haiku 8 February 2019

Get we get more teams

In this metro area

Or are there enough?

americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]

haiku 20 Oct 2017

Oh lazy rivers
Willoughby, Waring, and Kling
Your asphalt I miss

americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan

Vicente v. Ord

This author is barely back a week from Los Angeles, and already he yearns for the runs. The velocipedist who reads this blog will recognize the Ord Run from previous writings: it starts at Marukai Market in Little Tokyo, heads up to Hill and Cesar E. Chavez, and mashes Sunset all the way over to where that boulevard hits Vine. Old man Ord, however, has a new companion, the San Vicente Run (i.e. Santo Viczenzo), which starts at where Wilshire crosses the 405 freeway and approaches Hollywood from the west, either via Elevado or Santa Monica Boulevard.

Both of these runs the author would make regularly, never ever standing to pedal, on an L.A.-made, fixed-gear, gray Retrospec bicycle with bright green wheels. He surfed Bay Street and the Venice Breakwater, hunted urban art from the Palisades to Elysian Park, and ran the runs whenever he was able to – during rush-hour or at 3 am, under skies clear and smoggy, his heart bursting joyfully with every passing foot, flashing spoke, and humming tire. And the Boba Fett nods he received from other smog-sledders (!!!), each glance-and-dip a barely perceivable acknowledgement of his worth as a self-respecting street cyclist, each quick look grudging recognition of the toughness commonly found among persons who mash California's sun-burnt boulevards.

Someday, I will once more reside in the fine Golden State, and run these runs whenever my heart desires, but, until then, be well in my absence, fair Angelinos, and mahalo.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

on the use of eyes in street art

(reasons, questions, and motives)

Stroll through downtown Los Angeles, up New York's Broadway, or along the avenues of Philadelphia's Center City, and look in the forgotten, in the grimy, and in the underused places. With a keen glance and a bit of luck, you will witness the riotous beauty known as street art. Oh, what a profusion of style and color, of shape and size, of message and image, all blending into a whole that, if viewed from afar, resembles little more than visual clutter; but get in good and close, and follow the guidance of your peripheral vision, and your most tender of sphincters will drink invariably of the intoxicating power of street art.

But why do we look? Why are we powerless against the urge to sweep our gazes into worn and sticky places and up onto soot-covered utility poles? Eyes, my friends, we look at graffiti because it is full of eyes (and not just any type of eyes, but human eyes). Perhaps they stumbled upon the technique accidentally, perhaps they copied it from advertisers, or maybe they just plain Knew to tap into one of mankind's most primal and deep-seated fears, but, however it occurred, street artists employ one of the most basic methods for getting people to look at something – to give it eyes.

Since our time as forest-creeping, prairie-running, skull-bashing troglodytes, the species homo sapiens has developed the uncanny ability to recognize the shape of the eye even if it should be obscured by layers of seemingly random patterns. While experts may argue whether this ability is restricted merely to recognizing the human eye, or if it applies to the eyes of all of our former predators (think bear, cougar, coyote), few persons dispute the fact that our brains are really good at figuring out if someone, or something, is looking at us. Advertisers exploit this evolutionary adaptation to our status as Top Predator Of One Another by blanketing the phaltscape with pictures of pretty people who nearly all happened to have been staring directly at the camera's shutter when it opened. (Now, however, instead of our powers giving us the upper hand in a fight-or-flight situation, they allow us to be convinced that we need that new and re-formulated cucumber body scrub; woe be unto mankind.)

All quasi-scientific, pseudo-evolutionary nonsense aside (I am not a scientist, nor am I particularly intelligent or well-versed) – why do graffiti-writers use so many eyes in their designs? Why in the name of Beelzebub do they wish for people to look at their works of art, and to what purpose do they make use of our aforementioned ability to pick eyes out of the ether? As the SDUBS (self directed urban beautification specialist) is wily and suspicious by nature, and since she maintains a level of honor, decorum, and discipline so profound as to make inquiry into her personal matters a life-threatening endeavor, these questions shall likely go unanswered for many generations to come. For now, however, please enjoy the street-side galleries of free-to-the-consumer art wherever you may be, and rest easily in the knowledge that, by looking back at eyes that look at you, you are merely executing a deeply-ingrained survival reflex that is as natural to humans as is laughter. Never forget, however, to keep an eye out for your fellow man, he who has been hunting you for longer than you shall likely ever know.

場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit

on graffiti in Philly & LA

(or, a whorphan's take on the street art scenes of two fine American cities)

At first glance, street art in Los Angeles has much in common with that in Philadelphia. In each city, the graffiti is vibrant, irreverent, daringly-placed, socially-critical, and to be found in most neighborhoods regardless of their social status or overall character. Certain designs by well-established artists appear in both cities, proving that the SDUBS (self directed urban beautification specialist) likes to travel, that he knows not to change a cunning or successful design, and that his art is relevant in any asphalt-landscape, or phaltscape. As in LA, it is nearly impossible to see anyone in Philadelphia actually applying street art – as this is done generally at night or during periods of inclement weather – a fact which points to the wily and suspicious nature of the street artist as well as to his desire to stay anonymous and to attract as little attention to himself, and as much to his work, as is possible. In both cities, SDUBS utilize such self-adhesive mailing labels as are available free-of-charge at branches of the United States Post Office; I found it far more daunting a task, however, to find such stickers on the East Coast than it is out West, where they seem to abound. In Philadelphia, I noticed a greater number of pieces stuck up by apparently classically-trained artists seeking perhaps to spread the word about their abilities by going rogue; in Los Angeles, the street art that survives not only the rigorously brutal meritocratic evaluation process as done by the street artists themselves but also removal or destruction by the city's own Artwork Desecration Teams tends to be of a more gritty and distorted nature than some of the abstract – even gallery-worthy – pieces as are found in Philly.

In LA, street art is removed or painted over continuously – sometimes daily – whereas in Philadelphia, pieces can stay up for months, even years (see the dusty, weather-beaten FRESH sticker on the rear of a ONE-WAY sign on the north side of Arch Street, near the Troubadour). This can have a stagnating effect on the street art scene, with the best spots dominated by the more aggressive, tenacious, or merely lucky SDUBS, while in Southern California the best spots are constantly painted over by roving bands of the city's own counter-vandals, people who seem to hate beauty, creativity, and any artistic expression other than that found in for-profit art galleries. The riot of different styles and slogans and symbols found in LA trumps the scene found in Philly, which, upon closer inspection, appears to be dominated by a mere handful of artists who nonetheless pursue their Happiness with youth-like vigor and obvious zeal. Furthermore, I noticed in the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection a tendency toward cute designs with anime-style eyes and slightly distorted bodies; in Los Angeles, any and every imaginable style, color-palette, medium, and subject-matter is on display, twenty-four hours a day, in miles of street-side, no-cost-to-the-consumer art galleries.

In all, however, I must applaud Philadelphia's street artists for pursuing their Happiness with fortitude and vigor, for affixing their pieces to unconventional and hard-to-reach spots, for working tirelessly to enliven the phaltscape with bright and flashing colors, and for spending their own time and their own money on the materials needed to beautify their drab and conformist surroundings. That a city a fraction of the size of such a sprawling and surface-filled metropolis as that western behemoth can produce and maintain such a lively and compelling street art scene bodes well for the town that birthed our Independence. Mahalo, friends, and aloha.

場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit

on graffiti-writing – a meritocracy

Design an image, crafting it lovingly from the ether; make it pretty to look at, and fill it will subtle meaning; then, after so much gentle and loving effort, venture out into the night and glue it to a pole, abandoning it there. This is the life of the street artist. Once her picture is up and her work is done, she vanishes into the darkness to wait and see how the Universe will respond. As a seasoned veteran of the streets, she operates cunningly and without ado, but, occasionally, she will struggle with memories of earlier agony.

Oh how she would sweat when just starting out, and quiver, her knees shaking on the way to check and see if her image were still up or if it had been scraped down or covered over in the few hours since it was born. Oh how she would wallow in sadness at finding her own tender little piece plastered over with another person's art, or, worse, hacked off and carelessly discarded by one of the roving Artwork Desecration and Destruction Teams. The cause for our street artist's early trepidation is this: once it is stuck up or otherwise applied, graffiti stops belonging to just one person and turns into the common property of all who might look at it; it enters into and becomes one with a harsh and tumultuous meritocracy.

If the graffiti artist is interested in keeping her sanity, she will realize quickly (by delving deeply into her soul-space and maintaining there a proper equilibrium) that her street art, along with that applied by the next vandal, is just one segment in a giant, shifting mosaic applied by selfless citizens (i.e. SDUBS, or self directed urban beautification specialists) intent on enlivening the otherwise colorless and visually barren phaltscape. She will realize quickly that by covering only a portion of her piece instead of defacing it entirely, the other street artists will have deemed her art edgy, unique, or beautiful enough to merit its continuing existence on the wall or sidewalk. (Unless, of course, her work is so terribly lame as to be worth not time nor effort to cover over, or if she is particularly good at putting her pieces in places few others might reach, which in itself would prove her merit.) As long as she keeps herself in the graffiti game, she shall, in time, develop a vandal's eye of her own, which will allow her to judge which pieces to cover over, which to incorporate into her newest work of art, and which to not touch at all.

Hers is a dangerous game of applying and fleeing, watching and forgetting, weeping and re-applying. Hers is a world in which her city destroys her art nearly as quickly as she can apply it, a world in which her work must stand not only the test of time but also the test of subsequent sticker-applying hellions bent primarily on destroying the phaltscape. She contends not only with meddlesome and ever-watchful cops; she contends for the most prominent and choicest display spaces with some of the finest and the brightest artists operating today, artists who plaster over poor and inferior works of art mercilessly and without hesitation. Such is life in the pure meritocracy.

場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit

ordered chaos at Lot 1 show

  It is evening in Angelino Heights, and Lot 1 is thick with jumpy, snorting alcoholics. The third to perform after Passionweiss and Fat Tony, Amigo the Devil mounts the stage confidently, with the booze on his breath and his heart filled with a joyous rage. The crowd, already raucous and grinning with the bravo charlie, hoists upon him waves of ragged applause. A girl passes out – she is draped unceremoniously over a torn couch in the rear. Members of different and opposing urban youth organizations mingle together peacefully, each man sizing up the next, each man primed and ready to rape, pillage, and destroy. Locally brewed beers flow freely and at decent prices, the barkeep rushing to keep up. Another girl passes out, this one an attractive blond – she is carried carefully outside and placed in the Devil's tour van, where she lies, waiting, to be consumed by him later. Just as the mood inside is nearing its peak of wild-eyed, skin-clawing frenzy, Freddie Gibbs steps from the shadows spreading good cheer, his eyes flashing with visions of the Devil strumming his banjo hard. Via con diablo, amigos.

場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit

on phaltscape etiquette and standards

The urban bicyclist may differ from her fellow mashers in appearance, dress, and hairstyle, but she will share with them standards of smog-riding etiquette as extensive as those of any other professional affiliation. Since it would be inconvenient to list every standard common to the smog-rider, let us examine a few of the more practical matters. To avoid making the drivers trapped in their smoking metal boxes jealous, she keeps all evidence of her bursting exuberance hidden from sight. In order to inform the people around her of her whereabouts, she will sound a series of war-whoops and signaling-whistles piercing and attention-getting enough to prevent unnecessary collisions. She rides with proper stance – shoulders pulled back and chest thrust out – so as to isolate the workout to her lower body while allowing her eyes to scan the environment calmly and with keen interest. In order to stay upright and aboard her smog-sled, she is able day or night to repair and maintain it anywhere and in any weather, and although her conveyance will look dusty and well-used, it will be in good working condition, as she has always on hand tools and spare parts.

Beyond the practical matters just listed, there are spiritual standards common to the urban cyclist. Within his brains is an extensive collection of those routes that are the smoothest, that have the least motor-vehicle traffic, and that allow him to avoid running into pesky and annoying police officers. So as to keep his body in good working condition and to avoid the irritability and dangers associated with dehydration, he drinks regularly of green coconut water, or of other beverages rich in electrolytes. An honorable and virtuous being, he will carry his smog-sled when it can carry him no longer, and since he knows that bicycling is a dangerous activity, he lives peacefully knowing that death is rushing by inches from his tender flesh-bag of a body.

Here are presented but a few of the standards of smogriding – may you discover more, and establish a few of your own.

場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit

on plantago lanceolata and street art

  The ribwort plantain, or plantago lanceolata, is a healing plant. When consumed as a tea, it opens the airways and clears up congestion while cleansing the kidneys in a soothing manner. When applied to an external wound, its antiseptic qualities will speed up the healing process and reduce the chance of scarring. For these reasons and for many more, plantago lanceolata has been used as a healing plant since before the dawn of civilization. In caves inhabited by early homo sapiens, we find remnants of ribwort right next to remnants of ocher, and of iron oxide, and of other materials used to make pigments.

  We might deduce what ancient homo sapiens did with the plantain, but did he do with pigments? He used them to beautify his environment. He drew with them upon his favorite rocks and trees, and he covered the walls of difficult to reach underground caverns with detailed pictures of his daily life in a process that would today be called graffiti, or street art.

  We have established that in graffiti lie the roots of humankind's artistic passion, and that street art is the wellspring of its genius. But, you ask, how else does this ancient practice resemble the healing plantain? Both appear as if overnight in underused and neglected places such as empty lots and abandoned buildings, where they thrive and spread. Great bunches of healing plantago are mowed down and landfilled weekly, their healing powers ignored, whereas great patches of street art are torn down and painted over daily, their chaotic beauty lost forever. Both benefit all who take of them, for they give of themselves freely and without ado, yet neither requires attention or maintenance, since each can damn well take care of itself. Both can cure the ills that plague humankind, with ribwort attending to the body's needs, and graffiti exciting the soul. So enmeshed are these two with one another, so vital are they to the vitality of our species, that they will be with us always, or at least until the last woman breathes the last breath.

  場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit

on the magical nature of street art | encyclopediamericanifesto

  There is mysterious work afoot in major cities across America – the work of street artists! Search modern urban architecture's unadorned spaces, and you will find gallery upon gallery of cunningly executed and deftly placed works of art. Look in the forgotten and the underutilized areas so common to today's city, and you will discover a riot of forever changing and seemingly self-rejuvenating works all crammed and pasted and plastered over each other. And if you watch over a few weeks time the canvas of urban art shift and change you will begin to wonder who are the persons who put up these strange and colorful pictures, and how ponderous are their cojones.

  It shall remain a mystery what exactly drives the individual to risk his life simply to showcase his artistic abilities; the street artist keeps from sight – only twice in the last two months have I seen street artists at work, and both times were at night. We may never explain why a person starts suddenly to affix his artwork to previously unadorned public surfaces, just as we may never explain why state and local governments hate street art as much as they do, or why they work so hard to cover it up and remove it. (I suspect that governments make street art illegal so that they can incarcerate gang members for spray painting, although these official bodies have in effect criminalized all public artwork other than that found on billboards or on other tax-revenue-generating places, which makes little sense from an artistic standpoint but complete sense from a capitalistic standpoint.)

  The self-directed urban beautification specialist, or SDUBS, works for neither fame nor money – she operates because she knows it is more important for her to pursue her Happiness freely and without restriction than for all the buildings to look the same. She executes her craft with the sole intention of making the urban environment more beautiful, and she can hardly stand to see a blank space go unfilled. Her city and state will punish her for her efforts, not rewared her. They look upon her as if she were vile and incorrigible scum, yet she has already forgiven them both, because her heart is pure, and devoid of malice.

  場黑麥ioanni elymucampus fecit

p.s. go to urbanartuploads.blogspot.com or to urbanartuploads.tumblr.com to see pictures of street art

as dogs do, so shall I do

  A woman is out walking her dog and the beast urinates on the sidewalk ahead of me. I step accidentally in the stream of piss spreading toward the gutter, but instead of reacting angrily I tell myself: The poor beast has to piss somewhere – why not right here in front of me? If the woman had curbed her dog, I would not have stepped in its bowel movement, but since she did not, I must scrape its shit off of the bottom of my shoe.

 I have no problem with the animal doing any of this so long as I might also piss freely into the gutter whenever I want to. As a member of the species homo sapiens and a bowel-moving, food-digesting animal, I shall make water into any nearby gutter if the urge to pee should hit me unexpectedly. Just now, I made water in the street near LAPD headquarters, at two thirty on a Wednesday afternoon, and no persons complained or looked at me funny. (I suspect that people do not confront me because I am tall, and because I look like I could be a mentally insane homeless person.)

  City-dwellers of the world, fight species-based discrimination by curbing yourself and pissing in the street. Do not risk injuring or killing yourself because there was no socially acceptable toilet nearby – celebrate your animal nature by watering the phaltscape with your golden showers, today.

  場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit

American heritage desecrated in Los Angeles

  Westwood, which sits in a shallow ravine beside the 405 freeway, resembled not long ago any other college town in America. But today, those of her denizens early at their business – the bums looting in trash cans, the kids heading to class, and the professionals out for coffee – these otherwise unrelated individuals gaped commonly in horror to find their little slice of phaltscape stripped nearly bare of street art.

  What draconian tactics the foes of undirected urban beautification are, and with what speed they move! Not five days ago, Westwood was where people came to marvel and to rejoice at the riot of stickers and posters and graffiti that adorned the empty and the forgotten spaces, where they flocked to gather images to upload to their weblogs, where they rested to gaze at the pictures of free art captured inside their pocket-sized computers. But now, with their town whitewashed nearly beyond recognition, native Westwoodians wander around as if betrayed, while outsiders hurry along shooting about themselves with strange and mournful glances.

  Layers of priceless street art were simply scraped off and discarded. Cunningly executed and deftly applied pieces of unique artwork done by world renowned artists were sprayed over and defaced. From the burning of the library at Baghdad to the fire that raged in L.A.'s Central Library, seldom has the artistic effluence of mankind been so brazenly and so effectively destroyed as in this current action. Imagine if a wing of your favorite museum burnt to the ground, and the pain you would feel; such is the pain that lovers of street art now feel. Picture someone stabbing at your favorite painting and prying it from place with a long metal scraper, and the anguish that would fill you; similarly filled are admirers of this all too fleeting form of artistic expression.

  Not only is the product of thousands of man hours of artistic effort gone from all but memory, but the cruel effort of the courageous and selfless street artist is at this time being dumped into a pit somewhere outside the town of Calabasas. The self-motivated urban beautification specialist never rests, however – she will be at it again, making her rounds and pursuing her Happiness with vigor and daring. As her pen forever flicks so her art forever sticks.

  場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit

(pictures of some of the lost street art are at urbanartuploads.tumblr.com or at urbanartuploads.blogspot.com)

p.s. street art found painted over and and similarly desecrated at the intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Western Avenue – this may be a larger effort than I had imagined

on phaltscape-withdrawal and dating | encyclopediamericanifesto

  Modern sociologists look with pity upon the smogrider who attempts after years of absence to re-enter the dating scene while she is suffering from withdrawal from the phaltscape, but you and I shall examine her more favorably. For reasons mechanical, spiritual, or otherwise mysterious, she is not riding smog regularly; thus, she is distressed. With her smog-sled sitting dormant, her hands are less calloused, her cheeks have lost their rosy hue, and cheer has fled her moods. This is not an isolated phenomenon: from the urban cyclist orphaned within the last few years to the gear masher with layers of parents, any person who is kept away from something she loves (such as smogriding the phaltscape) will approach potentially romantic meetings gingerly, and with hesitation.

  The physiological reasons for the smogrider's hesitation are clear – since they no longer bathe regularly in endorphin blasts triggered by rigorous exercise, his brains are cloudy and sluggish; lacking their hard and churning labor, his muscles atrophy, and his limbs twitch and jump about at random. Additionally, his speaking is as difficult to understand as his morals are to justify (which we speculate is caused by changes to the physical make-up of the cerebral cortex triggered by conscious epigenetic manipulation). Compared to the physiological reasons, however, the psychological reasons for the smogrider's romantic inability are less well known. Rumors tell that in the hours leading up to his rendezvous he descends into a period of existential crisis that lessens only long enough for him to scream self-loathing obscenities. Other unconfirmed data show that upon meeting his date, the smogrider panics and bears his soul without compunction (from which point onward no modern girl will give him the sex), and that by the end of the date he is on the brink of total personal despair, his failure all but assured, his time and his money surely wasted.

  Denying someone what they love is a crime both cruel and heartless, but keeping whorphan from him phaltscape reek downright of madness.

  場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit

a g o t

  For a city to destroy and deface all graffiti other than pieces done by Banksy is similar to it removing from its museums all paintings other than those done by Michelangelo, and burning them.


Spes Mea In Ratio Est - 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp

on phaltweariness - the automobile

  Today's city streets are pitted and rough as if mauled by large and powerful beasts, and the souls of the people who drive upon are similarly abused. Aggression and impatience descend without fail upon the poor buggers who drive upon today's maligned avenues.

  We the Smog Riders of the America Phaltscape (the asphalt landscape) look often with pity upon our neighbors of the road, they who spend long hours strapped tightly to chairs which are in turn bolted to the floors of a tiny metal boxes. After spending years in such torturous environments, they will have forgotten the satisfaction of moving their own bodies through space/time using nothing other than living muscle and some metal tubes bolted to a pair of pneumatic tires. Rather than the good sweat that stands upon the skin of the bicyclist after a healthy cross-town slog, the sweat of the car driver will be distressed and foul, an oozing sheen that tends to creep through his furrowed brow as he worries about the skyrocketing price of petroleum.

  The smog riding street-art vagabond knows as well to avoid paying for petrol as she does to remain always vigilant of the withering and debilitating affects of phaltweariness – it is her duty to preserve the chaotic super-abundance of Street Art, and to record for Posterity as much of it as she can. To fulfill this task, and to keep her feet on the pedals, she has learned the limits of her body's tolerance for dehydration, pain, and exhaustion, and she knows how to make herself well again.

  Given the phaltweariness, the stressed out drivers, and the miles spend cycling through the phaltscape, how does the vagabond capture every unique work of street art that is at risk of being torn down as soon as it goes up? She does not. But she does what she can do, photographing what pictures might cross her path with the road grit foulding her mouth and a song filling her heart.

  Spes Mea In Ratio Est - 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp

on LA, briefly

  I love LA. My fluids suffuse her soils, yet she always provides spoils. Too easily she drags me in, enticing me with perfect asses, teasing me with furtive glances, breaking my heart a thousand times a day, my own insecurities and fears amplified against the foul tympanum of her heaving cracked pavement. Within her envelope I walk and wander gladly, casting about clumsily for the dim remnants of tenacious glory, my eyes grating like those of a madman, my soul zigzagging between high elation and base surrender. She knows me as would my mother, yet she denies me all but that which I might truly obtain.

  Bear with me, courageous readers. I am not yet over my culture shock, and shall resume my regular posting schedule when it has abated.

  Sincerely, JP