Love Songs for Antarctica by Vivian Sming

LOVE SONGS FO R A N T A R C T I C A A COLLECTION OF POEMS, SONGS, AND OTHER WRITINGS PERFORMED TO ANTARCTICA DECEM B E R 2 7t h T H R U 3 1 s t 2 0 1 1 EDITED BY / VIVIAN SMING

PABLO CARRILLO HEISUE CHUNG NADIA DOUGHERTY LOREN GUSTAFSON PÁLL HAUKUR BILLY HERNANDEZ MINHA PARK JOHANNA REED BEN TONG TIFFANY TZUANG CHARLENE YUNG LUIS ERNESTO ZAVALA

“Imaginary Iceberg, No. 1” / Photograph by Three (2011)

ANTARCTICA, I M A G I N E D . / V I V I A N S MI N G In my Antarctic fantasy, I would be alone. I would be enveloped by its vastness, and humbled by its majesty. I would feel the temporality of my existence: alive, fragile, and cold. On December 23, 2011, I set off on my journey to Antarctica. I brought with me 6 poems, 3 songs, 1 story, 1 letter, and 1 book. These were written and composed by artists, writers, musicians, and daydreamers. Love songs for Antarctica. I would give these to Antarctica, though I had nothing to say. Just the silence of an imagined experience, repeating over and over in my head.

“LOST LOVE LETTER” / CHARLENE YUNG READ TO THE ANTARCTIC SOUND ON D E C E M B E R 2 7 , 2 0 1 1 . Dear “A,” After years of not seeing each other, I am writing to you because I miss you. I miss the way I felt when I was with you. I miss dreaming of what we could have been. I wonder often how you are doing. Do you still live down south? Have you found a pet Husky yet? But more importantly, do you still think of me? I’m not bitter that I’m the one who got hurt in the end. That’s a risk I took opening my heart up to you. I have no regrets. I find comfort knowing that the love we had was our own. A love that not even a future soul mate can touch. Although we are miles apart, please know that I love you and I will never forget you. Love, Charlene

“NEVER AGAIN” SHOUTED INTO THE ANTARCTIC SOUND ON D E C E M B E R 2 7, 2 0 1 1 .

/ PABLO CARRILLO

“ THE WATERGATE S A N D A L ” / LOREN GUSTAFSON AUDIO (STEREO), 5 MIN. 21 SEC. HUMMED TO THE SOUTH SHETLAND ISLANDS ON DECEMBER 28, 2011.

“EULOGY TO THE PARROT” BY OVID / BEN TONG READ TO THE SOUTH SHETLAND ISLANDS ON DECEMBER 28, 2011. Parrot, that feathered mimic from India’s dawnlands, Is dead. Come flocking, birds, To his funeral: come, all you godfearing airborne Creatures, beat breasts with wings, Mourn, claw your polls, tear out soft feathers (your hair) , and Pipe high your sad lament. Philomela, nightingale, the ancient crime of Tereus Which you lament is long past – Divert your grief to the obsequies of a rare and modern Bird: poor Itylus’ case was tragic, but antique. All wing-borne voyagers through the clear empyrean Lament now, and above all His friend the turtle-dove. They lived in complete agreement, Their bond of faith held firm to the end. What Pylades was to Orestes of Argos, that, Parrot, Turtle-dove was to you – while Fate allowed. Yet of no avail your devotion, your rare and beautiful plumage, Your adaptable mimic’s voice; Not even the care that my darling lavished on you – Poor Polly, paragon of birdhood, is dead. So green his feathers, they dimmed the cut emerald; scarlet His beak, with saffron spots. No bird on earth could copy a voice more closely Or sound so articulate. Fate, jealous, removed him – that unaggressive creature, That talkative devotee of peace, With his tiny appetite, whose love of conversation Left him little leisure for food, Who lived on a diet of nuts, used poppy-seed to encourage Sound sleep: kept his thirst at bay With nothing but water. Quails spend their whole life fighting – Maybe that’s how they reach a ripe old age.

Carnivorous vultures, kites gyring high in the heavens, Weather-wise jackdaws, prophets of rain to come, All are long-lived – while Minerva’s bête noire, the raven, Can outlast nine generations. Yet Parrot is dead, That loquacious parody of human utterance, that bonanza From the eastern edge of the world. Greedy death almost always picks off the best ones early – It’s the third-raters who reach a ripe old age. Thersites attended the funeral of Protesilaus; Hector Was ashes while his brothers still lived. What point in recalling the desperate prayers my sweetheart uttered? Some stormy sirocco blew them out to sea. Six days he survived, and then, at dawn on the seventh, His thread of destiny ran out. Yet somehow, though dying, he could still find utterance, And the last words he ever spoke were: ‘Corinna, farewell!’ Beneath a hill in Elysium, where dark ilex clusters And the moist earth is for ever green, There exists – or so I have heard – the pious fowls’ heaven (All ill-omened predators barred). Harmless swans roam after food there, there dwells the phoenix, That long-lived, ever-solitary bird; There Juno’s peacock spreads out his splendid fantail Amid the billing and cooing of amorous doves; And there, in this woodland haven, the feathered faithful Welcome Parrot, flock round to hear him talk. His bones lie buried under a parrot-sized tumulus With a tiny headstone bearing these words: R.I.P. Polly: this tribute from his loving mistress: ‘Articulate beyond a common bird’.

“PERMANENT W I N T E R ” / JOHANNA REED UNIQUE BOOK (VOL. 1) L E F T I N A N T A R C T I C WA T E R S ON D E C E M B E R 2 7 , 2 0 1 1 .

“FAREWELL LETTER” / MINHA PARK WHISPERED TO THE ANTARCTIC SOUND ON DECEMBER 27, 2011. 안녕 남극아 너는 계속 녹아내리겠지. 너를 떠나 보내는 이 마음이 너무 슬프구나. 남극의 여름에도 작별을 고한다. 남극의 겨울은 이미 끝이 났다. 이 편지가 울려퍼질때면 이미 모든 것이 끝이 나는 거다. 안녕 남극아.

“SNOW CONE DAYS” / TIFFANY TZUANG READ TO THE ANTARCTIC SOUND ON D E C E M B E R 2 7 , 2 0 1 1 . snow cone days Antarctica, these are our snow cone days leaving me in a daze lazing under the frozen sun memories are spun let us joyously meet singing songs so sweet our breaths will puff into the sky immortalized for you and I

“HOT 92.3 FM (LET ME MELT YOU)” / LUIS ERNESTO ZAVALA PUBLIC RADIO, AUDIO (STEREO), 5 MIN. 18 SEC. PLAYED THROUGH SPEAKERS TO TH E A N TA R C T I C S OU N D ON D E C E M B E R 2 7 , 2 0 1 1 .

“ B E H O L D , THE MIRACULOUS!” / NADIA DOUGHERTY READ TO THE SOUTH SHETLAND ISLANDS ON DECEMBER 28, 2011. Once upon a time, there was a girl who believed in a miracle. She believed in the miracle that there existed a paradise, not one that was far away, to be entered only after a steep and life-long climb into the heavens, but one that existed here on earth, perhaps as close as the next block, or even the next corner, or even as close to us as the heart beating in our chests. One day, she met a boy who offered a way to paradise. They became friends, and then they fell in love. They spent every hour of each day together, and with each day, the girl thought “We are on our way to paradise!” “Yes!” she thought “Truly, we are on our way to paradise!” There, the burden of past memories would be lifted, there would be peace of mind, kindness, grace, and mercy. As they strolled along contentedly, together, side by side, hand in hand, the girl glimpsed a flicker of paradise and ran, overjoyed, towards it stretching out her fingers eagerly. But the boy did not follow. He did not see it. In fact, he did not even believe in miracles. As she slowed her speed, she became aware that the impossibilities of hopelessness were on the hunt. They had her cornered. She looked down, shivering with fright, at the hand that had gripped so tightly to a miracle. She raised the hand to her face and relaxed her grip,

just enough so as to peer inside the fist, to see if this miracle really did exist. But as she did, there was the soft and tantalizing sound of a flutter, a breathtaking burst of bright. Just like that the miracle had slipped away, and instead of a paradise, the girl and boy were thrown into the pits of what was surely the opposite. Once upon a time, there was a girl who had lost a miracle. She had lost the miracle that there existed a paradise on this earth, because she was overcome by the knowledge that there was also a hell, which roared alive regrets, and was as close as despair is to the despairing. One day, she met a boy who offered a way to paradise. They became friends, and then they fell in love. They spent every hour of each day together, but with each day, the girl felt more and more fearful. Even though she longed for her miracle to return, she worried that she was too careless to deserve it, and that she would again let it slip away, and in its stead, crush another innocent heart with a hell of hopelessness! And so she stopped searching, and stopped believing. The girl let the miracle disappear into the heavens of hope, and this time she let the boy follow it.

EXCERPT FROM AN INTERVIEW WITH MRS. WILKINS* / HEISUE CHUNG WHISPERED TO THE ANTARCTIC S OUN D O N D EC EMB ER 27 , 201 1 . for future i’d like to work for abused women i know them i know how they feel because i know everything about them because i know i mean i have been there and how they feel i know what they are thinking they are trying to hide from everybody i have been there before i know how to talk to them my dream hope money comes later i really don’t care about money because i know whatever i need god will give to me i want everything but i know god gives me what i need not what i want money comes later so that’s my hope

* interview & photograph of Mrs. Wilkins from “Korean Military Brides in America: A Shot in the Dark” (2010) / Heisue Chung

“DEATH IS THE ONLY TH I N G LEFT TO RESPECT” WRITTEN ON A FOGGED STATEROOM WINDOW IN THE ANTARCTIC SEAS ON D E C E M B E R 2 9 , 2 0 1 1 .

/ PÁLL HAUKUR

“GO OD DREAMS ” / BILLY HERNANDEZ AUDIO (STEREO), 1 MIN. 11 SEC. PLAYED THROUGH SPEAKERS AT CAPE HORN ON DECEMBER 31, 2011.

“Imaginary Iceberg, No. 2” / Photograph by Three (2011)

ANTARCTICA, I N A C T UA L I T Y. / V I V I A N S MI N G Antarctica stood like an elegant statue, pristine, pure, and precious. I wanted to hold it in my palm, and perhaps place it under glass. Everything seemed to disturb and taint Antarctica. The boat, the wind, the penguins, and any sound above a whisper. Instead of feeling the temporality of my existence, I felt the temporality of Antarctica. It was like us: fragile, helpless, and alive. Antarctica listened to the world above it. It changed and morphed accordingly, leaving its fate in our hands.

T H A N K

Y O U

TO ALL WHO PARTICIPATED, AND ALL THOSE WHO MADE THIS POSSIBLE. A special thanks to my parents and my sister.

All images and text belong to their rightful owner. Images of Antarctica are taken by Vivian Sming. Text: Bodoni / Display: Didot

ÂŠ 2012 by Vivian Sming