An Object Removed

This past weekend, I was fortunate to be a part of a workshop at Temple University in Philadelphia as a part of a project we’re working on at Each+Every. As a part of our orientation and to get to know one another better, we began by bringing an important object and explaining it to our partner—they would then listen and share with the group what our object meant to us.

I brought a 45rpm record, Open Book / With the Ink of Ghost, released in 2016 by José Gonzalez. For me, this record holds memories of listening to records with my son Arlo and our family in our living room on Saturday mornings; it holds memories of listening to and making music with my own Dad as a kid; it holds my original love of album art as a way of entering into graphic design when I was in high school. While these things are not my whole story, they’re meaningful parts of it, and this act was repeated as our group shared their objects around the room: a necklace, a drawing from a daughter, a stone from Lake Superior, a camera from a grandfather.

Throughout my life, I have been drawn to the power of an object to hold people’s stories: Jeffery Miller’s handwritten playlist on a 45rpm; found shells from a beach trip; photographs of my grandmother; a recording of my dad playing guitar on a Concord Automatic 994. When I was in college I ran a blog called “Beautiful Things from Home” where I photographed family objects I would dig up in our basement. I could spend a lot of time talking about what lies behind each of these. There’s a sense in which an object can hold truths about who we are and where we came from. Maybe this is obvious though, and the reason why objects fight for space in natural history museums, historical societies, and peoples’ attics.

In Statement and Counter-Statement, design studio Experimental Jetset discusses the ways in which some objects, like a poster, act as both an object as an image. If an image of a perfume bottle is printed on a poster, it’s often taken for granted by the viewer that they’re not looking at the actual perfume bottle, but a reproduction. In this way, designed objects can act as illusory objects. At the same time, the designer then has power to bring awareness to the viewer of the object itself, to cut off the illusion that the image on the poster is the real thing (for example, by folding the poster and then hanging it up). In short, I think they’re really asking how much distance exists between an object and a viewer in a designed object.

Walter Benjamin, a German philosopher, argues in The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction that reproductions of an object devalue its original “aura,” or uniqueness as an object. In other words, to look at a reproduction of the Mona Lisa in an art book is not to really see the Mona Lisa, as one would in the Louvre Museum. Experimental Jetset explores this concept themselves in Statement and Counter-Statement as they photocopy their work at actual scale and reprint it in the book at 100% of its actual size. Folded and die-cut posters bleed off the edges of the paper, buttons sit alongside wristbands and t-shirts on the scanning bed, graphic identities intermingle with cd’s and large-scale posters.

There are a few books I’ve been enjoying lately that play with this idea of aura and object: Emily Dickinson: The Gorgeous Nothings, and Touchable sound : A Collection of 7-inch Records from the USA. Both books explore this idea of reproduction and original, sometimes painstakingly created artworks or poems. It’s sometimes overwhelming to know that for the many artists whose work is in Touchable Sound or for Dickinson herself, that each piece holds a story.

Maybe in another life I would be an archivist, but to look at, see, touch, and hold original artworks (or any crafted object) has become evermore important and special. Our culture has become increasingly digital, and the old adage that “print is dead” could not be more false than ever. Whether or not you agree with Benjamin’s feelings about an object’s aura, I have this feeling that even objects which are one of many still hold value for each individual who engages with it—whether it’s one of a kind or not. In the world of graphic design, we often deal with editions: sets of hundreds or thousands of reproductions. This is the reality that Benjamin foresaw. Yet I think he missed this attachment to objects that people hold on to. The José Gonzalez record I shared about is one of 1,000 that was released, but it’s still a special piece which represents the time spent listening to it with my family. If that was the only copy in existence, I would definitely feel closer to the artist and their work. But my own experience of the record itself and what it holds as an object is not dependent on how many reproductions of the object exist. Within the age of mechanical reproduction, I think I’d like to call this an “aura of memory.”

Thoughts on Being a Dad

“The nature of impending fatherhood is that you are doing something that you’re unqualified to do, and then you become qualified while doing it.”
—John Green

Writing about what it means to be a father is a difficult task. Holding Arlo and Mae as newborn children was nothing short of terrifying and awe-inspiring at the same time. There were these intensely contrasting feelings of awe, wonder, excitement, and hope, pitted against fear, fragility, pain, and doubt.

Thinking back on having Arlo just three years ago, I realize just how wholly unprepared I was to be a father. And yet this seems to be the paradox of becoming a dad. I’m the type of person who likes to feel like I know what I’m doing. Most of my life, though, is realizing that I don’t know what I’m doing, and instead being humbled in the process of becoming. I think that this is the way God intended things—for us to look to him in all that we do, and to have a Father to walk with us in all that is life. In this way, being a father is not much unlike being a child.

When I became a dad, I suddenly had the realization that I would be a father for the rest of my life. Questions raced through my mind: Will I inevitably wound my children? What wounds am I carrying from my own childhood? Will I be a good parent? Will I fail? And what does that even mean? What if I don’t have what my kids need from me? With the birth of our daughter Mae this past winter, the same questions inevitably rose to the surface again, but with a new sort of shape. With Arlo they were baked into fear. With Mae I’ve realized that these fears are real, and that they’re simply the realities of being human in the world. I am a broken human-being. Yes, I will wound my kids, and I do not have everything that they need. And yet at the same time I am continually being shaped into a new creation.

“No man can possibly know what life means, what the world means, what anything means, until he has a child and loves it.”
—Lafcadio Hearn

Being a father (so far) has been nothing short of a daily process of giving oneself; of sacrifice, apologizing, asking forgiveness, and receiving grace. And yet in this there is deep joy. To be made new over the course of a lifetime in the presence of my kids is God-glorifying; it is to taste and see that the Lord is good; that he favors love and change over stale pride and hardness of heart.

The beautiful thing is that I have so much still to learn. In all there is to know, learn, and experience about being a dad, I am like a child. My prayer is simply that I would remain as one instead of trying to pretend like I know everything or have it all together.

Kites and Spaces

During the last few weeks I’ve been thinking a lot about how ambient music has the ability create a perceived space, and can make time feel malleable, too. The first ambient song I ever listened to on repeat was “#3” on Aphex Twin’s Selected Ambient Works Volume II. In high school I would listen to it while driving or falling asleep—it seemed to stretch on for so long. Whether this was because I had it on repeat, or because the song itself can seemingly hold so much time, I’m not sure. While the idea of sound creating a felt space is not new, it seemed to create an emptiness in my mind as well, a space for my thoughts to fill. Ambient music, by its own root etymology of ambire, means “going round”, and seems to form moods and spaces through repetition of form or sound—but to me it also seems to form a going round of mind and heart; a space for reflection.

In “The 16 Best Ambient Albums of 2020” from Pitchfork, Philip Sherburne says: “in a year in which many of us found ourselves staring at the walls for long periods of time, the notion of “wallpaper music” no longer seemed quite so trivial. More than any other genre, ambient frequently offers a kind of emotional blank slate, and its very featurelessness suits listeners in search of wildly divergent things: solace, transport, or even simple numbness.”

Listening to ambient music this year has felt different than it has previously. As we’ve been confined indoors more often, there is this feeling that I am not able to move around with the same amount of freedom as before. This lack of movement from place to place has made my world much smaller and self-contained. In many ways it’s been a warm turning inwards to be with my wife and son more—but also a time of challenging introspection. Ambient music has created a seemingly endless space within which to think and reflect, even amongst a certain confinement: a time of “staring at walls” if you will. I think there’s a strong connection between the sound we experience and the space we perceive. This isn’t necessarily visual space, as much as felt space, an aural environment of sorts.

In The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard says that “our house is our corner of the world. As has often been said, it is our first universe, a real cosmos in every sense of the word […] the house shelters daydreaming, the house protects the dreamers, the house allows one to dream in peace.” Many of us have felt physically confined during this pandemic. Between global lockdowns, anxiety of being in public spaces, or other reasons for not going out, we have stayed in. And while this can feel like a burden, I think Bachelard might view it as an opportunity. Our home can be seen as a space for daydreaming, a small cosmos within which to consider the larger cosmos. It’s a safe place to return to.

I wish I was
Homeward bound
Home where my thought's escapin'
Home where my music's playin'
—Simon & Garfunkel
“Homeward Bound”

Ambient music has provided a similar type of home base for reflection and daydreaming during this season. It also has this strange ability to mend our perception of time. Keith Whitman, while reviewing the “50 Best Ambient Albums of All Time” stated: “the appeal of ambient is ever apparent; much like a science project, when executed perfectly, the outcome yields the desired results: time becomes elastic, malleable.” While ambient music can create space, it has a dual nature that can certainly remove us from the space or time we inhabit as well.

One of my favorite albums this year is from Roberto Carlos Lange (who often performs as Helado Negro), and Kristi Sword. Kite Symphony, Four Variations is a multimedia project spanning music, performance, and visual art, and was initiated under Ballroom Marfa in Marfa, Texas. “The artists are creating a new, non-linear, and impressionistic style film and live score, as well as a new body of sculptural work that explore the landscape of West Texas through wind, sound, and light.” Marfa Texas is the epitome of a southwestern sky: an expansive, open space filled with light and air. Listening to Four Variations, one can’t help but imagine the Texas sky dappled with clouds. The visuals and performance aspects in this piece are ephemeral, just like the wind itself. At one point, we hear a bee buzzing near the microphone, as if we were laying in the grass watching the clouds.

Maybe it’s just because Ohio is quite gloomy this time of year, but imagining a crisp, blue sky speckled with clouds, and feeling the wind and heat from the sun is refreshing. Either way, this piece from Lange and Sword demonstrates the ability of ambient music to create space, to shelter and foster imagination, and perhaps bring forward a grace-filled, healing moment of reflect. Even if brief, these moments can sometimes carry us forward for a long time.

Listening to Records

Arlo has picked up a favorite hobby in the last year: playing records. I love it. As soon as we come downstairs every morning, he wants to pick one out to play during breakfast. One morning it might be The Byrds; another it might be the Dirty Projectors; another John Lennon. After breakfast, he’ll pick a new one while he plays in the living room. When I go down to our spare bedroom/studio to work, I can hear him switching these out almost all day with Katey. During our time at home this season, his joy in our record player has cast a warmth throughout our home—there is almost always music playing.

When I was in high school, I loved combing dusty record store shelves and thrift stores for a good jazz album. The hunt is part of the fun of building a collection. Before we had Arlo, Katey and I might play a record every few days if we had a night in, or might put one on during dinner. Even then, Spotify was often an easier choice since we’re constantly holding our phones and can just pick a song and set it on the dinner table. But with convenience there’s always something missing, and I think we both recognized this when Arlo took up his own listening habits.

Back in October, we decided to divert our $15 budget item for music (for Spotify Premium) towards buying records and music directly from artists. It was not only because Arlo spurred us to love our collection again, but this article from NPR that I had read. While Spotify is convenient and simple to use, we decided we’d rather pay the artists and labels we love more directly, and to build our collection over a longer period of time. For the most part, we’ve been purchasing vinyls directly on Bandcamp, digital albums from Apple Music, or just heading over to Last Exit Books or Square Records.

Being able to own a tangible artifact produced by creative artists and musicians is a joy—album artwork is half the reason I wanted to become a graphic designer before going to college. But most of all, I love that we get to listen music together more often (which often means at least one person doesn’t like what’s being played). It’s a small, daily occurrence now, and will perhaps even become normal (in some ways, switching records all day for a toddler is certainly tiresome), but I think it will also become a cherished family activity.

All Content © 2020 Alex Catanese. All rights reserved.