for seminary students’ bedsheets. He showed me the fitnessstudio, which was a disappointment for me, since I had arrived to Graz with the knowledge that Arnold Schwarzenegger had grown up in the area. Most of equipment appeared to be from the 1990s, or even 1980s, and much of it was in pretty bad shaped. The room disorganized, with several machines inaccessible and/or obstructing the use of other equipment. I had no idea how to operate several of the machines nor what benefit was to be extracted from using them. The bright side was that it was free of charge and seldom used.

The bike storage was profoundly well organized. Each bike has a given parking spot, marked with a number, and vertically maintained with a wheel brace. Notably, the bikes were quite dated and also appeared in bad shape, but I’ve since learned most are functionally sufficient.

The last stop of the tour was the Gemeinschaftraum, or socializing/party-room. As Abraham explained it, it’s where people can come or reserve a time to let loose. At first glance it looked like the basement den of a fraternity house: aged leather couches slumping from use; multiple coffee tables aligned for the purpose of stowing beer between swigs but almost impossible to circumambulate; a foosball table; dart board; a bar separated a drink-staging/kitchenette area, though not intended to seat guests; a refrigerator stocked with beer; a piggy bank to receive the suggested donation of €1/beer; and a room with a television, another couch, shopping cart believed to be used for beer runs, and a tree stump that looked as if some hand-sawing competition had been performed on it.

I’m a horrible foosball player, but my suggestion to play was to terminate the idling conversation with Abraham, and we began a longer debate about free will, politics, and the culture of Austrians. Abraham works as a math researcher; he’s from Mexico and speaks perfect English with a German accent. He has an interesting perspective not only because being from Mexico at a time when Trump and US relations are particularly bad, but also because he shares a distrust for the media and American society.

Specifically, he mentioned that he had the opportunity to study in the US but made the decision to come to Europe because he didn’t want to be part of “that kind of society.” Specifically he disliked the absence of a social safety net, the excessive environmental degradation and vapid consumerism.

Abraham’s selection of topics personally resonated with me because they were so closely echoing things I had heard and thought about when I lived in Spain 15 years ago. Under the Bush administration, European criticism of the US was at an all time high, particularly a critique of unilateral war in Iraq. But the conversation with Abraham was different than the discussions I had with Catalans over a decade ago, in part because I now felt compelled to dispel some of the myths that people have about the United States. For example, his claim that there is no social safety net in the U.S. is simply not true: I was happy to concede that many European countries may have more, and that the benefits in the U.S. vary by state, but there are programs, which included subsidized housing and free healthcare for low income and elderly people.

Not only did Abraham have misinformation about American unemployment benefits, but he had misinformation about European or Austrian unemployment benefits. He believed the benefits for the unemployed were perpetual, limitless. In fact, in NYS, a person is entitled to 26 weeks of unemployment benefits; in Austria 20 weeks.[1][2] I assume there are more nuances and limitations between each system, and I’m not certain that NYS offers better benefits overall (I’d be surprised if that’s the case), but the fact there is such a prevalent misconception is curious. It may be that benefits are less stigmatized, or more easily accessible in many European countries than in many American states. But what’s most interesting to me is that the European perception is still focused toward America, and not preoccupied with China, Russia, Brazil, Australia or even Canada.

Abraham stated that between Hillary and Trump he would have chosen Trump because he thought that Trump would cause the system to collapse more quickly. I wondered if he meant this as pure provocation, or if he simply does not understand the level of irresponsibility in his preference. I responded to his comment with a long-winded, historical romp from the fall of the Hapsburg empire, American imperialism, the White Man’s burden, the shift in post-colonial studies to the One Belt initiative in China. I probably should have asked whether he was comfortable with people dying in order to collapse the system that he despises.

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[1] “Amount and Duration of Benefits,” NOLO https://www.nolo.com/legal-encyclopedia/collecting-unemployment-benefits-new-york-32507-2.html [2] “Unemployment Benefits in Austria,” A-Kasser https://www.a-kasser.dk/unemployment-insurance-in-europe/austria/ Oldest staircase in Priesterseminar, Graz

20181104 INNERE STADT | SCHAUMBAD I committed a cardinal Austrian sin: I was late. Really late. An hour late. And for no good reason. I’m sure there’s a word in German for this situation (arschlochspäter?)

The feeling of Sunday (because it was Sunday) took over my whole being today. I leisurely went downstairs and photographed the Priesterseminar building. I reviewed the images; I edited them; I wrote. I leisurely did some exercise in the gym. I felt my body; I got my mind inside the muscle, the movement. I leisurely prepared to film the footpath along the Mur. I set up the gimbal, I set up Magic Lantern. I leisurely ate lunch, departed and, transversing Hauptplatz, I suddenly remembered that there was something, only one thing, on my calendar for the next weeks: I had a meeting at Schaumbad at 2pm.

I looked at my clock and it was already 2:38pm. Fuck. I needed a tram ASAP, but first I needed a ticket, but before that I needed exact change first. I dug in my pocket: Luck.

Tram ticket, tram, I confirmed the route several times, considered an alibi or excuse, but tossed them all out. Thinking of all my friends, mostly artists, who, while traveling, had arrived an hour or more late. Considering the perspective of the artists at Schaumbad who were waiting, my heart slumped. Would they be as impatient as I have been with my tardy colleagues? Coming to terms with the reality that there was nothing I could do to not be late today, I had only to seek their forgiveness; I would be at their mercy.

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But the artists were all very courteous and didn’t even seem to care about my late arrival, although after my apologies, the formal introduction promptly began, so it was clear that they were waiting for me. I told the group about my project on the Speicherkanal and how it related to my larger interest in urban ecology and solid waste management; I shared the anecdote about the journey of the Mobro 4000 to dump its waste in different states and several countries, before finally returning to Long Island; I noted how New York City declares a state of emergency each time it rains due to the flooding on the impermeable concrete, and combined rainwater in the sewer system. Water management and movement have a symbiotic relationship in the city, since the surface creates a firm path for walking in a wet environment, but the water has to go somewhere and how and where it moves has often been a collision with our biological dependence on water that is hygienic.

When my introduction was over, each present artist introduced him/herself and what he had been working on. Everyone’s interests were clear and appealing. I was surprised by the number of artists at Schaumbad who were working with trash, recycled materials, or environmental topics. But the exchange was rather short because the organization was in the middle of their annual programming meeting, and many people needed to leave soon. I made my exit and watched a documentary about the Mur that was on exhibit downstairs. The film structure followed the Mur from its glacial runoff to its confluence with the Drava.

View from Priesterseminar room

20181105 AFRO-ASIATISCHE | MUR Monday meant the building administration could fix my room’s electricity.

Zihua and I went to the Afro-Asiatische Institut to collect our 850€ monthly stipend, transportation pass and cultural passes. The residency demonstrates the exceptional intra-institutional cooperation. A jury from das Land Steiermark chooses the artists and then institutions within Graz–Schaumbad, or a film, music or literary organization–bid for the selected artists. The selected artists are then given a plethora of resources and support from multiple organizations. The housing is offered within Priesterseminar owned by the Katholische Kirche, includes a museum on the ground floor, and residences for priests and seminary students but also engineering students; the financial stipend comes from the Afro-Asiatische (because both Zihua and I are both Asian?), which is an organization that started in the 1960s following the Austria’s decolonization period of Africa; and the cultural passes and transport were given to us by the Katholische Hochschulegemeinde Graz located across the lobby from the Afro-Asiatische. Upon receipt of our last paperwork, we were instructed to register our presence with the city government, which was obligatory for anyone living in Graz for more than a tourist duration.

The process of registration included writing one’s name, educational title, religion, home address, nationality, residential address and whether we were immigrating or not, on a form and submit it to the authorities. Who lives where and what is their status–socially and geographically–is expected, though little corroboration is required: No return plane ticket, no license with address, no bank statement–only a signature from our host and a passport.

Reading the form, I wondered how many steps into extreme politics–right or left–would be necessary to activate this seemingly objective information to become an instruments of horrific ends. Maybe that’s my American distrust for government, though I realized how a similar process exists in the U.S.: transferring one’s residency is legally obligated within 30 days of moving to a state, but there is an element of class and conformity explicit in this Austrian process, a conformity that is both impressive and frightening. The utility to the notion of state, inside and outside is clear. This is for non-citizens; in terms of migration, I am a tourist, not a permanent resident or citizen.

This paperwork was submitted to the Servicestelle der Stadt Graz, which itself was a journey into the administration of administration. The address of the office on the paper is actually police headquarters, wherein an officer directs people around the corner to a door–one of many municipal offices–where one takes a number in a waiting room. Was the direction toward the police intentional? If so, for what? The correct office is situated behind a waiting room that is walled with brochures of city initiatives, more brochures than I have ever seen in my life.

Programs for recycling, electronic waste, registering your pets, senior programs, health, parking, cycling, et al. Implicit in the presence of these brochures are the jobs of graphic designers, who produce the informatics; printers; proof-readers; legislators and many others. This is an important way that the government communicates with its citizens. The

information infrastructure and the expectations that people will take these brochures and read them, even keep them for reference, ultimately dispose of them; the infrastructure of recycling waste of material.

When my number came up, I met with a functionary who translated the data on the form to a computer. Almost no conversation took place, simply a “Hallo” and then he started pecking away at the keyboard. Zihua was served by the functionary beside me. He was given a welcome swag bag, I was not.

Outside of the bureau, we ran into Keyvin, an artist from Schaumbad, who runs an exhibition space on Schmiedgasse. This gave me the feeling of living in a small town where everyone knew everyone. He invited us to an upcoming exhibition opening.

In the evening I had to remind myself that one of the advantages of being in Graz is the level of public safety. Even areas that Iris felt obligated to mention were considered “bad areas” at night–the Stadtpark–I had already walked through alone and it felt very safe, quiet but with pedestrian traffic. I went down to the Mur to photograph the river at night.

The Mur is an existential resource for the city of Graz. It forms the two sides of the city–the “good” and the “bad”–and a source of water for drinking, mills, and hydropower. Vito Acconci’s Murinsel is the dominant visual element on the river, with changing LEDs like a UFO fishing; an outsider to whom the citizens have become accustomed.

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Johann Kniep, “Ideale Landscaft mit untergehender Sonne,” 1806

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20181106 MUR | KUNSTHAUS GRAZ The light in Graz is diffuse, slightly foggy, the humidity coming up from the Mur, or densifying as the air moves up and against the mountains, is perfect for filming. It’s not too bright or contrasted; it’s not too dim. When the sun is blocked by clouds, a timeless, directionless state exists.

In the morning I went down to the bank of the Mur and followed a footpath to create a long shot. I had put my 5D3 on a gimbal to smooth out my ambulation. Travel videography is confronted with two problems. First, when traveling one isn’t familiar with the landscape and not certain of the exact location one wants to capture. In a sense, it’s this uncertainty that creates the need to travel in the first place, but logistically speaking, it makes it difficult to know what gear one should travel with, and within the trip, when one needs what gear and where. It’s not always practical to carry a tripod with the open ended possibility of shooting a panning shot. And it’s even less practical to carry all the gear everywhere, always.

Alternatively, it’s not always possible to return to places one sees while traveling. But one wants to bring a camera along to capture the experience of discovery. The downside is that a camera without support creates video footage that is too unstable to use in most cases. A gimbal is supposed to complement a camera, and be less obtrusive for travel.

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The footage that gimbal produces is something like a floating an eye. It’s smooth enough to not reference a first person perspective, but has enough movement to not feel like a tableau, or omniscient god perspective. The gimbal allows for the disembodied eye.

In the afternoon Zihua and I stopped by the Künstlerhaus Graz, to see the exhibition “Artificial Paradise?” about virtual reality. The exhibition began or ended downstairs, with a landscape painting of Johann Kniep, “Ideale Landscaft mit unt4ergehender Sonne,” 1806. The painting depicts a Roman soldiers watching the setting sun while a young man talks with an older man and young woman reclines on a hill. The landscape has typical elements of the Romantic period: dramatic colors, vegetation, classical architecture in ruins, waterfalls, hills and atmospheric desaturation to suggest depth.

The catalogue essay on the work explains how Arcadian scenes functioned as a mode of escapism for the Renaissance aristocracy, and parallels it to contemporary modes of immersion. a period when artists of Western Europe were imagining the ruins of Greece and Rome as portals into a period where landscape existed in a harmonious relationship to ruinous cityscape.

I spent time in all of the works, but those with headsets had the advantage of recalling video games, while the works that were simply video recall cinema. The nuances between these two types of entertain become more evident when both media attempt to create an aesthetic experience.

In video games, there is always an initial comparative assessment: how “good” (real, better) does this look compared to other technologies. The march toward re-creating a realistic world within the context of a closed game scenario has been the success of the

video game industry, while it seems that making life into a game would be the shorter, more elegant technology to adapt to the already-realistic world in which we live. But that territory is occupied by sports, athletes, and the physical.

Cinema is mistakenly thought of as moving images that convey information. But the appeal of cinema is widely the conveyance of emotions. Cinema has images, but we don’t want them exclusively. Very few people want to just watch the moving images of a place.

That would be like watching a security camera. Even after solving the variable of where to place the camera–in a paradise beach, gorgeous landscape, or girls locker room–we quickly bore of a representation of a place. It’s the job of narrative through which we frequently see personalities and desires, power dynamics and situations, and this is usually told through humans who play the characters. We vicariously put ourselves in situations; we see in stories, and we garner a liking or disliking to personalities, just as we do in real life; and we dislike movies that have characters that we feel neither liking nor disliking for, often more than performed personalities that we hate. In virtual reality, there may not be a character, just a disembodied camera that is located where your own embodied eyes are. The landscape is supposed to be a place you inhabit. In the case of both forms at Künstlerhaus, these works are “interesting” but not engaging; they feel systematic and once the pattern becomes clear, we are left only to appreciate the accuracy of the representation of the objects in this virtual realm, which fall short.

The element of immersion was the supposed innovative and decisive characteristic of the artworks, and the technology used, which encompassed a greater visual field, often by putting on a headpiece that obstructs seeing anything except the video content.

Paul Chan’s video in this exhibition notably references video games through pixelated characters who are fucking and killing in loops. The curatorial statement refers to Chan’s borrowing from Charles Fourier and Henry Darger, but Salò comes to mind, though without the reverberation to anything cautionary, again lacking narrative or evoking any connection to character. The power of Salò is not the graphic content, but the power structure exposed through the narrative, which makes the graphic content not only visceral but suggests its possibility.

The absence of narrative has been a defining element of video art. The rejection of the toolset that facilitates the emotional experience that is central to cinema. It’s why people describe video art as something that people don’t really “like” or want to watch, but appreciate it on the grounds that it is an art form. The lack of an obligation to the audience to connect to the content on an emotional level has afforded artists to create a wider variety of video content, but also relegated the content to a small audience compared to cinema, and made video artists impoverished compared to their cinematic counterparts.

The audience’s eye, if looking through a camera lens, is even more disembodied if no body is in the audience.

Steve R. McQueen is a rare example of visual artist that made video art and now works in the world of narrative cinema. His adaptation of 12 Years a Slave can be used as a

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