Worlds Largest Collection of the Worlds Smallest Versions of the Worlds Largest Things

image from "Imagine Kansas Without Art"  - stencil art from Dave Loewenstein

On March 3^rd, I attended the Governor’s Arts Awards ceremony in Topeka. This was just a month after Gov. Sam Brownback signed an executive order dissolving the Kansas Arts Commission (Feb. 7, Ex. Order #39), and proposing a Kansas Arts Foundation, moving functions to a department under the Kansas Historical Society, and half a month after a giant rally in Topeka in support of the Arts (Feb.. 10).

The Governor(less)’s Arts Awards ended up being a rally in and of itself, following Arts Day at the Capitol. No one expected Brownback to show, although I believe many did as I did, and had a mental set of talking points just in case he did extend his hand to the honorees. Instead of an anti-Arts Governor, we were graced with the Senators (Sen. Roger Reitz, R.) leading the charge to overturn the Executive Order, through a Senate vote scheduled for March 16th.

The GAA ended up being both an awards celebration, and a repeated rally for the arts. I think we all left feeling energized, yet again, and motivated to contact our Senators once again to support the bill overturning the Executive Order. But, there was still a tiny spot in my frustrated psyche that wanted to tell Gov. Sam Brownback what I thought. And just a week later, I got that chance…

I was invited to emcee the Pancake Day Talent Show, part of the festivities surrounding the International Pancake Race, held each Shrove Tuesday concurrently in Olney, England, and Liberal, Kansas. I arrived on Monday, in time to explore the town and gear up for the evening’s events. Just before the big Talent Show, I attended a combined Dignitary Reception and High Tea. While talking with the director, I learned that some of the dignitaries for the event would include Brownback. I immediately recalled the mental speech I’d prepared for the previous week, and started tweaking it, but also knew that my personal politics shouldn’t be allowed to get in the way of the Celebration, as I was an invited guest, and representing Liberal Pancake Day.

I left before the political contingent arrived, to give myself sufficient time to get into the Emcee get-up, and prepare for introducing the numerous acts that were to be performing that evening. The judges (a dance instructor and director of the Dodge City Diamonds, a voice instructor from a regional college, and Miss Kansas 2010) and I were sequestered in a room before the show, ushered to our places, and we did our respective jobs up through intermission. We were ushered back to our room for the 15 minutes of down-time.

Then, the door opened, and Gov. Brownback, his handler, and his daughter entered the room. His eyes were bright with a greeting, and he walked directly to me, saying as he extended his hand "I saw your Conan thing on the web - that was great! This is my daughter…"

This was the decision point. Do I graciously say "Thank You" and chat about something past, or change tack? If any of you know me, you already know where this is going.

"Well, thank you. Good to meet you. I’m sorry we didn’t meet before, at last week’s Governor’s Art Awards, but I’m sure it would have been a tough crowd for you."

Then we had a conversation. I could see the warm sparkle ebb from his eyes as the chat went on, and once they’d reached their coldest I let go of his hand.

Initially, he chuckled and said "Yes, it would have, but they’re not satisfied with the move over to another entity"

"I understand that completely - it hamstrings the industry, eliminating N.E.A. funds that will only go to a State Arts Agency, not through a non-Arts entity, even if there IS an Art Foundation under its umbrella."

"No, that’s not true - they’ll still be getting funds, and it’ll work just as well as the Kansas Humanities Council."

"Yes, they’ll be able to get funds, but not the direct line that requires the entity to be a State Arts Agency. Not the same at all, and it changes the function, so the Arts Foundation is now a competitor for the remaining NEA funding reserved for 501©3s, rather than a conduit for funds."

He insisted that it wasn’t true, and with that realization of his immobility on the subject, I was again renewed in spirit - he’d shown the hitch, the party line, the basic tenet that has been confusing Senators. His insistence of the mechanics of the funding, in direct opposition to the facts of the funding streams. It illuminated the need for direct, clear, fact-driven proof, delivered to the Senators from all of our regions.

In the rally the month before, I heard from a friend in another district, about her own Senator. She passed along that the Senator in question just didn’t believe that NEA funds would NOT got to a non-State agency. This Brownback interaction showed how strong the rhetoric is, and that it needs to be fought with facts, documentation, and persistence.

Our chat didn’t last much longer, as his head was in a continual "No" movement, and the eyes went from cold to flint. I ended with "I’m hopeful that our Senators can create a compromise - reduced funding for a preserved State Kansas Arts Commission."

Brownback had backed away, eager to introduce his daughter to Miss Kansas. We both wished each other well, in the midst of disagreement.

They worked the rest of the room, and departed, back to the auditorium. It was still the middle of the Talent Show, and the coordinator had re-entered the room to see Brownback’s hand trapped in mine. She later told me that she’d been holding her breath when she realized what was about to happen.

Once he left the room, the Dodge City Diamond lady gave a nervous laugh. "I was watching, wondering what to do if it came to blows…"

Then, she looked directly at me and said "You do know that is NOT the way you get things done."

I looked back at her, and didn’t say what popped into my head, as we still had half a show to do. Instead, I replied with "…maybe that’s not the way YOU would do it, but I had to, for my community and conscience and career."

There was a sniff and a shrug and the topic was dropped.

Just after intermission, it was time to introduce the dignitaries. As Emcee, I had the microphone first, and then handed off to the Pancake Day Chairman. He went through the attending Senators, Representatives, and Legislators, then handed the mic back to me.

I looked out into the audience, and decided on one last address to Brownback. It was a sincere statement:

"I especially want to thank Gov. Brownback for being here tonight, as it is Kansas’ 150^th Birthday. It’s events like these that make up our great state, showcasing the fun, quirky, and strong diverse communities that come together in these celebrations. Your participation is greatly appreciated, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the Pancake Day events." (I’m sure the actual summation of words is a bit different, but that was the sentiment).  At the bottom of it all, we might not agree on politics, or support of the Arts, but Liberal's festivities are one of the great amazing things about Kansas, and Bb's attendance was a boost for the profile of the day.  Everything was said, and intended, with sincerity.

He stuck through the rest of the Talent Show (which is not usual - they usually skedaddle and fly back to Topeka), and was in attendance through the Pancake Breakfast, and braving the cold and sleet to see the final International Race. In watching interactions after our own, I could see a range of topics, and the same warmth-to-cold transition of his demeanor, depending on the topic. I could see that topics were closed to consideration, or alteration, which ends up being the best sort of information to have - with that, you can formulate a more effective answer, a better strategy in fighting for what is best for your community.

On the way home, I thought about what Diamond lady said. Is direct conversation NOT the way to get things done? I hold to my actions, but thought about what the worst-case scenario would be. It led me to a realization - it depends on what game you are playing. If I was in it for the short game, yes, this was the exact wrong thing to do. I could be blackballed from any sort of State contract, the KAC could evaporate, and the replacement committee could refuse any application or advocacy from my corner.

But, in the long game, and in the role of advocating for your principles, I couldn’t do anything differently. Things slip away if you do NOT speak up, if you think someone else will defend cultural institutions. In the long game, I want to know that I did what I could at every opportunity. I will not gloss over what I think is a deep wrong. I will not grin and smile and be silent, I will genuinely grin, genuinely smile, and say what I mean, even if it makes the short game that much more difficult. This is my state, I have a voice, and I will use it.

image:  "House of Cards" c. 1999.  Now in a museum collection somewhere... Maryland?  Alexandria?  Would have to look it up...

How do you know when things are ending? Well, you kinda’ know them when it’s date-driven, but how do you know when the self-directed things are at their end? Careers? Relationships? Road trips? That’s one of the uncomfortable questions you don’t even consider while growing up, and even a little bit after you’ve grown up, if you have a pre-defined path. But, for me at least, life doesn’t become your own until you figure out how to navigate the ends of things, or direct them yourself.

The point of realization for me was at my grandfather’s funeral. I was sitting there in the front family pew, reading the tiny little paper that had a summation of his life. I knew the man as a retired person, but still farming, and only knew past jobs or occupations as they were told in family lore. Then, seeing a chronology listed out on a little piece of paper, I saw the variety, the oddity, of a listing of jobs and events, realizing that there was absolutely no way he would have foreseen any of them. It wasn’t a set of things that logically led to other things, it was a list of things that arose from living in the era in which he lived. Nothing was set, even if the teenaged person that led up to Grandpa assumed his life was set. A draft and a war and a wife alter the path, sometimes by a person’s choosing, sometimes by dealing with an external unavoidable choice.

I’ve been incredibly lucky in that I’ve gotten to choose most of my own path, after realizing that I didn’t necessarily have to stick to the one chosen for me. We (my sister and I) were raised in a family that valued education, so we knew we were required to go to college. The natural American Dream after that was to get a functional degree (which is why my first one was in Commercial, not Studio Art), then get a job in that field, get married, and be successful. I did all of that, according to the directions as I understood them, but it still wasn’t enough. I had an itching to go and see and do things that weren’t a part of a suburban dual-income corporate life. A few years into this life, I had a dream, which sparked the start of choosing a self-directed path, based more on gut instincts and less on pre-defined path taking.

I was approaching a small wooden house, with a porch and a few steps leading up to it. As I reached for the doorknob, I suddenly realized that I knew the exact map of the house inside, even though I’d never been there. I opened the door, and saw that I was partially correct - the layout was exactly as I’d thought, but upon entering, you could shift the reality of the room into any number of corresponding rooms that you had actually been in. The living room, with a little concentration, could become any living room you’d ever visited, the dining room the same. The converted reality wouldn’t stick, it’d be fleeting, but it was temporarily there.

As I wandered through the house, I found one more door that shouldn’t have been there. It didn’t match the floorplan, nor seem to have any related function. I opened that door, and entered the room that didn’t have any associated rooms - you couldn’t shift it to something familiar. And there was Grandpa. He was dressed as I always remembered him, in Key overalls (striped ones, not solid…) and a short-sleeved button-up shirt, well worn. He was sitting in his usual place, on a chair with a table at his elbow, a blue and chrome ashtray receiving ashes (Kools), and another chair in front of him, so he could lean his arms on the back upright. But he wasn’t leaning on the front chair, he was painting.

I was looking at the back of whatever it was he was painting, so moved around beside him to see what it might be. When I came ‘round, it was a familiar pattern, a sort of meandering doodle form that I’d been drawing since I was little, a pattern that still shows up in the margins of meeting notes or when nothing particular is in mind, but I have a creative yen for drawing or painting. His canvas space was almost full, and he was working on moving the pattern into the last corner. He paused only briefly to look at me and say "You haven’t got much time."

I awoke immediately, but the dream didn’t fade like most do. I turned it over in my head many times in the following months, and thought again about the realization I’d had at his funeral, looking at the life list printed on thin paper. Those realizations and reminders led to a new path. I’d hear about it from family and friends from back home "Why did she ever give up that good job, that great life…" every once and a while, not realizing that the corporate American Dream wasn’t for me, but the exploratory one was. I moved to a new town, quit the corporate job, enrolled in grad school, got a divorce, and started something new. It was a dramatic shift-and-change, which would repeat itself, based on internally correct choices.

Later, when I was to follow the new career path of seeking a tenure-track professorship, I’d hear the admonishments again, this time from fellow Art Career Path peers. I had a contract in my hand, a security pass for the next few decades, but decided not to sign it, sell everything not portable, and live on the road instead. I called up the University who had offered the job, declining but not fully explaining, other than to say "I have another opportunity, thank you." When my co-teaching-job-seekers heard that, some were encouraging (as it meant less competition out there…), some were dumb-struck, and some had admonishments. "You do know you’ve just killed your career."

Ten years later, I’m still making those seemingly-rash decisions. Rest assured, they’re thought out, and debated, but I don’t tip my hand much in the process. There are no lengthy coffee shop conversations with girlfriends over shoulds or should nots, no hours-long family phone calls discussing the finer points. Advice and considerations are sought and considered, but not overly hashed. Then the thing is done, whatever it may be. Externally, it seems to come without warning, but there’s usually a deep involved internal process, and I don’t regret many of the big decisions I’ve made. Because, as Grandpa said, I don’t have much time…

It seems as if, when someone else has set the path, you wait for time to pass. Now, in my non-set path, I can’t seem to get enough time. I don’t watch a clock, waiting for the hands to reach a certain point, so I can clock out. There are dozens of clocks here, all set to different times (I do know which one to look at when I need to know real time…), but the rigid timeline doesn’t dictate. Deadlines do, but time, as it relates to day-to-day functions (funny, still talking in time increments!) doesn’t have the power that it did in a other-structured life. I would like a time clock, just so I could punch in once and a while, but I wouldn’t ever know when to clock out.

I did two long-winded sets of explanations in previous TAD posts, and now have an edited version that I'm working on for a journal...  More concise, but still wordy.  S'posed to cut it down to 500 words, but wanted to preserve this draft in the line-up...

It started with a simple email, subject line: Conan. A producer for Conan stumbled on the World’s Largest Things website, and wanted to know more. He requested a phone interview, and that’s how the Big Ball started rolling. The email was in the first week of October, and a mere two months later I was facing cameras, a live studio audience, and the World’s Most Effervescent Redhead, talking about the World’s Largest Collection of the World’s Smallest Versions of the World’s Largest Things.

There’s an amazing amount of work that goes on behind the scenes, even for a short 6.5 minute segment with girls from Kansas. Through numerous hour-long phone calls, we created a short list of some of the best stories behind Roadside Iconic Vernacular structures for the official pitch to Conan. I supplied images of the short-listed World’s Largest Things, as well as studio shots of the associated World’s Smallest Version of each World’s Largest Thing. Then, I awaited the verdict.

On November 5^th, I received the response. "It went great. I wanted to check in and see if Wednesday December 22^nd would work for you." So, with a date set, we decided on a score of models to accompany me and my little Art Car SCOUT out to L.A. I built a 10-day roadtrip around the event, including two for L.A. meanderin’ and T.V. appearin’. The studio provided accommodations just ½ mile from the Warner Brothers studio lot in Burbank, so I could arrive the day before and be rested for the show.

As previously mentioned, I was driving an Art Car. While many people assume this to be a socially limiting maneuver, it’s actually a bonus. The valets at the hotel took extra care of it (and, I suspect, drove it around a bit, as per my suggestion), and at Warner Brothers, the security guards directed me on a circuitous route through the lot, and alerted people throughout the studio to come out and see the mini Art Car Parade of One. I arrived at Stage 15, unloaded my models, and checked in.

The Talent Coordinator led me to my green room, called the producer, and left me to unpack. The producer came down to go over last minute details, while the stage crew assessed the models, found an appropriate-sized presentation tray, and arranged them in order of appearance. Flatscreens in the guest lounge and all of the green rooms showed pre-recorded bits in their final edits, as well as the entire show as it was rehearsed and dissected in the run-through. I did not rehearse with Conan and Andy, to keep the real conversation spontaneous. While I did meet Jack Black and Slash backstage, I didn’t meet Conan or Andy until I actually walked out on stage.

You could hear the audience filling the studio, and the laughter as they were warmed up before the show. Then, it was showtime. Backstage filled up with guests and visitors, and I was thankful for the private room for last minute wardrobe and mic wiring. In the middle of the Jack Black/Conan/Slash bit, I was ushered to the staging area, and directed to a piece of tape facing the heavy stage curtain held by two massive stage hands. They gave me a thumbs-up, Conan introduced the segment, giving a surprise shout-out to my hometown folks of Lucas, Kansas, who’d arranged to see the program onscreen at the Lucas Theater.

I greeted Conan and Andy, we talked about the concept and the models, with a good audience response to the selected stories. The banter was quick and comfortable, with all three of us getting in some good zingers. It was a good summation of what the WLCoWSVoWLT is all about, celebrating the quirky and amazing stories from the road. The segment was over quickly, but Conan and Andy invited me to hang out through the musical guest, Jimmie Vaughan. During the commercial, Conan thanked me again, saying "…these are stories you can really TALK about" and Andy asked advice on dollhouse building. Andy and I went over to meet the band as the closing music dwindled away. From there, I went back to my green room, gathered my items, and was thanked yet again by the producer who’d found the collection and proposed the appearance. Stage 15 emptied out quickly, and I was back in my swanky hotel room by air time, marveling at where the love of America’s backroads had taken me.

(download)

Click here to download:

day-27-tilt-a-whirl-mistletoe-mayhem-and-conan-MJpi3OXbePAKiJpauHwp.zip (8.14 MB)

Once I got to the studio (Stage 15), and settled in to my green room, the producer who’d pitched and booked me came down to talk things over. He carried a large manilla envelope, as he and the Team Coco staff had researched, downloaded, documented, and called around for more of the backstory to the final World’s Smallest Versions that made the show. He was happy to see the models in real life ("…they’re even better in person!") and the next step was prepping for rehearsal. We lined up the models and their marble bases, and members of the stage crew came in to secure them to their bases, and find a tray for them to live on.

On the flatscreens throughout the backstage area, the part and pieces of the show were coming together. Animations and pre-recorded bits were being lined up in their proper places, leading up to rehearsal. Conan and Andy were out on stage, in street clothes, going through the parts and pieces that made up the first two segments. As with any good storyteller, the details come together in rehearsal. They ran through pieces, evaluated what was funny, what wasn’t, what parts were necessary, what parts were redundant. Some technical pieces that evidently took a lot of time to produce were scrapped, either because of glitches, or flow. The set, in honor of the holiday season, had been decorated by Master Holiday Decorator Kenny Irwin, Jr., an eccentric multi-media artist who combines kitschy and scary elements with high-voltage melted amalgamations of almost-Christmas-ie materials. Since this, too, is part of my interest area, I felt right at home in front of a giant inflated chicken sandwich, with a bright red painted armadillo on the end table. But, because the set was a whole mess of crazy wonderfulness, things like the Art Car just didn’t stand a chance of getting onstage, nor did the super-fabulous Tron suit the special effects guys had rigged up for the evening. It, by comparison, was just too tame to make it.

While people were going through scripts, Jack Black and entourage showed up, housed in the green room adjacent to mine. By now, there were starting to be more and more people in the lounge area, including a children’s choir who went through rehearsal first. Once they were prepped, and their rehearsal over, they were forbidden from eating or drinking anything, as they were going to stay in costume until showtime. Because of the growing crowd, there were people stationed about to make sure Jack got to his room unmolested, with a little bit of coming and going while waiting for his own rehearsal time.

He and Conan and special surprised guest Slash went through their surprise guitar-off, deciding on just the best way to pull it off. Again, this was all shown on the flatscreens everywhere, but with the added doppler of the live sound coming from just beyond the next set of rooms. After the ‘real’ people rehearsal, it was time for the filler rehearsal… the pros disappeared into their respective rooms, including Conan and Andy, and I was led out onto stage. Rehearsal was mostly to see what camera angles and positions would be needed, and we ran through the images and the models fairly quickly. A stage manager took the place of Conan, and there wasn’t much to it. From there, I waited.

There was a lot of waiting. Or so it seemed. The whole stage was kept fairly cool, and at one point, a mohawked musician stopped to ask how cold I was, as he was freezing. He finally wandered off to wardrobe to find a coat, and came back a while later to see if I’d warmed up at all. I hadn’t, but the upshot was that I wasn’t sweating.

The producer went back up to review tapes, and after a bit he came back down to the green rooms to go over some last minute details. A few more pieces were eliminated, and that was about it. Then, it was time to wait. People were filling up the lounge area, and the screens went blank as the audience filed in to the studio. The little TV windows into the world were no longer on, but the actual sounds funneled through the stage, murmurs and laughter, and shuffling of equipment.

At one point, I did get to talk to Slash. Well, not really ‘to’, more like ‘got talked at by Slash’. Ok, not really even that - he poked his head into my room, and said "Oh. Wrong room", then knocked on the next door. Then, the show started, and it was time to re-watch all of the parts and pieces that flashed by all afternoon, while being wired up by one of the sound guys.

As I’d already seen the bulk of the skits and the Jack Black rehearsal, I asked to be taken to hair and makeup, as that’s a giant blank spot in my skill sets. They, too, were nice professional people, chatting about the dreaded jobs coming up ("…are we expected to do the whole choir? Someone should tell ‘em that they need to arrive hair-and-makeup ready, and we’re just available for touch-ups…"). Back at my little room, the sound guy checked mics one last time, the Talent Coordinator thrust a stack of papers to sign, and I was led off to the backstage area.

The crew were whisking away the gear from the guitar-off, and I again had a brief passing glance at Jack Black and Slash, but I was focused more on the piece of tape the lady with the clipboard pointed out. Two large burly guys had their hands on the heavy curtain just a foot in front of my face, and the crowd was cued to applaud on the bump back from the break.

Conan introduced the segment, and I could hear the added shout-out to Lucas - during yesterday’s conversation with the producer, I’d mentioned that the Lucas Area Community Theater wrangled up a special event back home. The local Telephone and Cable company got the theater wired to show Conan live, and the theater opened up with concessions, Flat Erikas, and comfy seats to watch it on the big screen. Conan said a big HELLO to the town, gathered at the theater, and then I was on.

Oddly enough, I haven’t watched the show in full video. I’ve captured screen shots, a few seconds apart, and made a flipbook of the segment, so I HAVE watched it that way, but not as a show. I was immediately put at ease by the genuine greeting from Conan, and the "We’re glad you are here…" as I walked up on stage. Again, the segment had been talked about and planned in numerous conversations, with the images and models lined up in order, so what you see is exactly what you get. Banter felt good and natural the whole time, and the one little niggling worry of being treated like a backwoods hick was quickly dismissed. There were some great straight lines and zingers, with all three of us at some point having to stop and giggle at an unexpected (but not something to trip you up…) comment. It was a good overview of what the WLCoWSVoWLT is all about, we ran out of time to talk about the World’s Largest Dreidel, but the segment felt good all the way around. As we bumped to break, Conan leaned over, shook my hand again, and said "Sometimes you get tired of talking about acting all the time - this is good. This is stuff you can really talk about…" and invited me to hang out on stage through the music portion.

During the commercial break, Andy leaned over to chat a bit, then said "I need some advice. I bought a dollhouse kit for my daughter, and have been trying to put it together every night for a while now, and it’s not going so well. What can I do?" The only answer I could think of was to give it to his daughter unfinished, with a note from Santa, saying it was a Father-Daughter project. I like to think that I saved the Richter Christmas.

We came back from break, Conan introduced Jimmie Vaughan, and the band played. Just as they were leaving, Conan got up to be ready to jog over for handshakes, and once he was done Andy got up, grabbing my elbow along the way, saying "C’mon. Let’s go mingle with the band." I shook hands, staying downstage of the rest of the people, when the rhythm guitarist (who I ended up standing next to…) backed up a bit and turned to me, reintroducing himself. "I’m Billy. You were incredibly calm up there - I woulda’ been shakin’ in my boots." "What in the world are you talking about - you’re a musician, you’re on stage all the time!" "Yeah, but I’m not talkin’, and I’ve got a guitar to hide behind." In chatting with him as the show wrapped up, I’m almost certain we’ve met before, somewhere in Texas or in the rockabilly world.

Things wrapped up quickly from there, I followed Andy out and said my thank-yous and "good luck on the dollhouse building", and went back to my green room to unwire and repack. As I did so, the producer came through to say goodbye, as they do an after-show evaluation and he’d probably not be back to see me out. The talent manager came back through to make sure I had everything, and say thanks. There were quite a few people still in the lounge area, who didn’t give my open door a second glance beforehand, but now chatted about their favorite Roadside attraction memories and questions about road trips.

I gathered my things, said goodbye to the greenroom intern, and headed back to the car. As I was packing up, I heard a "Holy shit - that’s cool…" from behind me (I was bent over the seat, putting the suitcase with the models away), and when I looked up it was the Tilt-A-Whirl band. As they walked away, I heard "hey - I think that was that one girl’s truck…"

I drove back out through the continuing rain, waved a good-bye to the security folks (big waves back and a thumbs up from a tourist on the corner, returning to the audience garage…) and headed back to the hotel. I picked up some really good cheese and a nice bottle of wine on the way, took a long hot bath, and laid out a nice meal, sprawled out on a big bed in a swanky hotel in Burbank. I was just in time to see the show, which seemed to air exceedingly early, and ended up watching my segment through the little screen on my digital camera. Much later that night, I got excited texts from friends and Conan fans who were at watch parties in Houston, Minnesota, and Kansas, as the segment aired in the Central timezone.

It was the anchor of the trip, and went well for all parties considered. The producer emailed a few days later, saying that the reviews were positive from the wrap-up, and I had a few more amazing days on the road, spending Christmas in one of my favorite places - behind the wheel, eating up asphalt, and enjoying the backroads of the Southwest.

image from the 2010 LA Trip - my own private think-space, in the cab of my favorite pickup.

One of the best parts about exploring the backroads, embarking on a long meandering journey to ‘capture’ Roadside Attractions and outsider art environments, setting out with a map and a small package of little whit donuts, is the massive amount of road time. It’s better for me, brainstorm-wise, than long hot showers or sitting on the front porch watching the sunset. Maybe it’s due to the necessary engagement of the brain (driving, navigating, and remembering to wave at people - Art Car people know what I’m talking about…) on one level, the aware-ness and awake-ness, that also comes with a necessary detachment of another part of the brain to avoid boredom - a sort of automatic zone where you’re aware but not antsy, engaged but not directed.

Some of the best solutions to ever-percolating projects and problems come to me while driving, so there’s always a notebook close at hand for rapid jotting down of ideas. Since Thing-A-Day has been a reflective sort of project, with past and present seeming to collide, it’s been in my thoughts while on the road this month, and one of the revelations that came to me was a simple one, but something I hadn’t fully realized before: You can’t change the past, but you can change how you feel about it.

I’m not sure why, exactly, that thought came to me, but as soon as it gelled in my head, I felt released from a whole bunch of self-imposed thought habits. The facts of the past, either personally or environmentally (I mean cultural environment, not ecosystem environment), don’t change - they’re set. They’ve happened, but the thoughts about them, the multiple perspectives viewing them, are not set. They’re varied, and can be dynamic if you don’t take them as set. I’m sure there’s some highly intelligent overarching psychological name or practice for this, utilized in therapy sessions across the globe, but I’d never fully realized that until this month, during one of my own road therapy sessions.

This seems to be wrapped up in self-identity. One of the realizations that spurred the deeper realization was that you can’t change other peoples’ perceptions. If they’ve put an identity marker on you, it’s going to be their main identity marker for you, and you may not realize what that is until it’s revealed in some way. I get reminded of that constantly, especially since I’ve reinvented my life quite a few times, an in reconnecting with people from past lives, realizing that the identity markers they’ve set for me are very tiny snapshots of the timeline, with very little outside of their timeline snapshot existing in the equation.

Your mother will never see you as a whole, complete, exterior person, you’ll always be her little girl or boy. A former professor will have a hard time seeing you as a peer, as you were first one of their students. Some of the unchanging identity markers are expected, some are not. I didn’t realize that my entire previous art career was a moot point here in Lucas until an official said "Wow - you were nobody when you came here, and now look at you!". And, conversely, in a recent FB friend request, the introductory note discounted anything from the most recent 25 years, with a quick "I remember you from when you were little - we all talk about that all the time, wish you’d come back…"

Sometimes these lack-of-growth or change assessments are frustrating, difficult to hear without some sort of offense even if no offense is intended - I realized, on the way to the bigger realization, that it’s because of my own perceptions of the past, which I can change. To the Lucas lady, I will always be a no-one, pre-Lucas. She’ll only ever see the timeline where our lives intersect, and the past and future are non-issues to her. To the lady who lived down the street when I was 8, I’ll only ever be a larger, older version of that 8-year-old, and anything outside of that realm just isn’t attached to the identity marker. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. But, it was a great reminder to reassess my own assignments or limited definitions of other peoples’ identities - keeping those definitions open-ended, with new acquaintances and old.

Same with the past. In writing about it, I am starting to see some of the biases, or one-person perspectives. Going back to the journal entries from the life on the road, or life transitioning to on the road, I see the raw feelings attached. With some distance of time, the growth or not-growth, the evolution or stagnation, is also easier to see. I’m trying to find the balance in the writings, of detached fact-based path narration peppered with in-the-moment feelings while traveling. That’s been one of the difficult parts - our memories aren’t linear, they’re a mash-up of impressions and memories and habits and realizations, snapshots out of order, but we try to whip them into some sort of linear thing, to present to others. But, like the intuitive objects of yesterday’s ramblings, thoughts and memories have a way of attaching themselves to each other, even if they’re separated by time or geography… they’ll form their own relationships, which reveal themselves in dreams, or on the road.

image from the 2001 installation "Domesticated: Deconstructing the American Dream"

I’m not sure how many people I’ve greeted at the door, on an unexpected visit, saying "…it doesn’t usually look like this - I’m in the middle of a project…" to gloss over the borderline crazy person interior of my home and workspace. Today was no different, when a friend unexpectedly passed along a set of wooden shelves, and the two 30-somethings brought it in. They could only make it to the end of the entry hall rug before running in to the rear end of Doe Jangles,  and just after the accumulated pile of metal bits, the plastic bits start piling up for the World’s Largest Ball of Plastic Crap, followed up by the same said ball of crap. All of this before you even get IN to the main living space…

On the plus side, the room-that-should-be-the-office is amazingly cleaned out now, with more storage and less crap (as it went into either Doe Jangles or the Big Ball). One of the boxes I ran across today was from 10 years ago, in my final year of my thesis work. It was in the "Graduate or Sue" file, a useful device that a high school college prep instructor keyed all of us collegiate-hopefuls about, and I was struck today at the similar-yet-differentness of my life. (this, too, seems to be a common theme for this year’s TAD, especially with memories stirred by the 2010 L.A. trip…)

Ten years ago, my studio space was probably a little less organized, but definitely just as cluttered as my current home studio. I was an installation artist, surrounded by some amazing creative folks, but seemed to be the only one that needed to surround herself with so much detritus. I developed a theory of Intuitive Objects - if you had pieces you responded to, in whatever way or on whatever level, you had it around you. Those objects ranged from broken bits pulled from the family dump when I was a toddler, held close as a talisman, or a rack of dried grapefruit rinds representing 20 days of a grapefruit a day. Eventually, the objects would migrate to a partner or a juxtaposition or a partnership with another object or set of objects. You couldn’t force it, but in moving through space, or working on various pieces, one naturally stacks or moves or sorts or pushes other items aside. This is when the Intuitive Object theory would be acting, and your job as an artist would be to recognize those happenings.

At the time (2001), I was in the last stages of a written thesis, and putting together the thesis exhibit. The exhibit was an expansive installation environment, deconstructing memories and objects and recombining them into a sort of domestic interior, circa 1970s. The exhibit filled the gallery space, and ended up traveling to a few other galleries as an installation piece until I needed the freedom to develop something new, and sold it with a live auction at the closing reception. But, some of those pieces survived, and are still a part of my own current living space. I found the original sketches and visual note-making in today’s excavated box, and was pleasantly surprised to find that those issues that I felt were so very important at the time still resonate with me now… Then, I started exploring the thesis drafts.

Many of my friends and co-workers know that I’m a sarcastic twit. That, too, hasn’t changed over the years. Sometimes I take myself way too seriously, but the wit and perversity eventually bubbles up and takes me down the required notches. This is most obviously reflected in the title of my thesis, which was accepted, and is now bound into book form, in the archives of my last Alma Mater. It references the installation art environment first, as that’s the main evaluation criteria when getting your terminal degree in the art world, but then goes on to reveal my true nature in the expanded title. It’s a part of my transcript, accepted with honors: "Domesticated: Deconstructing the American Dream. Or, Driving Around Looking at Big Things while Thinking about SPAM" (I posted the long, rambling text last year as a part of Thing-A-Day, but it's really much much better when you see it in the magazine format I first published it in...)

The thesis text ended up being a travelogue, with flashbacks and sub-references, mostly written on the road during a meandering aimless wandering journey through the ephemeral, mysterious, frontier-like state I was living in. Kansas. I’d never really ventured West of Topeka, like most Kansas City people, so it seemed like a wild weird backwoods frontier. Now, reading the text and having new associations with the then-anonymous towns, I remember the oddity or the place that I now call home. In the decade since I wrote the thesis, I’ve traveled even more widely across the US, exploring the nooks and crannies, but have also become more intimately involved with the rural wonder of these elusive Kansas towns I passed through so long ago.

Again, the same-yet-differentness - I responded to the farmers welding stuff together, the neon signs that were never torn down, but fixed and still in use long after the heyday of neon glitz passed on in larger areas, the sneaky sunrises that catch you with their brilliance. I needed the reminder of myself being a new tourist to these areas that I pass through now without a thought, just as I need the reminder of new people in my own work environment - to remind me of what’s amazing, what’s striking, what’s not working, what’s baffling, about the intuitive objects that live and move around me. It’s been a good day for reminders.

(download)

Click here to download:

Day_24_-_Conan_Report_Warner_B.zip (243 KB)

It was pointed out to me recently that when responding to the "How was the Conan O’Brien trip?" I usually respond with stories and tales of the trip out there and back, the roadside attractions billed as World’s Largest that I finally got to photograph, or the Meta-Photos of the WSVo/WLT with the WLT that were captured along the way. Tonight I finally told part of the story about the actual Conan appearance, which happened on Day 5 of the 2010 LA Trip, and I realized that I should write it down while it’s still (relatively) fresh. Here’s the start of the scoop on the Conan O’Brien appearance from Dec. 22, 2010 :

It actually starts with repeated phone conversations with one Conan producer. He emailed in the first week of October 2010, wondering if the WLCoWSVoWLT would be on the road at any point, and to schedule a phone conversation. I’m thinkin’ that’s to weed out the non-communicable possibilities for the show, and after the initial conversation we’d talk every few weeks or so. I put together a Flickr set of images, both of WLTs and the corresponding WSVs, with a bit of their stories. He pitched the idea to Conan, saying that the people in the office loved it but it was up to the Big Redhead in Charge to make the final say. I got the OK on November 5^th (four days before the show even premiered!), we set a date, and that was that.

Well, not quite. There’s an awful lot of prep that goes in to even the tiniest segments, mine included. There were more phone conversations, narrowing down the most effective stories about World’s Largest, with good visual models, starting off with a medium list of 30 or so, and weeding down from there. Eventually, I uploaded yet another set of images, and we cut it down to 16 or so that would accompany me out to L.A. Even while on the road there would be last minute details and prep, narrowing things down until the very morning of the show.

The day before, as I sat at a coffeeshop just down the street from Wigwam Village #7, Rialto CA, I got a morning phone call whittling down the models into a Top 8. That evening, I got one more call from the producer, with details for the next day. The filming would be at 4:30, with the ‘call’ at 1:30 for setup and rehearsal. I had been kidnapped that night by two folk art collectors, and was in the back of a PT Cruiser in the Hollywood Hills, which ended up being the best place to be as it took my mind off of the next day and/or being nervous.

I got back to the studio-supplied hotel in Burbank, just a few short blocks from Warner Bros. Studios. I got everything ready for the next day, and settled back to watch Conan, as I’d never seen an episode on TV - only streaming, which isn’t the same at all. I was super-excited to hear

him announce the next night’s guests, getting the entire WLCoWSVoWLT name correct, and much later that night I got a series of texts from Conan fans in Texas and Minnesota and Kansas who heard it in Central Time, excited for the next day.

I tried to sleep, best I could, but ended up waking up fairly early. I made my coffee, and had a bit to eat, but kept finding myself looking over at the cock, and back-timing when I should notify the valet to bring the car up so I would have time to make the drive, and get lost along the way just in case. In the notes I wrote to myself, Day 5 is pretty sparse, and the morning note only says "Up! Putzing! Trying to quell nerves…"

Everyone who saw the show comments on how relaxed I seem, like I’d done it a million times before. I think it was because I’d gotten all of my nervousness out of the way that morning, pacing back and forth, watching the clock, checking and re-checking everything I thought I’d need. Finally, I called down to the front desk and requested the car, bundled up my stuff, and headed out. Valets do tend to like Art Cars, once they get used to them being in their stable, so the little truck appeared quickly, horses a-bouncing.

It was drizzling, and the studio was only three or four blocks from the hotel, so I was quite early. I decided to go around the studio first, and drove through the front-end public side, snapping a few shots as I drove by of the WB Watertower. I then found my security entrance, and pulled up to get my passes.

The Security Guards greeted me with a friendly "hello" and "Explain the motivation behind your artwork". I talked a bit about the idea behind the car, and who I was there to see. One lady made out the passes while the other one chatted. I had general directions, but wanted to be doubly-sure, so asked. They pointed the way to the green awning, but suggested a circuitous route instead. As I went off in the suggested non-direction, I noticed that people were peeking out from various backlot doors. They’d radioed their friends in various studios, so I had my very own mini-Art Car parade on the way to the show. I’m sure there were people I should know along the way, but I was busy trying to keep my bearings, wave, and not hit any of the zooming gold carts, so didn’t have any mental facilities left over for celebrity recognition.

I got to my appointed studio, and the parking space RIGHT NEXT to the entrance was open, designated for guests. I parked, struggled a bit with my case o’ model and Carhenge, while a guy from craft services offered his help in hoofing stuff inside. I was only a half an hour early (1:00), which was pretty good for the overcompensation for paranoia of being late … I stopped at the studio desk, Craft Services guy in tow, and the talent coordinator was called to take me to my green room. She came up, led me deeper into the studio stage setup, to a set of rooms just behind the stage.

Another girl at a desk glanced up to make sure there was an official person leading the way. Just past her was a lounge area with snacks and drinks and a massage chair, sofas and chairs scattered around, but mostly facing a large flatscreen mounted to the wall. Two sides of the lounge were lined with doors, with the guest talent housed in a series of green rooms. I passed by the one labeled Jack Black to the next door, which had my name in large block letters. Sadly, afterwards, I completely forgot to steal it (well, it’s not like they would use it again, and it’s really just a nicely printed piece of paper, slipped into a name plate…) but did manage a phone pic…

I set me stuff down in my own private green room (actually, I don’t remember what color it was, but nice small seating area, WC, and lighted mirror, with another large flat screen mounted on the wall), the Talent Coordinator took a look at the models, asking "How long did it take you to make that?" when seeing the Carhenge model, and called the producer I’d been talking to for the past two months. She made sure I was comfy, left me to my unpacking, and said the producer would be down in just a moment.

Yes, I was the first guest there, but I’m going to chalk that up to good ol’ Kansas nicety…. . I sat down and found myself to be much less nervous than that morning, mostly because in talking to the security guards, I realized that the stories are the important part, and I know them. That’s what I was here for.

To be continued…