The other day, while coloring a new page for Periphery, I came upon something rather interesting; infectious, truly.
My weekends are now devoted to painting these pages since, whilst some may say unfortunately, demand a considerable amount of time each, upward of 6 hours per page. What helps to keep me focused are podcasts of different shows, some of whom I may know of but never invested any time into, others I've long since promised myself that I would.
Among these is a segment on WNYC called Radiolab, it's a phenomenally well choreographed one-hour segment that delves into some of life's many intrinsic topics, and can really cut deep into them, provide sound insight, the likes of which I'd never heard of before, nor since. Within that, there was a particularly new artist that was brought to my attention, he goes by the name of William Basinski.
Now, Mr. Basinski's work isn't new, as a matter of fact he's been at this for quite some time, however what was brought to my attention may just as well have existed for hundreds of years. At the turn of the century he stumbled upon a technique in audio recording that within itself embodied a genre of its own. The irony of this process, as it's title being apropos, is called disintegration looping.
There's much about this process that the helpful Wikipedia link provided in the text could do a far better job than I at explaining, what I want to stress about my "discovery" is my subjective insight on this atypical genre.
These loops are essentially a cataclysmic result of the destruction and erosion of prerecorded data from an obsolete medium being transferred to and captured on another medium. With each pass, a little piece of this element of history is lost forever, the ferrite ink on the tape being chipped away little by little until...
These are not songs, recorded with traditional intent with common aspects representing it's respective beginning, middle, and end; and yet, that indeed they were.
What Basinki has accomplished here, as far as I am able to identify, is the perennial death of a song; just a small 15 to 20 second segment looping eternally until the very essence of its own existence erodes to nothingness.
You listen, continuously; you listen until the song dies.
I still am unable to fully comprehend what these loops were able to signify, especially considering when Basinki first came up with this method of art.
People have always know that the preservation of data over time is shadowy, uncertain, why the very materials they're emblazoned on are not meant to last forever even in the most ideal environments. But this? This goes beyond preservation. This to me encompasses the same methodology as the narrative in The Fountain; a means to come to terms with one's own mortality, to embrace that even music, sound, generated wavelengths of sound that are cohesively and purposefully aligned to create a concise volume of melodies, are capable of death; I honestly do not believe anyone before this man has actually captured this.
I was humbled that night, I listened for hours to the various recordings he put together, and shivered at the first instant that that one piece, that one note, that one wavelength was gone from the loop forever. And just on and on and on, one by one, each little part that was at one point so important, so necessary to the collective that was this prerecorded entity, would be lost to existence for all eternity.
These notions are without a doubt intrinsic within life itself, I just never thought it so existential as to be applied to music.
I was humbled, and reminded of life's fleeting nature, oxymoronic though it may sound. So much so that this entry is actually meant to encompass an earlier one that I wanted to utilize to stress the current state of mind at the time:
"Fucking Christ, this is becoming taxing.
I really don't even know what to put on this any more, I've never appreciated blogs nor blog sites, they're just a trite means to bitch about stupid shit that has no merit or purpose to enlighten others around you; I guess except for those that do.
So yeah, I'll be the former right now; painted giant fucking hypocrite.
I hate being a fucking artist. I hate that this shit is so much of a goddamned struggle with no help or aide or fucks to give. I hate that I lacked the foreknowledge of not going to an overpriced shit-for-profit institution like my fucking school. I hate that I'm consumed by debt with no means of escape. I hate the fact that I've lost 5 years of my life NOT fucking being employed in the industry that validates my debt, thereby granting me the means of garnering experience, thereby granting me an opportunity to ACTUALLY FUCKING WORK in my industry.
I fucking hate all of this.
I really do."
And on and on it went, just like the loops. My weeks ebb and flow in this trivial battle of not knowing, but wanting. So I press on.
I've told my friends this, when they've come to me while under that looming cloud; just press on.
I sometimes have a hard time practicing what I preach, but I know I mean well.
I'm adamant of Issue 3's completion, I know what it will mean for my personal endeavors, however, I'm slightly frightened of what it may mean otherwise; a topic I'm currently not at liberty to share since anything can happen between now and this book's completion. All I know is that I've invested 2 of the most insanely active years of my life into this series, and I've enjoyed every second of seeing this thing come to life.
All things, are to and must, return to the Earth from which they arose, but sometimes, if you're fortunate enough, you can instill a pattern that describes you, emanates you in all possible ways; relive and reintroduce this into your existence day after day after day. And then you, too, will disintegrate, no more capable of fully capturing the essence of what was formally yours. But you'll have come from something so worthwhile, so magnificent, that perhaps maybe, somewhere, there's a record of you to be replayed on a different medium.
