PLATEAU / ISSUE 1 / BLUEPRINT by plateau print

PLATEAU

ø1

THE BLUEPRINT ISSUE

CYANOTYPE

Régis J. Monrozier

This publication was made possible thanks to The American University of Paris, Eugene Lang College and The Andrew W. Mellon Foundation.

PLATEAU

THE BLUEPRINT ISSUE

nĂ¸1

info/contact www.plateauprint.com contact@plateauprint.com

M ASTH EAD CHIEF EDITOR Oona Doyle ART DIRECTION Lou Benesch LAYOUT Lou Benesch

Esteban Gonzalez

EDITORS Emmeline Butler

Kelsea Murphy Ryan Reid

TRANSLATION EDITOR Madeleine LaRue CONTRIBUTING EDITORS Max Gardner

Dalea Redd Reichgott Lindsay Hebert

NEW YORK ASSOCIATES Elizabeth Arthur

Erin Strasen

A SPECIAL THANKS TO The Andrew Mellon Foundation, A.S.M, Val Vinokur,

Neil Gordon, L.S.U, Jojo Marina, Simonetta Moro, Robert M. Olechna, Claudia Roda, Amaury Roseline V.B., Celeste Schenck and Julie Thomas.

BLUE

MAP

CYANOTYPE Régis J. Monrozier 1

PL AN B: APOCALYPSE Alice Mikal Craven 30—33

EDITOR’S MAP Oona Doyle 6—8

HOMAGE TO FALCON HTV-2 Olga og McMoon 34—37

70’s MAGAZINE CLIPPING Agustina Peluffo 9

MIXOPERA LES MONSTRES Léa Lanoë 38—42

ISL ANDS Zoé Nehlig 11—13

FOLK Ben Clague 44—45

LES VOIX MORTES Martin Belou 14—17

TWO BLOCKS JOINED BY A CORRIDOR Morten Høi Jensen Laurence Wasser 46—47

THE ANATOMY OF CYANOCHOLY Lilyana Yankova 18-20

DIAGRAM BLUE AND LOYAL Alyssa Reeder 21—23 BUTT Pierre de Belgique 24—25

AUREL ET SES POTES Antoine Capet Lou Benesch Esteban Gonzalez Shekenz 48—52

THE WEIGHT Muggs Fogarty 26—27

UNTITLED Nicolas Choyé 53

AN ALTERNATE REALITY Scott Hartman 28—29

HOW TO DRESS LIKE A RACIST Todd Arthur Fletcher Georges Chaulet Jean Gabriel Franchini 54—55

GOTHIC

ARCHITECTURE

WE CELEBRATE Elizabeth Bryant 56—61

LIGHT STRUCTURE William James Thuman 76—79

HUIS CLOS Romain Cadilhon 62—65

ENDLESS EDGE Nathanaël Dorent 80—83

VEILED X TIRRA LIRRA Isobel Parker Philip Amaury Roseline V.B. 66—69

MONUMENTS INEDITS DE L’ANTIQUITE Paul Chapellier 84—91

TYPES OF BLUEPRINT

SAFE HAVENS TO TORTURE CHAMBERS Mona Reiserer 92—94

I TAILOR FEELINGS Olivia Baes 70 JEALOUSE PRESENCE Ivan Galuzin 71—73

KLEIN Hadrien Lopez 96

PERFECTION Roeland Verhallen 74—75

TITLE FONT Futura Rener by Bastien Sozeau

COVER ART Lou Benesch &Bastien Sozeau

EDI TO R ’ S M A P

Oona Doyl e

Introducing the blueprint issue. Issue 0 was Blur, and from the mist now blue emerges. Issue 0 came from before the dawn, a state of formlessness, where all things were without contour. Issue 1 welcomes the first glimmer of form, tracing Plateau along a line of blue.

A blueprint is an architectural plan for the construction of a site. Made traditionally by the use of cyanotype, a contact printing process in photography by which white lines are produced on a blue background, ‘blueprint’ is a term that has come to unfold a fan of meanings. A blueprint is a template, diagram, draft, prognostic, map, a promise, an imaginary structure that gestures towards the future. A blueprint is the skeleton that lies beneath; a blueprint is what is to come.

Issue 1 dissects the word ‘blueprint’, delving into the aqueous texture of blue, floating into lands that have not yet come true. Issue 1 maps. It invites you into the tangled storm of an artwork in pulsion—and, slips between the lines of a reader’s index fingerprint left inadvertently on the page. The blueprint edition does not yet exist, it is still due. While issue 0 was a measure of null, issue 1 itself is still virtual, it is a template, a wish granted when read. The journal includes points of reference that lead the reader to a virtual space where the works in the print issue converse with a web interface. From the blueprint to the map: an editorial should act as a map that guides the reader through the journal. Yet, historian Josiah Royce explains the impossible task that mapping is. For the execution of an exhaustive map, a map of that map is necessary, and thus a map of the map of the map.

‘Let us imagine that a portion of the soil of England has been levelled off perfectly and that on it a cartographer traces a map of England. The job is perfect; there is no detail of the soil of England, no matter how minute, that is not registered on the map; everything has there its correspondence. This map, in such a case, should contain a map of the map, which should contain a map of the map of the map, and so on to infinity.’ Josiah Royce, 1899 “The World and the Individual”

EDITOR’S MAP

7 0 ’s MAGAZ I NE C LI PPI NG Agusti na Pe l uffo

A Dance Colour asked Transparency for a dance the other night. But Transparency declined: “you are often crude and would leak out on my crystal feet.” Colour stretched his neck and gazed over. He cried. Drops of Blue bled out: “Then I shall dance with Haze.”

IS L A N D S p e n c i l on pa pe r

Z oé N e hl i g

ISL AN DS

IS L A N D S

LES VO I X M O RTES

Ma rti n Be l ou

LES VOIX MORTES

Mon hypothèse […] était que des photos prises apparemment par hasard, des cartes postales choisies selon l’ humeur du moment, à partir d’une certaine quantité commencent à dessiner un itinéraire, à cartographier le pays imaginaire qui s’ étend au dedans de nous. En le parcourant systématiquement, j’ étais sûr de découvrir que l’apparent désordre de mon imagerie cachait un plan, comme dans les histoires de pirate. Chris Marker, 1998 “Immemory”

LES VO I X M O RTES

THE A NATO M Y O F C YA N OCH O LY

L i l ya na Ya nkova

TH E ANATOMY OF CYANOCHOLY In memoriam Dr. Filiz Eda Burhan I n t he e a r ly 195 0 s , while still in college, Robert Rauschenberg produced cameraless photograms of his fel20 low student Susan Weil on photosensitive blueprint paper. Besides their aesthetic appeal, these early works have one particularly striking feature:the fact that they are human size. It seems appropriate to call these pictures blueprints not only in the literal sense of the word, but also due to their resemblance to maps, outlining the space, occupied by the model’s body. Unlike maps, however, in Rauschenberg’s photograms there is no distortion, no compromise in terms of scale or representation, no necessity to make a contract with the viewer about their validity as ‘evidence’. For his Anthropométries in the early 1960s, Yves Klein asked models painted from head to toe in his International Klein Blue to roll over a canvas and create an imprint.

Whereas in Rauschenberg’s photograms the white body shape appears on a blue background, here blue imprints are shown against white backgrounds. As the name suggests, the Anthropométries claim to be a measure of man, a measure of humanity: far from expressing a phrenological interest in the body’s tangible specifics, they are a display of the void, missing form. The ghostly Hiroshima (c. 1961) thus refers the spectator to body shapes that have been, yet have disappeared, by rendering their absence visible. Rather than creating a sense of lack, a blueprint inspires the imagination to expand endlessly; a rudimentary reduction, it transcends def in ite detai l and pushes towards unlimited growth. It first converts a vast task into a compressed representation the size of a board game and then lets one play with it according to its rules. Rauschenberg’s and Klein’s blueprints, however, leave no space for either reduction or growth. They only appear to be ludic, but

are in fact deadly serious. They are as big as life and this is precisely the source of their tragedy: life is so tangibly absent from them that it cannot b e r e pl a c e d by a ny t h i n g else. Unlike those colourful anatomical diagrams one finds at the doctor’s, the haunting presence of these blue bodies leaves the viewer with a sad feeling of cyanocholy.

Bibliography: Cullinan, Nicholas. “Vaporous Fantasies,” Tate Etc., 23 : Autumn 2011. Morisset, Vanessa. “Yves Klein. Monographies des grandes figures de l’art moderne.” Centre Pompidou 2010.

THE A NATO M Y O F C YA N OCH O LY

Robert Rauschenberg creating a blueprint photogram, photographed by Wallace Kirkland (1951)

THE A NATO M Y O F C YA N OCH O LY

Robert Rauschenberg Untitled 1951 Photogram 182.8 x 121.9 cm

B LU E A N D L OYAL : Th e E ve r la s t i n g Youth Ap pe a l of D e ni m

Al y ssa Re e de r

BLU E AN D LOYAL Fashion is inevitable. Our society demands a uniform-an aesthetic appropriateness; we have come to see dressing as not only a necessity which digresses as far as possible from the vulnerability of nakedness-but as a costume, a deliberate decision making process, a reflection of our inner beings. 23

As British novelist Ian McEwen once wrote, “Style is an extension of personality.” That being said, denim has weaved its way into our lives as a cultural staple, a generational marker, and a reflection of our growing apathy towards decision making. Our blue jeans are more tangible than God, more forgiving than confession, and yet we dismiss our denim as a casual expenditure, not realizing that our jeans, in comparison to most of the people we rely on, and most of the ideas we invest our time and efforts in, are far less prone to failing us. Our blue jeans, in their wear and tear, and in all of their distress, age more gracefully, and become increasingly more dependable. And more than

dependability, our blue jeans have an insurmountable gift that never ceases to provide. They have the power to give you the feeling of familiarity during those moments when you’ve been ejected from your comfort zone. And if there is anything that signifies our youth culture today, it’s our proclivity to constantly fling ourselves out of that ver y comfort zone. Your perfectly worn pair of blue jeans, have seen you through the party you can’t remember, the breakup you’d rather forget, the test you didn’t mean to fail, the worst date you’ve ever been on; the painstakingly awkward silence; the vacation you dreaded coming home from, the long line at the airport, the joke that

made you laugh until the muscles in your stomach could no longer take it. I recently sat with a group of friends in an apartment across the world from my own, watching videos of denim campaigns-blue jean market ing: CK for Calvin Klein, Levis Go Forth, Guess, Lee, Wrangler. The commercials were more than entertaining; they sparked a sense of nostalgia in each of us, regardless of our cultural background or first language. The images of you n g people bu r n i n g couches, jumping out of windows, and running around topless gave us each an acceptably trite sense of pride in our youth. The images renewed with in us, a desire for the heightened reality we are promised

B LU E A N D L OYAL

in our teens and twenties-the heightened reality that will last through our adulthood despite our inevitable aging process.

Our jeans have come to collectively represent the very youth demographic that we are a part of. We watched those ads and we knew, in unison, what it felt like to take off our jeans and jump in the pool; we’ve done it. We knew what it felt like to get grass stains on the knees of our favorite jeans, and not care; we’ve done that too. We knew what it felt like to dance in our jeans, to laugh in our jeans, to drink, kiss, smoke, vomit, eat, work, study, play-in those very loyal blue jeans. Where it’s hardly a radical statement to say that denim is the universal fabric, the evidently global and generational reach of the blue jean can’t be ignored; because denim, today, is the most non-discriminatory fabric, not due to it’s sheer practicality, but because it st a nds for somet h i n g the blue jean, without seeming contrived, evokes a widespreadsense of youth-it mirrors

a history of social acceptance, a culture of change, of rebellion, of growth. It evolves as we do. Denim, as a result of it’s lasting appeal, has become both the bridge and the battle between two generational philosophies-one, as Thomas Frank wrote in his book Concept of Cool, that envisioned a world of “shortage, hard work, selfdenial, sacrifice and character”and a new order, our generation’s order, “emphasizing pleasure self fulfillment and play at the understanding of twentieth century America.” This ‘new’ generation that Frank writes about, is living in a messy vat of excessive options constantly at our disposal. But, where there are a sickening number of different flavors of water to choose from at the market, an unreasonable amount of style blogs to follow, magazines to read, bands to listen to, Youtube videos to watch- den i m is a lways denim. Regardless of its contribution to the surplus of options (progressively addi ng t housa nds of washes, styles, cuts and colors for our ‘convenience’)-its consistency is rooted in a culture that is much larger than fashion. The larger implications of denim today, make it ubiquitous: Alexander McQueen pushed it to the forefront of high fashion-introducing his denim-based RTW line, McQ to the runway in 2006

as controversial reinvention of sportswear. A catwalk novelty, the launch of McQ forced the fashion industry to accept (for arguably the first time in the history of fashion) the full artistic potential of the blue jean as more than a working class staple. Whereas labels such as Levis absorbed the democratic history of denim, branding the utilitarian fabric that of the people-sparking a global recognition that the blue jean is evocative of the struggle, sex appeal, sustenance, and rebellion of each generation, past and present. We the contemporary humanity, have evolved into t hat of t he i mpossible to please. We begin to worship and idealize the few things we can’t see or physically understand: God, love, ideas. They can’t d isappoi nt us (or so we think); perhaps because we never fully experience them to begin with. We start to place those arguably fluid concepts on a pedestal, separating them from the tangible, the real, the familiar, the comfortable. We start to take for granted the small things that we understand and rely on-the chairs that we know wont break when we sit on them; the friend we can call at all hours of the day or night for advice. We overlook our favorite blue jeans: used, worn, and dependable. T hese l itt le t h ings st r ung

B L U E A N D L OYAL

together: a good friend, a sturdy chair, a perfect pair of pants-are the things that give us the small amount of knowledge that we have about faith, trust. And yet their reliability proves to be negative-it causes them to serve as but consolation to something else, something “better”, less corporeal, but seemingly more substantial. But what is the blue jean-if not substantial? Denim is so meticulously crafted for the exact purpose of being a lifestyle necessity, so carefully revolutionized to keep up with our severely attention deficient youth, so methodically marketed to evoke and signify something more essential than just a pair of pants: belief and freedom through evolving quality. Denim is in actuality, the link between the idealized, fluid, spiritual concepts (that we so often value) and the material, tangible, familiar (but minute) details in our lives (that we so often overlook), all at once. “What is most human about people,” historian William Lech wrote, “is their quest after the new, their willingness to violate boundaries, their hatred of the old and the habitual…and their need to incorporate more and more-good, money, experience, everything.” Indulgence, excessiveness, uncertainty-they’re side effects of human nature. Side effects that were marked

by the jeans our grandparents were wearing while they were working for peace and industrialization and equality; the jeans our parents were wearing while they were experimenting with drugs and protest and free love; the same jeans that we are wearing when we are changing our minds. T h r ou g h t h e c o m fort of the jean, through the stitched microfibers, through the indigo-dyed threads, the four pockets, the slight stretch, and the evolving factors of cut and fit of the pants-denim has bridged the gap between age, class, and sex. The appeal is in part, what the fabric and style evoke-that freedom and youth. But in larger part, it’s the actual production and craft of the denim, which has transformed as frequently as its wearers since it’s 17th century conception in the French town of Nîmes. The blue jean has created something of a universally accepted vocabulary: boot cut, distressed, skinny, 501’s, 504’s, cropped, boyfriend, flare. We hear those words and we know automatically, not only what style of jeans they are-but who would wear them. Blue jean wearers are a blanket culture at this point, with subgenres of participants on every front, a sociological melting pot. From hipsters, to grandparents, to party girls, to athletes, to middle-aged professors,

to the homeless guy who sleeps underneath the metro stop. It’s a strange and overwhelming concept that everyone regardless of those distinguishing social factors, have an equal understand ing of wearing denim. It’s become a fashion statement that has far surpassed t he rea l m of t he f leet i ng trend.

We must accept, relish and give credit to the horribly cliché (and unfortunately materialistic) truth that denim is not going anywhere. It has both democratized and homogenized people for decades. It’s now a fashion statement and a necessit y, woven into our lives, marking and encouraging what will b e c o m e t h e s i g n i f i e r of the youth culture of today, as it did with those before us. Our blue jeans represent, expose and encourage our general disposition (if not craving) to stomp around in our ageless, classless, sexless, faithful, uniform- saying, ‘screw it, I’m young and unsure.’

THE W E I GH T

Muggs Fo gar ty

TH E WEIGHT VERSION 1

A score of fish hooks secured in my meat of my heart New York is one Placehooks hang differently than people A book and a song, and a vision, swinging There is one made simply by his shifting posture How it changes, only slightly when he’s hurt Another, his casual, secret pain His blue, so blue Another hook, the turn onto his street, the corner, the callused pads on his thick hands Smokey smell of hair, its own fat ocean of hooks His dirty resign. The angelic nod, swing The drugs The women tingle metallic, together The anatomic sketch of fleshy tissue, pierces through. Then the sense of privacy we created. The floor. The bathroom, all swinging The closet. The blue thread. The grass The same blue that’s around him, always The same slow song he brings to me in cycles drills first through the breastplate, then hooks The constant starring from across the room when I am across the room, punctures and never rusts.

THE W E I GH T

TH E WEIGHT VERSION 2 Heavy fish hooks skewer my heart, often, the deepest, fleshy pits of it. The hook itself is the wanting— the weight itself is how I want. A city can be a different kind of hook. Place hangs differently than people. People sway and tear open the old fissures, casually and without malice. There is one hook made simply by his shifting posture. How it changes, only slightly when he’s hurt. The litany that composes him. His casual, secret pain. His blue, so blue. A legion of stinging hooks. The turn onto his street, the corner. The callused pads on his thick hands. Smokey smell of his hair, its own fat ocean. His dirty resign. The angelic nod. Each drug. Each woman. His anatomic sketch of fleshy tissue. Our privacy. The floor. The bathroom. The closet. The blue thread. The glass. The same blue texture around him, always. The same slow song he brings to me in cycles. Always starring from across the room when I am across the room. A slow mechanism of faith I’ve made in this. This one hook of many never rusts My heart, itself, is a blue hook always catching his lip.

AN A LT E R NAT E R EA L I T Y

Scott H a rtma n

THE NORTH AMERICAN BUREAU OF PORPOISE AFFAIRS

NUEVO SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA, July 8th, 2094 Construction continues on the North American Bureau of Porpoise Affairs, where all dolphins who have chosen to identify as U.S. citizens can repatriate to the mainland to apply for their passports and its accompanying hightech “land-swimming” suit. In order to fund the production of the new government-issued Mobile Aquatic Personal Porpoise Environment (MAPPE), the spacious new quasi-aquatic embassy has received generous government grants to distribute MAPPE systems to all Dolphins who desire to settle onto American soil. The sleek design is tailor-made to the undulating method of locomotion specific to the species, allowing these Porpoise-Americans the first opportunity to travel and live on dry land. The Mobile Aquatic Personal Porpoise Environment, known colloquially as the Landswimmer, is equipped with state-of-the-art woven waterproof fibers that are both pliable and resistant to all manner of daily wear and solar degradation. The Porpoise-American fitted with the groundbreaking new device achieves forward propulsion on land by acting in the same manner that it would in the ocean: vertical undulation of the tail. The Dolphin’s pectoral fins are fitted with Teflon-coated ball bearings, creating a frictionless surface for the meandering porpoise to propel itself comfortably and swiftly along on dry land. The tail is fitted with a single larger wheel, which is equipped with a tread that enables it to be suitable for easy accessibility any manner of terrain. The design of the Landswimmer also features a polycarbonate bubble viewscreen, permitting a large field of view.

W H E R E WE HAVE FORGED A M ICABLE TR ADE REL ATI ONSH I PS W I T H DO LP HINS

The Aquatic Mammalian Trade Agreement of 2071 stipulates that all transactions with porpoisekind be conducted with Tuna as a working currency. As such, representatives of the Atlantic and Pacific porpoise tribes have consolidated the significant earnings from their pop songs (Dolphin ballads have become exceedingly trendy and have saturated the human airwaves ever since the advent of human-dolphin communication modules) and have turned these earnings into large stores of tuna fish. With a monopoly on the world’s Tuna reserves, Dolphins have used their fishy leverage to bolster repatriation deals with other countries. Since the advent of the discovery of Dolphin voice modules, porpoisekind has been steadily following a trend of seeking repatriation into various countries. The Dolphins, historically a loosely organized nomadic hunter-gathering society, have become deeply enamored with the concept of national identity. Finland has emerged as a popular new locale for repatriation of the aquatic mammals, mainly because Dolphins are not immune to the hilarity of puns. This new freedom on land is not without drawbacks. There have been several instances of accessibility issues with the oceanic immigrants. A porpoise-American, later identified as Ek-ekk’yek-ikikikiki Johnson, 19, was apprehended late Tuesday evening at the Canadian consulate here in Nuevo San Diego where he had haplessly wandered after a newspaper became flattened over his Landswimmer’s viewscreen. Thrown into a frightened panic, Mr. Johnson sped swiftly across the foyer and into a wall, where the damage-resistant hull of his Landswimmer embedded itself, causing $500 in damages to the internal structure of the embassy, police reported. Johnson was quoted as vocalizing an anxious series of high frequency clicks that allowed him to investigate his surroundings via echolocation. Legislators are poised to begin drafting appeals to federal transit agents over how Dolphin-Americans will fare on national highway systems. A separate “porpoise lane” is one of the plans being put into motion. Already, large swathes of highways across the country are inundated with porpoises traveling at high velocity, navigating by echolocation, blinking LEDs mounted on their dorsal fins, cackling with glee.

Al i ce Mi k a l C raven

PL AN B: APOCALYPSE

“Screw the people! Justice ain’t the point. It’s order now.” Coffin Ed

“When our loud-mouthed leaders urge vulnerable soul brothers onto getting themselves killed we recognize that all unorganized violence is like a blind man with a pistol.” Chester Himes

What if the social plan for an ent ire societ y were to change, simply change, the color of the most prominent religious icon of the society at risk? Chester Himes tests such a theory in the last two novels of his Harlem series, Blind Man with a Pistol and Plan B. Himes’ fictional works contain hardly a microsecond without their own touch of absurdity or cruel surrealism. The penultimate novel in the series, Blind Man with a Pistol turns its perspective squarely away from the hopeful, the promise of good things to come and stares unequivocally at what lies beneath the uncanny return of repressed

hatred. Himes comments candidly, in the quotation cited above, on the randomness and danger of a victim’s wrath in the face of the victimizer. Blind Man with a Pistol takes up the tough and sordid truths of the Negro problem in the late 1960’s in the U.S. Because face it. How could a blind man aim his pistol at another human being purely and simply on the basis of that man or woman’s color? The literal premise is absurd, but the act of shooting is fueled by deep - seated hatred all the time. Himes’ prose renders heartrendingly clear that the “plan” for the Negro problem in the 1960’s was structured

quite precisely. It came complete and encoded with a “Negro Solution.” As he became more steadily distant from the locus of the Negro problem in the U.S., expatriate Chester Himes recognized and gave voice to the idea that there was very little difference, in his view, between the Negro solution and the “final solution” espoused by Hitler in Nazi Germany in the 1930’s. As his white cop protagonist Walker suggests in Himes’ 1957 novel, Run Man Run, “maybe Hitler had the right idea after all” (97). Like most Manhattan city cops of the Himes series, policeman Walker was of the opinion that if you couldn’t continue

PLAN B: AP OCA LY P S E to dominate them, the Negroes, you ne e de d to e l i m i n at e them or better yet, get them to do it themselves. By t he t i me H i mes wrote Blind Man with a Pistol, the sentiment uttered by his white protagonist from a 1957 cynical novel had become a commonplace for all his characters, black and white alike. Himes increasingly despaired about any promise of racial progress in the U.S. His public persona in 1969 might be described as “beyond the pale” and he had already as early as 1976 stated that his own life as well as the lives of his characters could never be depicted as anything less than absurd. In his autobiography he states: “ R acism i nt roduces absurdity into the human condition. Not only does racism express the absurdity of the racists, but it generates absurdity in the victims. And the absurdity of the victims intensifies the absurdity of the racists, ad infinitum. If one lives in a countr y where racism is held valid and practiced in all ways of life, eventually, no matter whether one is a racist or a victim, one comes to feel the absurdity of life” (Himes 1976, 1). The principle which therefore guides his two last novels is that the absurdity of racist practices in the U.S. in 1969 should be documented

for what they are and that the blueprint behind such practices should be revealed with precision. Himes provides those who can read and listen with a bird’s eye view of the hypocrisy of racial urban planning in the U.S. in the late 1960’s which parades as a humane practice but which is apocalyptically revealed as catastrophic for the underprivileged racial minorities in the urban centers, particularly, for Himes’ purposes, in the urban spaces of Harlem. In so doing, he creates an aesthetic documentation of extraordinary beauty along with a frightening revelation about the dark secrets of unenlightened racist principles in his time period. For example, one very angry “sister” remarks at the opening of the last chapter of the novel Blind Man with a Pistol: “They calls this Urban Renewal, I calls it poor folks removal (1969, 187)”. This angry sister agrees with the omniscient narrator of this novel that a blueprint puts a series of ideas and concepts on the table, knowing full well that they must play themselves out. The narrator reinforces the angry sister’s indignation by pointing out the absurdity of the urban planning in Harlem which serves as the backdrop for this detective novel. When it is suggested that the New York City government’s plan is to demolish condemned slum buildings because they were

unfit for human dwelling, the narrator reveals the irony of the urban plan: “They had been forced to live there, in all the filth and degradation, until their lives had been warped to fit and now they were being thrown out. It was enough to make a body riot” (Himes Blind Man 1969, 187). Blind Man is the prequel to Himes’ apocalyptic vision in his unfinished posthumous novel, Plan B. The French embraced the unfinished fragmentary novel before anyone else by publishing a translation of it in 1973. It was not published in the United States until 1993. Himes’ vision of the apocalyptic nature of racial practice in the U.S. was too true and too dark for anyone in the U.S. to face it when he put his pen to paper. But let’s not let anyone get off the hook. It’s always easier to hear a critique of racist practices when they are about someone else so despite the fact that all nations have racist skeletons in their closets, the ones Himes was talking about were more palatable for to a French readership than the ones they were hiding in their own closets. If we are to benefit from what Himes had to say, gazing into the darkness that he faced when looking at his native country, then we must recognize that his words and sentiments about the absurdity of racism are still

PLAN B: AP OCA LY P S E too true today and still furnish the groundwork for critiquing urban planning which, though parading as humanistic, is nonetheless inhumane at base.

What Makes a Catastrophe into an Apocalypse?

Apocalyptic vision distinguishes itself from the catastrophic. In the catastrophic vision, there is always a reversal of temporal ordering and there can never be a return to what came before. In a catastrophe, what lays beneath the plan to be implemented rises up and swallows that plan whole, rendering it meaningless in the new world which has replaced an older one. The promise becomes a lie, the outcome follows no order or model, the implementation reveals a disconnection between what is projected and what is enacted. On the contrary, the apocalyptic vision suggests that there was always already an author, a deity, who could foresee the playing out of a certain destiny if only the truly faithful could heed the call of the master planner. Within the context of Himes’ last two novels, when the Blacks in Harlem decide that they can fight against the racism which has victimized them by pitting a Black Jesus against a White Jesus, their plan is more precisely an anti-

plan—a revelation that the imposition of the white Jesus must be revealed for what it has always been—a rejection of Black people as part of humanity in the books of the whites. The Black Jesus poster which will become the centerpiece of the unorganized violence of the riots featured in Blind Man with a Pistol is in fact, the poster which exhibits a Black Jesus, nailed to the cross with the following caption below: “THEY LYNCHED ME” (99). With a simple twist of the relations between image and text, the par excellence tactic of the Surrealists, Himes provides a narrative motivation for rioting and catastrophe at the same time that he frames catastrophe in decidedly apocalyptic terms. What has been promised in this apocalyptic vision can be revealed as having come to pass and the religious overtones implicit in the concept of the apocalypse work against the tendency to want to view the new world as haphazard. H imes cont inual ly deconstructs the religious ritual of the streets of Harlem in order to save those who might read his novels. He shows the Negro solution put into place with the aid of many absurd albeit lifelike characters for the time period, such as the “ordained m i n ister” w it h wh ich t he novel begins, who at the age of at least 100, has had more than

100 children of all ages from many different wives. Those wives roam the streets of Harlem in the dead of night, doubling as prost it utes for t hei r husba nd in order to bring in money for the household (and the “congregation”). In short, Himes documents the extent to which the economy of Harlem in the late 1960’s was an economy where victims and victimizers alike used religion as a weapon, no matter how twisted their logic about that religion might become. The wives are faithful but to what? They are faithful to the need to perpetuate their race and to feed their race. If this requires a re-interpretation of the rules of their religion then so be it. As Coffin Ed will point out to his white police superintendent when the superintendent asks about who started the race riots in Harlem, if one cannot guarantee the sustenance of a race, then one is ultimately responsible for their demise. Coffin Ed says in effect to Superintendent Anderson that it was Abraham Lincoln who was responsible for the race riots in Harlem in the 1960’s because though he freed the slaves, he thought nothing whatsoever about how to feed and clothes them after their release from bondage. Templates cannot survive in a vacuum and the

PLAN B: AP OCA LY P S E implementation of promises often lays bare the uncanny ugliness of false hope. Himes develops this theme in his last novel, Plan B and suggests as darkly as possible that the pitting of Muslim and Christian faiths in the racial riots of the late 1960’s was not simply a haphazard differentiation between Malcolm X and Martin Luther King as individual practitioners of their faiths, but was rather a systematic blueprint for the desecration of any hope of racial progress in the U.S. Religion survives and divides, and most often, the man of color subsides. This was the template Himes revealed in his last novel, Plan B which was understandably not published in his lifetime.

Plans going awry: the “stuff” of Literature One very succinct plan which goes awry in these last two novels of Chester Himes is the generic specificities of the detective novel, though Himes had already tested the limits of the genre in the characters he created throughout his series, notably, his two Black detectives, Coffin Ed Johnson and Grave Digger Jones. He had already made decisions to test the limits of the genre when he began the Harlem series and he ironically led the way for

others to test the limits in similar fashion. So while there is very little in the way of a mystery to be solved in Blind Man, the reader is faced with a logical dilemma: what happens when an inhumane social template, to divest the Blacks of Harlem of their ill-gained properties in the name of “helping them help themselves” is replaced by an alternative home-grown template of turning the table on the blueprint, of replacing the White Jesus with the Black one? What possible difference can the color of one’s skin make? Or to put it another way, is it the color of one’s skin or the choice of one’s religion which makes the difference in this heated scenario? This is the question Himes poses in these two novels and he answers by placing us in the middle of Malcolm X Square and suggesting that a place like Malcolm X Square gets called by that name for better or worse reasons: “He (Malcolm X) was safe as long as he kept hating t he wh ite folks—t hey wouldn’t have hurt him, probably made him rich ; it wasn’t until he began including them in the human race that they killed him. That ought to tell you something. White people don’t want to be included in a human race with black people. Before they’ll be included they’ll give ‘em the whole human raceBut it don’t tell you who you mean by they.” (Blind Man 112)

T he com mon racist expression is to “put a person in their place” and the deep irony of Himes’ analysis of the Harlem landscape of the late 1960’s is precisely about how the plan the promise and template are not temporal but rather spatial solutions. Promise the moon to the inferior race but make sure it only happens in the backyards of the victimized, in the urban spaces which they inhabit and the catastrophe of racial chaos will be avoided. By interjecting the narrative structure of the tensions between the Black Jesus and the Black Muslim movement into the structure of a catastrophic detective novel, Himes makes an apocalyptic statement about how religion destroys the underprivileged. Though he speaks only for his own people--people he had to a certain extent striven to disown at this point in his life--he nonetheless speaks TO the world we are witnessing today on every front.

Bibliography Chester Himes: Run Man Run. 1957. My Life of Absurdity: the Later Years. 1976. Blind Man with a Pistol 1969. Plan B. 1983.

HO M AGE TO FA L CON HTV-2

O l ga O g McMoon

HOM AGE TO FALCON HTV-2

HO M AGE TO FA L CON HTV-2

The fastest plane ever built, that got lost in space and never returned to Earth.

HOMAGE TO FALCON HT V-2

MIX O PE R A LES M ONST R E S

L é a L a noë

MIXOPÉRA LES MONSTRES

MIX O PE R A LES M ONST R E S

FOLK

Be n Cla gue

FOLK

When I was younger, nine or ten or even eleven, I didn’t see my dad very often, because I was afraid of him and because he was an alcoholic, but on Wednesdays, even though he lived only four blocks away, he’d call over on the telephone and say to my mother, “I’d like to get the boy tonight,” and my mother would stand at the sink and look out into the backyard the way mothers often do when quasi-deadbeat dads call, and she would say, over and over, “I don’t know, Jerry,” and shake her small, bob-haired head, but finally she’d say, “Okay, Okay, fine, you can take him.” And two minutes later his red Bronco 4x4 would pull up, the one with grass growing in between the seats because he always forgot to roll the windows up in the summer when shuddering blue thunderheads erupted in the afternoon and the sky cracked open and threatened to end the world with a gigantic flood, or so I thought then, and he’d honk the horn and I’d go running out but not before my mother gathered me to her side and said she loved me, as if the whole state was watching. And when I got in the car we’d drive to a small, dirty bar in a no-name southern Iowa town like my own where people wore lots of Iowa Hawkeyes apparel and all worked in the same factory my dad did, and my dad and I would sit on stools and he’d order me a cheeseburger basket and himself a lot of beers, and we’d sit and watch some old farmer play folk music, some guy who’d never even seen a picture of a recording studio, and he’d sing songs about how he couldn’t make his farm loans, how his ancestors had come here to be free, he’d sing political songs about Bush or Clinton, he’d sing songs about his dead wife or daughter or whoever had died on the guy, sometimes it was everyone, and you felt a little dead too, or a lot dead when your dad was behind you singing along to the line about the bitch ex-wife, but then sometimes the old farmer would run his fingers through the strings at a certain key and his gravelly voice would scrape along the edges just right, and he’d change the syntax in a line or he’d omit a word or he’d hold back on a phrase until it absolutely burst out of him like rain from one of those afternoon storms, and then you could see the man’s soul hovering above his head, you could hear the vibrations in his voice, the way he arranged the plot of the song, the decisions

FOLK

he made—which character said what and to whom, whether the story started at day or night and why that was important—and you could see the whole story unfold in front of your face, sometimes you were even in it, even as a little boy sometimes my ex-wife was a bitch and I couldn’t make the loans on my acres, and I learned how to create narratives from these old men. Or my mother, who was back at the window again, gazing, would say finally, “No Jerry, that isn’t going to work tonight,” and she would hang up and tell me we were going for a drive, and I would walk outside into the late afternoon sun that scorched my fair skin down to the fifth or sixth layer, and I would sit in the back of her car and tilt my head up and look at the cat tails in the highway ditches as we drove north, to the nicer part of the state, and my mother would watch me in the rearview mirror and tell me stories from the Bible, and sometimes she would mis-tell them on purpose to see if it made any difference, like Jesus went out into the desert for two days and two nights instead of forty and that one didn’t seem to make much difference, but when she said God treated Joseph like a normal person instead of some new toy we thought about the ramifications of all that and we decided it was better to keep that plot the way it was. On the way back home we would sing each other songs, and I would sing her the new ones I’d heard at the bar, and we would decide that most of the characters in those songs were pretty Biblical, too, or at least they lived under the same God Joseph did.

TW O B L OCK S J OI N E D B Y A CO R R I D O R

Morte n H øi J ens en

TWO BLOCKS JOI N ED BY A CORRIDOR Works of fiction are sometimes spoken of in architectural terms. It’s a remarkably useful analogy. What are notes and drafts but the blueprints to a great fictional edifice? 48

What is a work of fict ion if not a n elaborately designed, carefully mapped out structure, replete with shapes, foundations, spires, masts, and occupants? Here, we stroll leisurely through the wide corridors of the Tolstoyan mansion, with its high ceilings, panoramic windows, and agreeable indoor climate; over here, we crawl through the dimly-lit and crooked hallways of a Kafkaesque tenement building, cockroaches and mice skirting across the floors that lead us nowhere. Virginia Woolf is one of the most architectural writers. Reading her diaries you envision her in a hard hat area with a clipboard, agonizing over the development of her latest high-rise or summer villa or tower block. Woolf’s revolt against the Victorian novel was also a revolt against the t y ra n ny of t he V ic tor i a n

home, w it h its occupa nts def ined in greater part by a sofa’s upholstery than by any semblance of interior life, however abstract. While writing the early drafts of To the Lighthouse in 1926, she mused: “I cannot make it out—here is the most difficult abstract piece of writing—I have to give an empty house, no people’s characters, the passage of time, all eyeless and featureless with nothing to cling to: well, I rush at it, and at once scatter out two pages. Is it nonsense, is it brilliance?” In a small notebook labeled Notes for Writing, Woolf sketched the visual shape of Lighthouse:

She described it as “two blocks joined by a corridor”— a literary and architectural gesture connecting two days separated by a decade. In doing so, Woolf opened up her novel to what was outside of it: “The Edwardians,” she wrote of her own generation of writers, “were never interested in character in itself; or in the book in itself. They were interested in something outside. Their books, then, were incomplete as books, and required that the reader should finish them, actively and practically, for himself.” That corridor, the sect ion t it led “Time Passes,” connects not only two blocks of fiction; it connects, or rather channels, the world outside the novel, outside the lighthouse. We learn, for instance, with shocking matter-of-factness, that Andrew Ramsay,

TW O B L OCK S J OI N E D B Y A CO R R I D O R

photo gra phy L a ure nce Wa ss er

the Ramsay’s oldest son, is killed during the War in France; Prue Ramsay, their oldest daughter, dies earlier on from an illness onset by childbirth; Mrs. Ramsay herself dies “rather suddenly,” as Mr. Ramsay stretches out his arms to find his wife no longer there. These are not deaths we witness; they occur outside of the book, as Woolf had it. In the novel itself, Lily Briscoe, the young symbolist painter, is performing a similar gesture. In the picture she spends the first part of the novel working on is a question of “how to connect this mass on the right hand with that on the left.” She considers a horizontal line—a corridor— strung across the foreground. “ But t he danger was t hat by doing that the unity of the whole might be broken.”

Lily breaks the unity. L ike t he u nusua l massi ng of expressionist architecture in the 1920’s, Virginia Woolf altered the shape of the novel, extended its reach, and broadened its possibility. The Chilean writer Roberto Bolaño’s novel The Savage Detectives partly takes its structural cue from To the Lighthouse, lodging a long, wide corridor teeming with life into an otherwise linear narrative. In the The Savage Detectives’ long second part the two major characters are channeled through a collection of interviews with minor characters. Like the deaths of various Ramsay family members, we see very little of the quixotic poets Arturo Belano and Ulises Lima; what we know of them is essentially hear-say: rumor, chance, the occasional run-in. Over the span of three decades their fragmented lives

are delivered to us piecemeal. The effect is paradoxically realistic: as the novel circles around its elusive protagonists, it accumulates life. From outside the novel life trickles in, like air through shoddy window panes. Woolf-style, Bolaño subverted the traditional novel form. He reimagined its structure and its foundation, finding, in the process, a way for the form to accommodate the world outside itself. Two blocks stood separate; the false, imagined world of fiction and the real, lived world of experience. Woolf and Bolaño built a corridor connecting the two blocks. L et t hei r exa mples st a nd as blueprints for the fiction writers of tomorrow.

AUR E L E T S E S P OTES D. I . Y

tex t Antoi ne Ca pet tattoo She ke nz

AU REL ET SES POTES D.I.Y

Aurel et ses potes adorent tatouer et se faire tatouer un peu n’importe quoi, n’importe quand, et pour ça rien de mieux que de le faire avec une machine home-made. Semblable aux machines que l’ont pourrait trouver en prison, fabriquée à base d’un petit moteur sûrement récupéré dans un vieux walkman, ou dans un épilateur, cette machine de geek fonctionne sur les 5volts d’une prise USB, elle est maniable, légère mais impose un style assez basique avec un trait qui a du grain. Cette touche « dessin au stylo bille» convient tout à fait à cette petite bande. Aurel et ses potes incarnent l’esprit de la scène tattoo home-made contemporaine qui semble émerger, où les tatoueurs/tatoués sont plus influencés par le graphisme minimal et l’art contemporain que par une iconographie de tatouage traditionnelle, complexe et référencée.

AUR E L E T S E S P OTES

photo gra phy Esteba n Gonzalez L ou Be ne sch

AUR E L E T S E S P OTES

AUR E L E T S E S P OTES D. I . Y

AU REL ET SES POTES D.I.Y

Aurel and his pals enjoy tattooing and tattooing themselves anything, anytime, and for that thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nothing better than a home-made machine. Similar to those that could be found in prison, made with a little motor surely hijacked from an old Walkman, or from an epilator, this geek machine works on the 5 volts of a USB port, is handy and light, but imposes a fairly basic style with grainy lines. This â&#x20AC;&#x153;ball-point pen drawingâ&#x20AC;? touch suits the little group perfectly. Aurel and his pals incarnate the spirit of the contemporary home-made tattoo scene which seems to be emerging, where the tattooers/tattooed are more influenced by minimalist graphic design and contemporary art than by the complexed, referenced iconography of traditional tattoo.

UN T I T L E D

Ni cola s Choy é

HOW TO D R E S S LI K E A R ACIST

tex t Todd Arthur Fletch er, i l l ustrati ons Ge orge s Cha u let & Jean Ga briel Franch ini a k a True Cha ins

HOW TO DRESS LIKE A RACIST October 2, 2011

Kanye West sat in his hotel room look ing at h is MacBook. He was drunk and in Paris. Lately it seemed like he was always drunk and in Paris. Two days ago he was carousing with the wealthy and beautiful. Yesterday he was unveiling his premier clothing line at Paris Fashion Week. Today he was drinking alone. The reviews were unkind. K a n y e We s t h a d often struggled with feelings of inadequacy. He remembered what it was like to be written off. He remembered playing demos to anyone who would listen. In 2001, Kanye West produced five tracks on Jay-Z’s sixth album The Blueprint. It was a critical and financial success. It took him three more years to leverage that success into a solo a lbu m of h is own. He was told that he wasn’t marketable. It was said he lacked the “street image” necessary to make it as a rapper. Kanye West wondered if his “street i mage” wou ld stop h i m from making it as a designer. “He should stick to his day job,” one review read. What

did that mean? He had written a fashion column of his own for Complex magazine. Why was everyone in this industry so eager to represent him as an artless hack? In 2009 Kanye West famously interrupted Taylor Swift’s award speech at the MTV Music Video Awards. He had been drinking heavily. The media portrayed him as a monster. People all over the world seemed to derive a strange satisfaction from his public evisceration. He had attacked America’s blonde, lily white princess; he deserved pu n ish ment . W hen asked about the incident, President Barack Obama was quoted as calling Kanye West a “jackass”. It isn’t common for one private citizen to attract the ire of two presidents in succession. The following year Kanye West would return to the MTV Music Video Awards to perform “Runaway”, a song from his upcoming album. He was dressed in all red. Three ballerinas followed him on stage. He sang the chorus confidently:

“Let’s have a toast for the douchebags, Let’s have a toast for the assholes, Let’s have a toast for the scumbags, Every one of them that I know”. By t he t i me he f i nished the audience was chanting his name. The performance was met with critical acclaim. “Runaway” became a hit single. Kanye West closed his MacBook and went to sleep.

October 1, 2011 L isa A r mst rong sat in her hotel room look ing at her MacBook. She was a fashion columnist for The Dai ly Telegraph, a Brit ish newspaper with an estimated circulation of over 600,000. She was still feeling sick from Kanye West’s premiere. “A rapper in Paris Fashion Week,” she mumbled to herself, “This just won’t stand.” Lisa Armstrong began to type furiously: “Kanye West’s Paris Fashion Week debut was rap with a capitalC”. She submitted the article to her editor, knowing the sanctity of Paris Fashion Week had been preserved. Feeling satisfied, she called up her friend John Galliano. They made plans to grab some drinks and discuss eugenics.

WE C E L E B R AT E

El i za be th Bryant

WE CELEBRATE The Wake

You had a father and I had a father. I still have a father and he flies the skies. My father is a pilot. Sometimes I look at you and because you are without a father, I cannot apprehend you. You are someone I know and the worst thing that can happen to you has happened to you. You thirteen, your father dead. Fatherlessness makes you infinite from thirteen. I was thirteen, but not in California. I was writing an autobiography called Running in Slippers. I was jumping through windows before I could put on my shoes. My thirteen, my German Shepherd came too. The best way to stop them is to flip the furniture. If you spend too much time backstage after the all-school show, your mother will call you the most selfish child in the world and your father will be out getting the car. (When you have fathers, they are always out getting the car.) Your mother calls you selfish like you’re the bad kid keeping the other kids behind, like you’ve been waiting to try on the other girls’ makeup, pursing your lips. Like you’ve been staring at yourself in the mirror, like a little tyke tart. Like you’ve been taking hour-showers. Like a smidgen of sin. The best way when they’re chasing you down is to turn over an armchair. If they catch a shin, they’ll lose it and you’ll have time. Shins and the hard chair parts hiding in the cushion make time. You’ll have time if you make it. You’re the selfish child now and you’ll finally get your time. Time to steal caramel cubes to hide in your sock folds, time to take pictures of your underwear with your cousins. Time to put your stuffed animals to sleep and twist the sheets between your legs. I was thirteen. I could hear my father crying in the kitchen, a snorty sound. I could see half of my mother’s summered face glisten in the wet air like a melon slice. Eighteen years ago a man lost hands, said my father to the kitchen still. The man came to my father, he could no longer fly the skies. They don’t let pilots be pilots without hands. People are at stake. The man brought his halved hands for my father to fix. My father was crying because the

WE C E L E B R AT E

man had found him again that day after eighteen years. He said to my father, look I’m flying planes! The man said, they took my hands but they didn’t see you coming did they? They cut off my hands but you taught the stubs to move again. These stubs are now responsible for people’s lives! Getting caught is not an option. You’ll have time to make it to the window. You will go out the window, not into the wall. You’ll just have to make time, because you can’t let them throw you against the wall. That is a non-option, and you know this is more for their sake than yours. You will not make them parents who throw their kids into walls. You will make a window, you will make it out the window, things will get better. I was thirteen. I had my father’s giant pilot hat and big enough ears to hold it up. I had this song I played over and over again. If the bad things don’t get better, they will at least get less new. So will you. There are places to go to learn how to fight. They’ll laugh if you’re a kid. They’ll laugh if you’re a girl. They’ll give you the jab and a punch across. You’ll get the roundhouse and the uppercut. Move up and down the blue and red lines, bob-and-weave, bob-and-weave. Bend deep into your knees. Never cross your feet—trust me, I was the reason they had to order headgear. I got clocked. There was a lawyer jogging around the track at the time. But headgear slows you down, so steer clear of where lawyers jog and just don’t sue. When you see six men with the casket, you will want to fight them. When you hear your mother sobbing next to you, you will want to choke her. You are not a pallbearer because you are not your father. You are not your florid trucker uncle, not your cousin waif. Not Bill or Billy, not Joe or Joey, not Danny. You were never meant to be a big man. There’s a grandma in that fancy box. She is the chilly funeral ice cream. She is soft and hard when you kiss her her cheek, like a skin of cream cheese pulled over marble. “Give Nanny a kiss,” your mother’s voice, wet crackle. She pushes, they push your forward. We follow those who came before us. We go off in canon. They come first and love us free, a love that staggers down to us, as we will stagger down one day to our own. They shake out our towels and balm our noses, knowing us to them infinitely. Knowing that if all goes right, those who came first leave first. If all goes right, to them we are infinite, and so they are free. But we leave last,

WE C E L E B R AT E

from their fresh-cut ends our love permutes. They are always in the room—just me, them, and their sure-coming death. They can see you apart from everything but themselves, but you must look both them straight on. As their child, death is the center of their eye. They are smiling at you from across the room, trying to get you to smile, teasing you for acting embarrassed. Always teasing you, because they are free. Because they go first. Their eyebrows soften upward, their heads tilt toward the floor, sometimes they nod off. They crinkle at you, they don’t understand. But this is what you will be taught again and again. They and everyone else will teach you in your bed, and at your school, and late late at night in other people’s spaces. There are places that teach even kids how to fight. You beat the thing before you lose it. The thing that lies cold, soft and hard, and can still be painted in spectacular color. If you know something will be gone, you get rid of it yourself. You agree to do in your younger self, whose been hanging around like a kid sibling. This is why you want to push your sister out of the tree. Smother it out with your prayer pillow. Give yourself away like a childhood pet, or someone else will. This is the beginning of thirteen. Get there first, get it done. There’s a dark car out front and a family friend who will sit with you outside the funeral home and watch the crowd. You don’t have to go in. She will sit with you if you want to stay, or drive you back down through the same states. You can watch your people collect and rearrange like a chalkboard football play. She tells you who got knocked up in high school, you do the math. This one tells Woody Allen jokes that take you a while to figure out that they are actually Woody Allen jokes—he’s the one making your aunt a drunk. This one, Danny, you hear is a klepto now, you hear is maybe a junkie. He’s been trying to be a chef since his wife left and took the baby back to her big happy Cuban family, worst that you lost them as in-laws. And this one here is nearly thirty with a lisp, has a job in finance, records electronic music. But the family friend doesn’t recognize your mother’s older sister, tubbing around on a walker with a doggy bag of pills. Your family friend says oh my god, ulgh muy gaaawd, that can’t be Rosie, because she grew up with your mother in Redbank. You will laugh because that’s what there is to it. Cousins are missing, the aunts say one is lying about getting his arm stabbed. Uncles look you up and down, making jokes about your high shoes and how you wobble in them, slipping in something about your legs. Your mother has an arm around your cousin Danny and is trying to get him to coffin, but he’s crying and

WE C E L E B R AT E pounding against her. He can’t face up. A blond lady ghosts in to steal your mother’s wallet. You don’t remember her. They tell you about her later. The blonde steered clear of the coffin. She’s been spotted on a spree through the nearby towns. There were days before on the couch with your cousins eating pizza, the well-off cousins in the Connecticut house. The impatience for death riles up an aggressive love. You are feeble and perky. You are ironic and crass with your older cousins. Your overture to death is militant forgiveness. The closing tambour, the hospital, then back to the couch with the overgrown kids, back to the hospital, back to the couch. You are sacked back and forth until you losing your grip. But the snatch of death takes everything with it. There’s no more forgiveness. You are left with nothing to want but a fight. You will stand in line with the women. You will stand next to your mother, the deadness of her own mother blaring in your soul. You will imagine taking out the men raising the casket one by one, snapping them like table legs. You will want to get them to fight you. Instead you snap at your mother. This year I’ve been learning to box, I can show you a bloody lip. There’s a place where the casket tips and is regained. Fury brims but does not kick through. It skims the surface of your skin, it simmers, you keep it close like a slicker. There are places you could go but you won’t. There’s a dark car out front. Someone will drive you to the hotel lunch. Everyone but your parents will be drinking. People will tell stories they cannot finish. Who did you expect to rescue you? Spaceman Spiff?

We Celebrate A sound, could be something about to explode. Would I make it out? Tin-bang, bone-crack, something’s loose in the tissue. We look around, we can’t pick anyone. We muse. If I had to, could I choose? Because some of us would have to escape, have to. Did someone knock over a chair? Or is the refrigerator making that noise? Probably a car outside. Or someone with a weapon. (What do those things even look like?) I should have marked the exits.

WE C E L E B R AT E

That night, one of those when you keep thinking each moment is the climax, the band is playing that song each moment, each moment she’s putting the right one on. And we’re just rolling in ourselves, we all think we’ve just stepped apart from the rest. Each moment gets us high our first time and we shiver each time the tracks switch. The sound is combing us apart. I saw a younger girl in line for the bathroom with a wide duck mouth like yours. The honey hairs peacocked off the back of her neck as she turned in the light and I saw you splinter through. She smiled with your mouth and so I stayed and let her do this to me without trying. Later, someone’s mother kissed me on the cheek and I nearly took her head into my mouth. What a reflex, going to be the end of me. Us out on the porch, our cheeks spirited red— we might be smoking. We cluster in white dress shirts like folded sails, browned limbs aglow between the lawn torches. Ask us a question and we toss our heads like horses. And above, the stars, those milky-eyed invertebrates. Filmy and flimsy, infantine and elderly. Stars like thieves, wishing to snatch a fraction of what for us is a mere fraction still. They chase us with their eyes, they are us only smaller. But that’s a nice plate of cheese cubes, stands out in green saran wrap. You threw it together before you came, didn’t you? Yeah, I can tell because I did too. Got the cookies from the store, iced them red white and blue. Except those of us who wanted to make themselves into it. They baked themselves in, made four. 1. Spinach Salad with Some Kind of Fruit, 2. Potato Samosas, 3. Mushroom Rigatoni with Sausage (Wild Boar), 4. Icebox Yogurt Cheesecake. Who brought punch? Someone’s acting sad (loudly) under the pool table, and we are getting uncomfortable. We’d rather he just sock someone, is how we feel. But seriously, we defend, then at least he’d have to offer himself up, instead of just expecting us to fret. At least we’d have something real to deal with. And fuck, I said it again. Said it exactly the same way. Only worse, because it’s not the first. I try to make a joke, and it flees me like a prickle ball from the sweetgum tree. It was stupid to call you. I explain, I was listening to Fleetwood Mac. I’ve been fac-

WE C E L E B R AT E ing away from the crowd, waiting for your hand on the back of my dress. Remember how you and I used to wake up? But we just seem to roll off everything. Today, we had good mornings. Someone’s ex-girlfriend is supposed to show up with a new haircut. And he’s hoping it looks bad, so only that he can still think she’s pretty. But you can only go clockwise to the dessert table. But you can only go counter-clockwise after her. It doesn’t hurt, which probably means it looks worse. And for me, to be attuned but off the beat—a prophet’s quandary. I can see all of you from where I stand, though I’m just out of sight. And when I take you straight on, I can see the way your body clutches at light. Holds it inside like a prism, redistributes about the room. I can hear a sound, like the low motoring of lips. Like having your mouth covered, like when they gas you with your sedative and the last jolt before drifting off. I round the corner, a muffled sound. Like stepping on a small animal, like the huff between a candle lit and a candle capped out. What, can’t you hear it too? Tonight, we’ve come around, or at least I’m hiking my way back again. We’ve got a whiff of the thrill and we’re on to the taste and we’re hammering away—but you know as soon as you flip that page and you’re back to blank—you leave the room and back you spiral down again. But for the moment let us, the few escaped, remain up. Up the staircase, draped on the balcony, leaning over the foyer. Here, where the yellow shells of light have with us too escaped. Us, the demi-loners, the cooler kids. Below, the adults compare cholesterol numbers. They are talking up about the house’s high ceilings, they are hoping that the kid didn’t actually bring fireworks, they are hoping that he did. Somebody’s mother, the top of her head streaked coffee and blonde like a backgammon board. Somebody’s lingerie shaper down the neckline, somebody’s secret bald patch. Doesn’t everything look poignant from above? Below, we kick off our shoes and relieve another button. We introduce, we are reintroduced. Someone cuts his finger in the kitchen, it gets fixed, we applaud. In the movement of color in fabric whirl, our sight slurs who is spinning and who has stopped still. Everything feels fine, which means later it’s gonna kill. Clink, a toast, and here come those for whom we werenamed. Those for whom we were.

HU IS C L O S c h a r c oa l on pa pe r

Roma i n Ca di l hon

H UIS CLOS

V EI L E D

I sobel Parker Ph il ip

VEILED

TI R R A L I R R A

Ama ury Rose l ine V.B.

TIRRA LIRRA Charlotte died from extensive hemorrhaging to the head. Her body, discovered sixty-two hours post mortem, was found on the kitchen floor of her home. She was thirty-three years old. I first accorded her corpses’ familiarity to its likeness of my own reflection; but when a cousin of Charlotte’s came to identify her body, it confirmed her existence in my memory. “So, so, Herr Doktor.” It was terribly cold that morning she finally decided on emerging from her mother’s womb. It was all set up: on a little island tucked between two rivers she came—into its northern east end, between pillars of industry and sky, and almost killed her mother. But it had gone as planned; the new mother’s babe was well bred, well fed, rosy cheeked and attentive. Here was an epoch of much prosperity, one from which the young family our babe Charlotte had been born into, capitalized greatly. On this damp winter morning is when my dossier commences: from then onwards, every time I look back through the veils of memory, between each deafening sound, I find her dissonant yet synced. In the corridors of her blueprint I looked to all the little details amounting—and yet she ellipses me! Could it have been another way? Or that she should grow up lanky and awkward, bleeding out, been predetermined by the Gods. When I encountered Charlotte last there were only negatives of her left. One on a beach, where she is just four and sporting a boyish crop cut to her chin. Did it show then? When waves brushed up on her chubby calves, was her future subdued into clues within her shrieks of joy; or in the insensible humming which followed her geist scavenging for shells-- proudly holding one up occasionally to show her mother. “Charlotte, my love! Come have a glass of lemonade!” Her mother is beautiful; she looks young, even disinterested in her young family. She studied art and learned shorthand, got married and eventually gave her husband’s family children, of which our Charlotte was the eldest. As an adult, Charlotte described her mother as alienating, as distant and spoke of her as if she had been a glass menagerie; her mother suffered migraines daily. She could not get over the paralyzing thickness of the air that

TI R R A L I R R A

hung over her after the birth of her daughter and then her crippled baby boy six years Charlotte’s junior. Charlotte’s little brother was her pet, her love of life and all things good; and the only person she ever shed a tear for. There is another negative of her, this time she is much older, sporting a tweed uniform and matching nap-sac. She is tall, with mousy brown hair, a lovely face and patent black leather shoes. She sits with her brother at the school bus stop and except for their recognition of each other, neither seems to be aware of the camera or their peers. It is the first day of school, another fall come around, and another year Charlotte will spend perfecting the resembling shadows of life. A cave, where she knows she can be content and live vicariously through the world’s stage, through shadows-“that is all” she said to me once. Charlotte eventually came to make her means as a seamstress. A petty means of existence for a woman of good breeding and the inherent worth, which came with such endowments. As a child Charlotte was content. Yet now some people swear that she had always been haunted. When the doctors crack her skull from side to side, what will they see? Her stringencies and filaments are all accounted for. Her life and death must eventually be ruled and stocked away. The negatives that I have left from her trips to the Americas and IndoChina will draw a clear bow-shot from her bower-eaves, creating a map reveling her curse. God in his mercy lend her grace. Not all hauntings are bad—but even good ghosts can rend the closest bonds apart. And then, because good cannot exist without bad there are the other kinds. There is the evil, the paranoia, like when you weave by night and day and not dare look up except into your quilted imagination; or when Charlotte fractured her skull on the edge of the kitchen sink. It was so ironic that her fracture was not the swift destruction of a tsunami, but casual, like the slow trickle of a broken faucet. At first I laughed, dancing to the irregular cadence of her new drip. I tried to soak her up in my skirt, jumped in her puddles—until she became too deep. From then on I would spend occasional afternoons by the shore of her bedside—peering in to watch my own reflection ripple recognition onto her surface. Eventually she sank from me entirely, the broad stream bore her far away and we all came to be haunted by Charlotte.

V EI L E D

I TA I L O R FE E L I NGS

O l iv i a Ba e s

I TAILOR FEELI N GS

I tailor feelings into ties To see them hang around your neck. Some polka-dotted, Black and white, Or even striped Yes, even striped. Perhaps a noose would say it best, But ties do justice to your face. And I have always liked your face, But now it molds to someone else. (Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve become old ; you knew I would) I make hats out of my regrets, Fasten them tight upon my head. A backwards cap from â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;89, An old fedora I construct, From something black Yes, something black. I wish the sun in its oblivion, Could burn a hole into that hat. Oh, I wish thousands of queer thingsLike that your face still curved to mine, And I could strangle you with ties.

J EA L O U S P R E S ENCE

Iva n Ga l uzi n

JEALOUS PRESENCE OF TH E U NSEASON ED BLESSI N G

J EA L O U S P R E S ENCE

P ER F E C T I ON

Roe la nd Ve rhallen

PERFECTION

P ER F E C T I ON

I like her lips (he tells himself) Beautiful, as they curl upwards with every smile. I like her eyes (he tells himself) Sparkling, with every word she says. I don’t like her nose (he tells himself) Awkward, how it’s positioned on the face. (he doesn’t want to fall in love) He would encounter them. He would analyze them. Like a gust of wind he would encircle them, twirl around them, and leave them there shivering from the sudden cold that he always left behind. When is it that I fall in love? He repeatedly asked himself; he repeatedly analyzed. In his perpetual quest for love and the perfect girl, he devised a list: a list with every aspect that he sought in a girl. After days of wide wondering and focused formulation, he narrowed it down to thirty-four qualities, all of which had to be fulfilled lest he might accept the wrong girl to be the one he loved. He went out, began his search; holding within his mind, his perfect blueprint of love. He would not fall in love without having analyzed all possibilities, without having ruled out all avenues of error. Yet his unceasing imagination ensured that he always found flaws and discovered differences from his dream view, his ideal picture of love. Slowly he grew tired of his endless search. He wondered what was wrong, but failed to realize that what he had created was a prototype; a hypothetical perfection that could never match the true and realistic embodiment of inherently imperfect love.

LI GH T ST RUCTURE si lk s c re e n

Wi l l i a m J a me s T hurman

LIGHT STRUCTU RE

LI GH T ST RUCTURE

EN D L E S S E D G E

Natha na ĂŤ l Do rent

EN DLESS EDGE An architectural plan can provide connections, open up spaces, but it can also close off, divide, camouflage. By setting in place a future organization for people and societies, it expresses a particular conception of politics and space. 82

ENDLESS EDGE

EN D L E S S E D G E

It represents a static ideal reflecting a specific objective. It dictates our lives. Yet, most plans are never const r ucted as t hey were in itially drawn. From a sketch to a completed habitable space there are changes that take place involving many factors. The original plan is altered when confronted to a site, its environment and inhabitants, legislation, budgets or when political realities shift. Alteration also occurs once the space is completed. Indeed, built environments don’t just appear and disappear. They always go through a process of transformation that is somewhat unpredictable. Cities change constantly. Even buildings that are deemed historically important like heritage sites are not simply preserved; they need to be renovated regularly and adapted to new conditions (increasing numbers of visitors, greater urban reconfigurations, etc.). Through this process, their social meaning also changes over time. While social and spatial practices evolve, places we live in are perpetually transformed. Not only do they mutate into another form, they also interconnect in their transformation and relate to one another i n d ifferent tempora l it ies. W he n t he ce nte r of Paris was radically modified

in the 1960s-70s it was also its relat ionsh ip to t he g rowing suburbs that changed. The Parisian giant market “Les Halles de Paris” built in 1851 was already considered too “small” since the beginning of the 20th century but was only destroyed in 1972 and moved to Rungis. This urban transformation was directly linked to the construct ion of the new suburban railroad (RER). The site that once was a very big market is now the largest railroad station in Europe. Thus, a mix of time frames, politics, technology and lifestyle make urban complexity. As a result, the environment we live in is a collective construction led by ever-shifting dynamic factors connecting and disconnecting with different intensities. These factors can be economic, social or political. This conception of an open-ended moving built environment is still very general but reflects an aspect of our contemporary society in the era of digitalization. Internet, video games, cell phones, have led us to think that everything is in flux and change can take place instantaneously. “Real Time” becomes the only condition of a possible future. When space and time are “abolished” under these conditions, concepts, realities and imaginaries cohabit to construct a

EN D L E S S E D G E

panel of endless possibilities. The boundary between the “imaginary” and the “real” becomes unclear. In parallel, a growing irrational need for constant connection continues to emerge. To reach an ideal stage of connectivity one does not focus on substance but morpholog y, impact, displacement. Referring to a decentralized form of organization, this phenomenon emphasizes the interface, the dynamism of an “in-between”. Originally the edge was an abstract line defining the limits of a continuous system. It was a clear border, a dead end. Paradoxically, its function is now reversed. The edge replaces centrality as the most important and active spatial area, a place in constant redefinition on which any substantial change is reflected upon. It becomes the axis of connectivity, where relationships are the most tangible. The endless edge is an ideal representation of a paradoxical connective society that fabricates ubiquity: a closed system in which what is disconnected could become absolutely irrelevant. Generated by a fluid simulator software (cf images) and then fabricated with STL (Stereo lithography) the endless edge is a digital simulation and construction of a dense fluid generated over a three dimensional

surface. Through its morphogenesis, an interconnected continuous edge emerges and develops as an optimized pattern that functions like a topological shell. The f luid is in a state of movement, of ongoing transformation and keeps flowing through spontaneous migrations. In a similar way our bodies adapt to new environments, its matrix evolves constantly within a set system without any specific end or scale. At each moment, the smallest alteration of the fluid surface involves new conditions by which matter and form are displaced within a recursive, endless process. Different forms keep emerging under the effect of their own behavior, curving their own future. By developing such a system one could think it is the perfect “connective surface” but the generated forms are detached from anything else possible; the endless edge belongs to no site, no past and no future.

MON U M E N T S INEDITS DE L ’ A N T I QU I TE

Pa ul Cha pe l l ier

MON UMENTS I N EDITS DE L’ANTIQUITE EXPLIQU ES ET ILLUSTRES

Dans ce travail, je m’intéresse à la référence antique en architecture. Cette inspiration se traduit par une répétition plus ou moins exacte de formes archétypes dont la fonction change selon les époques et usages. Supermarchés, églises et logements individuels multiplient frontons et colonnades dans une recherche postmoderne de signifcation. Je rassemble des bâtiments très différents mais n’établi aucune hiérarchie entre eux. Reste alors une volonté esthétique commune : s’inspirer de l’Antiquité. Suivant cette idée, je propose une archéologie photographique pour découvrir la présence de l’art dans les lieux où nous vivons.

MON U M E N T S IN EDITS DE L ’ A N T I QU I TE

MON U M E N T S IN EDITS DE L â&#x20AC;&#x2122; A N T I QU I TE

U N PUBLIS H ED MON UMENTS OF ANTIQUITY, ILLUSTRATED AN D AN NOTATED

In this work, I am interested in antique references in architecture. This inspiration translates into a repetition, more or less exact, of archetypal forms, whose functions change according to their epoch and usage. Supermarkets, churches, and individual homes reproduce pediments and colonnades in a postmodern search for meaning. I gather these very different buildings together, but establish no hierarchy among them. What remains, then, is a common aesthetic will: to be inspired by Antiquity. Following this idea, I offer a photographic archaeology to discover the presence of art in the places we live.

S AF E HAV E NS TO TO RT U R E CHA MBERS

Mona Re i se re r

SAFE HAVENS TO TORTU RE CHAMBERS : TH E VULN ERABILITY OF ARCH ITECTU RE I N TWO POST-WAR NOVELS

The spaces humans have created – as homes, havens, and defenses – are central to both “Austerlitz” by W.G. Sebald (2001) and “The Garden of the Finzi-Continis” by Giorgio Bassani (1962) Although the novels contemplate architecture and its implications in very distinct ways, the characters of both share the idea that sanctuary is found inside walls – a beautiful, hopeful notion that they see brutally demolished by their cruel historical circumstances. What is illuminated by both the analytical contemplation of architecture in Austerlitz and the quiet isolation of the Finzi-Continis in their estate is the awful realization that the enclosed spaces they have created as harbors for peace and privacy are ultimately powerless to protect them against the violence threatening to tear them down.

We first encounter the eponymous protagonist of Austerlitz in one of the great nineteenth century train stations of Europe. Antwerp Centraal Station is an awe-inspiring, at once colossal and intricate construction designed to be a repository of the ideals of the era. The stone crests emblazoned on the station’s walls bear the symbols of the period’s obsession with industry and its fantasy of mobilized masses laboring under the banner of progress. As Austerlitz observes, the almost megalomaniacal architecture of the nineteenth century, with its lust for order and grandeur, “pointed in the direction of the catastrophic

events [of the twentieth century] already casting their shadows before them at the time” (Sebald 197). In the context of the horrors of the 20th century, stations especially, intended as palaces of travel and freedom, take on a sinister role: instead of liberating people by allowing them greater mobility, train stations became for many – including Austerlitz’ parents – the starting point of their final, unimaginably terrible journeys. In this way, an architecture with the original purpose of enshrining the progressive values of the bourgeois age seems in retrospect a harbinger of the most catastrophic destruction the world hady et known.

S AF E HAV E NS TO TO RT U R E CHA MBERS

Throughout the novel, we come to know Austerlitz through his thoughts rather than learning concrete facts about his life. Although his profession is not wholly clear, there is no doubt that Austerlitz is fascinated above all by architecture. Fortifications in particular play an important role in his eloquent and intellectually formidable musings on the subject. Much like stations, forts and fortified towns, such as Breendonk in Belgium and Terezín in the Czech Republic, which were originally designed to provide protection and shelter for those housed within, were put to a grotesquely different use in the 20th century. Austerlitz observes that forts and fortified towns, such as Breendonk in Belgium and Terezín in the Czech Republic, whose original purpose was to provide protection and shelter for those housed within, were put to a grotesquely different use in the 20th century. Instead of keeping their inhabitants safe from harm, their thick, geometrical walls were now used to imprison men, women, and children under torturous conditions. When the narrator visits the fortress of Breendonk, imagining to be confronted with the ideal 19th century fortification, he is horrified to discover, in its stead, “a low-built concrete mass, rounded at all its

outer edges and giving the gruesome impression of something hunched and misshapen…Covered in places by open ulcers with the raw crushed stone erupting from them, encrusted by guano-like droppings and calcareous streaks, the fort was a monolithic, monstrous incarnation of ugliness and blind violence”. (Sebald 25-26) The vision of the perfect fortification, a star-shaped, impenetrable constellation of materials nestled into the countryside around it, was destroyed in the 1940s, when these structures no longer served to protect, but to extinguish human life. According to Austerlitz, the dream of the ideal defense system experienced another jolt prior to the 1940s. This jolt occurred when the military engineers of the 18th and 19th centuries were forced to confront the intrinsic fallibility of their concept of fortification: namely, “that everything [is] decided in movement, not in a state of rest” (Sebald 20). Obsessed with constantly widening and multiplying the rings of defenses around them, these men failed to realize that the outside world would always find ways of breaching their ambitious systems – rendering them obsolete and ridiculous in the span of a second.

Austerlitz’s fascination with the failure of these defensive systems gains depth and significance when he applies these ideas to his own life. At one point in the novel, he has an epiphany. All his life, he realizes, has been spent in “always refining my defensive reactions, creating a kind of quarantine or immune system which, as I maintained my existence in a smaller and smaller space, protected me from anything that could be connected in any way, however distant, with my own early history. Moreover, I had constantly been preoccupied by that accumulation of knowledge which I had pursued for decades, and which served as a substitute or compensatory memory”. (Sebald 198) Austerl it z’ ment a l defenses take the form of distractions and litanies, the acquisition of an amazing miscellany of k nowledge, and obsessions very similar to those of the original fortbuilders. Like the train stations and fortresses, the architecture of Austerlitz’ mind – intended to be protective and conducive to tranquility – is oppressive and terrifying until Austerlitz finally confronts his past. Only then is he able to attain some of the peace that has eluded him for so long.

S AF E HAV E NS TO TO RT U R E CHA MBERS

The presence of architecture in The Garden of the FinziContinis is very subtle and almost exclusively centered around the notion of walls and boundaries. While Austerlitz constantly comments on architectural structures, The Finzi-Continis’ sense of architecture is rarely explicit, but rather implied in the characters’ naïve belief that privacy and contentment are possible in an increasingly intrusive age, if only they can be properly guarded. In the most important of these spaces, the garden and estate of the FinziContinis, the characters find a haven in which time seems to move in languid circles rather than spinning off bewilderingly into the unknown. Their isolation lulls them into a profound lack of urgency, a disastrously erroneous sense that time stretches out endlessly before them, blinding them to the emerging signs that it will soon be violently cut off. Decades after most of the Finzi-Contini family has been deported and murdered by the Nazis, the narrator, their old friend, is still haunted by the strange enchantment they all experienced in their last months in the garden. Their world revolved around games of tennis, outdoor lunches, and conversations that never truly seem to develop, and always stop short of what is important.

Initially a refuge from the outside world, the garden increasi ngly seems l ike a prison, isolating its occupants from reality to the extent that they became ignorant of the disaster encroaching on them from all sides. In the eyes of the mourning narrator, the garden of the Finzi-Continis is not the only architectural space that his memory has “transformed into that rich and wondrous thing into which any long-submerged object is transformed” (Bassani 13). The family tomb of the Finzi- Continis, a grandiose, daring structure, haunts him as wel l. The tomb’s grand design, he writes, expressed confidence – not only in the family’s fortune but also in the belief that its members would return here to rest after their deaths. The fact that none among the successive Finzi- Continis, save one, were ever buried in their family tomb testifies again to the awful truth that the spaces we build to give us peace and safety can offer us no guarantee of guarding them. In both The Garden of the Finzi-Continis and Austerlitz it is only through telling their stories that the characters can finally find some of the peace that real spaces have been unable to provide. Architectural structures are too fluid and vulnerable to being perverted

by new and hideous ideologies to offer the safety and freedom from pain that Austerlitz and the unnamed narrator of The Finzi-Continis are searching for. They must turn instead to constructing and reconstructing their experiences through language in order to lay their sorrows to rest – on the faithful firmament of the page.

CO M I N G S OON

Cla p Cla p Club

KLEIN

Hadrien Lopez

B L U E p r i n t plateau 100

i s s u e 1 F U T U R A

R e n n e r P

90 pt

81 pt

72 pt

63 pt

54 pt

45 pt

36 pt

27 pt

& æ ¼ § @ # œ ﬁ Æ œ < 3

18 pt

" O n

9 pt

n ’ e n

c o n n a î t

a u c u n e

a u t r e

s e m b l a b l e.

Elle est sans doute la toute première (1927). Elle se distingue par des m & n absolument rectilignes; par un r qui est une barre suivie d’un point." Fernand Baudin, 1971.

4½ pt