John Menick Blog

© Shelly Silver. in complete world, 2008. Video still. Courtesy Shelly Silver

John Menick: Rather than begin with photo or video, I wanted to bring up the third medium What I’m Looking For deals with: the Internet. More specifically, the video uses social networking sites in order to produce its narrative. Could you describe how online personal ads came to occupy such a crucial place in the work?

Shelly Silver: I’m reminded of a quote from Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot, “I’m really only here to meet people.”  How do we, in contemporary life, brush up against, have ‘access’ to, or just plain meet people, especially those outside the circumference of our daily lives?  The Internet sets up, within limits, a structure to make connections with people that would be impossible, or at least highly unlikely in three-dimensional space.

I first came across Internet dating sites while doing research for a script for SUICIDE, a feature-length fiction about a crazed filmmaker who projects her desires onto everything and anything around her.  I was fascinated by the level of openness and easy intimacy in interactions on the Web, as well as the generosity with personal detail and the specificity of articulated desires. After finishing SUICIDE in the spring of 2003, I started a residency with the LMCC with a project to photograph moments of intimacy in public spaces in lower Manhattan. I went about this in two different ways, the first being traditional street photography.  With the second I wanted to find a way to reverse the direction of desire and projection, which typically moves from the photographer to his/her subject.

To do this, I became a ‘parasite’ on an established Internet dating site.  My byline read, “I’m looking for people who want to be photographed in public space revealing something of themselves….”

I chose a dating site for several reasons.  The site already dealt in the circulation of desire and projection; it already utilized photography — each person ‘advertising’ themselves with a photo or photos, and it was set up to facilitate the movement from virtual to actual space.  In many ways the site’s basic premise was the same as mine, even if the final aim was different.

My rules were to only contact people who contacted me first, and to meet and photograph anyone, unless I thought they were dangerous.  I tried to have the film’s protagonist mirror this non-judgmental, non-eliminatory process with her seemingly straightforward narration.  With her cool, rhythmic voice, I think of her character as a sensual ‘straight man’ with a slightly passive-aggressive bent.

Much of my work functions as a motor for contact between people who are randomly or loosely selected.  My initial work is to set up a structure where meetings can take place, as well as fixing a question or subject around which to make contact and exchange.

I think of your project as a reworking of the methodologies used for feature film productions, but unlike scripted narratives, the respondents are given an opportunity to star in a role they devise. They write their own parts, choose their own settings, even frame their own shots. Meanwhile, an invisible, paradoxically passive director anthologizes them into a kind of loose, episodic narrative. What are your thoughts on the roles people chose to play for the camera? Is there anything you could add that was not included in the voice-over? Were there any participants that didn’t make the cut? And yourself? What would you have done, if asked?

I wish I’d been able to be as passive as I wanted to be.  There was a lot of back and forth, a lot of coaxing necessary. People traditionally expect the director or photographer to ‘tell’ them what to do.  In some cases language wasn’t used — as in the refusal of ‘the man with the beautiful neck’ to tell me how he wanted to be photographed. I was thus left to photograph the part of his body that he had left exposed, his fragile neck on that frigid day.   A language-heavy interaction was necessary for the ‘man from London’ (let’s call him Frank) who was the only participant who photographed himself. Each photo session was prefaced by a nightly IM discussion:

“What should I do for you tonight?”
“What do you want to do?”
“What do you want to see?”
“What do you want me to see?”

In the end, he’d speak enough clues (the pleasures of shaving, an unusually warm winter evening, a newly purchased shiny blue dildo….) to allow me to ‘direct’ him without truly directing him.

Everyone I photographed was included, but not all of their photographs were included.  Many stories were left out.  These details may or may not have included the story of the former drug addict-turned-hacker-turned-IT security expert, the self-exposing high powered public official, and the married ex-minister whose professed desire was to photograph naked or semi-dressed women.  There were over a hundred people who initially contacted me who dropped out of the project. One reason given was unhappiness at my statement:

“No other relationship will take place outside of being photographed.”

Another common reason:

‘‘I’ve been arrested too many times for exposing myself in public.”

I broke contact with anyone whom I thought was crazy. Few women contacted me.  All who did dropped out or stood me up.

What would I have done, if asked to reveal myself?  I was, and did. I photographed myself for Frank, my ‘man from London.’ It was at his request and done as a good-will gesture. The photographs I sent were based on his perceived desire rather than how I would have otherwise wanted to portray myself (confession), I will not say how or what I photographed (no confession).

There were numerous exhaustions and pleasures involved in the doing/making of the piece. A few stand out for me now as being most notable.

•    The feeling that all of downtown Manhattan, a place where I’ve lived and circulated for many decades, was offering itself up to me in a new, unknown way, becoming an intimate, a lover, whereas previously it had just been a casual, if regular friend.

•    The surprise and the rush when going from a virtual to actual relationship; the click when projection is complicated by actuality.

•    The generosity on the part of both the photographed and the photographer, both of us making completely non-parallel offerings.

There is a magic in brushing up against someone you wouldn’t normally, akin to the magic of travel. With this piece I got to stay home.

You recently were kind enough to show me a rough cut of your latest video, in complete world, a work that is comprised of interviews with strangers on the street. The interviews are mostly about our contemporary political moment. These two works — What I’m Looking For and your latest — seem to be created out the same landscape and moment, but facing in different directions. Can you talk a little bit about you latest project and how, if at all, it relates to What I’m Looking For?

First, as a kind of talisman, I’d like to bring in a few words from my last answer: magic, brushing up against, home.  I could also throw in the words desire, democracy, revelation, disclosure.

Why did I randomly go up to/accost several hundred complete strangers on the streets of New York in the hope of having them answer 25 or so personal, political and existential questions?

I started shooting in complete world in 2007, because I was angry and disillusioned with the US, and more importantly, NYC, where I was born and have put in a good deal of quality time.  This city, ‘my’ city, was (is) increasingly white, rich and homogenized, and I was feeling alienated and pushed out economically and culturally. In the interest of full disclosure I’ll add that I was also frustrated with my own inactivity and powerlessness in the face of the disastrous direction this country has moved in for the last eight-plus years.  Rather than leave New York and the US, or, perhaps, in preparation to do so, I decided to take my camera and find out who these people were that I was sharing a city with, by asking them the very same questions I was asking myself.

I can see how you’d think that What I’m Looking For points toward the ‘personal’ and in compete world toward the ‘public.’ I’d say that both projects, taking advantage of the random and not-so-random connections possible in public space, build bridges between these coexisting realms.  What I’m Looking For achieves this through the exchange of images, in compete world through the exchange of words.  Both works search out that intersection between I and we — that acknowledgement, sometimes begrudging, sometimes joyful or even disgusting, that all of us are a part of it.  How do we say “we”?

My largest influences making in complete world were not the ubiquitous street interviews of television news, nor was I, despite my obvious interest in the Internet, channeling YouTube.  My predecessors here were filmmakers such as Pasolini, Marker and Rouch, who, in the 60’s, thanks to changes in portable film-and-sound technology, were able to record street interviews for the first time.  These innovators brought a freshness and sense of adventure to their forays outdoors, as well as a desire to delve deeply into the tumultuous post-war changes happening in their countries. I still find both excitement and usefulness in this model.  Where I’d begin to distance myself is in terms of the position they create for themselves in relationship to their subjects.

What does it mean to be a viewer watching Pasolini’s Comizi d’Amore (1965), where interviewees are scrutinized, at times ridiculed, by Pasolini—and at intervals discussed with disdain by a panel of experts, including the writer Alberto Moravia and the psychoanalyst Cesare Musatti? I’d venture that, as a result, the typical viewer identifies more with the filmmaker than with his subjects.  In Edgar Morin and Jean Rouch’s masterpiece, Chronicle of a Summer (1961), the filmmakers leave a more active central place for their subjects, even allowing their criticisms of the film to have (almost) the last word.  But, in the end, the filmmakers—who read as father figures—are the guiding presences. I’ve made an ambivalent truce with father figures, and experts certainly have their place; I write this not to criticize these films or filmmakers, but to separate my film from theirs in two crucial interconnected ways, one having to do with structure, the other having to do with voice.

in complete world has no overarching commentary, direct authorial presence, narrative or argument. Its structure is cumulative. One answer builds on the next, one question builds to the next, giving the effect of a growing jigsaw, where issues are complicated. I, as editor, shape and counterpoint these myriad answers, and it is rhythm, pacing and the pleasure in the slow reveal of characters that eliminates the need for a more traditional structure such as plot or story.   It is the viewer who comes to occupy the position of commentator, gradually making sense of the film while watching it. I think this form also encourages the viewer to enter vicariously into the position of interviewee, asking himself or herself what a personal answer would be for each question posed.

At the center of the film, in a direct, but also in a theoretical sense, is the issue of voice. Before starting, I was scared that street interviews would no longer function, because public space functions less and less in a socially collective way. I worried that my specific questions, which engage people as individuals and as citizens of a larger whole, would not reverberate, that they would be met with apathy, cynicism or indifference. Instead, what I found were articulate people, who were thinking precisely about these issues; and who wanted and needed to speak and be listened to.

And so my job as filmmaker was to build a platform from which this chorus of voices could be heard.  I use this word ‘chorus’ specifically, because there is something so musical in the interaction of these voices.  I’m also thinking of Greek chorus—an invention of democratic Athens—the collective unit whose dramatic task is to comment on the actions of the political protagonists. Looking back over the last decade, I feel that this voice—our voice, the individual and collective voice of people living in this city and country—has been lost, and must, at all costs, be regained. In light of the very recent election, I see that what I was capturing was the first wave of what I hope turns out to be a new era in the United States of a more realized participatory democracy.

I worked for years as an editor on documentaries, many of which would be considered political, and one of my frustrations was that these films would only reach a ‘self-selected’ audience that already believed in and was knowledgeable about the subject matter or cause. During a lively Q&A at a recent screening a university student asked me why I didn’t speak to any experts. I replied, “Who would the experts be, if not these people themselves?” We all struggle to balance our personal lives with our more public ones, we all feel the weight of individual and collective responsibility, and it is here that I think that this question of ‘preaching to the choir’ gets interesting/complicated. In this case, all Americans are part of ‘the choir,’ regardless of their political leanings. in complete world does not supply answers; I don’t think there are right and wrong answers to how to individually navigate a society.  What it does point to is the pleasure in and necessity for all of us to acknowledge how truly interconnected we are; to recognize the necessity for individual and collective dialogue, response, and action, whether this manifests itself in public debate, demonstrations, organizing, the simple act of voting. I think of the final comment by the man who identifies himself as Felix: “I appreciate you coming to interview me and exchanging ideas and showing that democracy could exist between the people themselves.”

A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine, the artist Judi Werthein, asked me to participate in a book project she is organizing. The project involves, in her words, writing “a story you’ve been told about another artist’s work – a work that you yourself have not seen - anywhere in a composition book I’ll be sending you.” All of the contributions are going to be collected into a book due to be published next year. Mine follows. It’s a great project, but after writing my entry I really wanted to know: who made this artwork? If you know, contact me in the comments below. Here’s my entry:

Someone once told me about a work involving a video camera, a pirate VHF-UHF broadcaster, and a biplane. Maybe some high-power magnesium lamps were involved as well. The artist and a pilot (Maybe the same person?) would fly the said plane over a suburban neighborhood with the camera aimed at the houses below. I included the lamps in my own version because how else could the setup work at night, although I guess the artist may have only done it during the day.

Anyway, this was in the days of analogue broadcast television, when most people received their TV signal through set-top antenna (aka “rabbit ears”). The plane flew really low, I imagine dangerously low, and buzzed the roofs of the houses. The plane not only was videoing the houses, but was also broadcasting the live feed from the pirate VHF-UHF device. TV viewers, nestled into their couches, would first hear the plane real low in the distance. As the plane approached, the sound of the engines magnified, and suddenly the TV show was replaced by a moving image of the viewer’s house from above. The plane roared over, the perplexed viewer rubbed his or her eyes in disbelief, and then the miniature televisual house was replaced by The Price is Right or Johnny Carson or Tom and Jerry or whatever people watched when set-top receivers were the going thing. I’m not sure who did this insane intervention or who told me about it. I’m skeptical whether it would even work. But I wouldn’t mind trying it myself someday.

- John Menick 11/14/08

I’ll be in Vilnius this weekend for the opening of my solo exhibition at Tulips & Roses. The show runs through October 30, 2008. I’m showing a selection of videos from the last six years or so, including two videos from Mirage Terminal – Dead Air and Let’s Throw the Furniture in the Fire — as well as Hearsay, The Secret Life of Things, and The Disappearance. I’ll be at the opening this Friday to give an artist’s talk. An interview with the gallery follows:

Tulips & Roses: It seems difficult to categorize your work. You make films which in one way or another use other films (or cinematography itself) as material. You seem to be an observer who turns into an intruder - someone who lives simultaneously on both sides of the screen. Or maybe you are a missing detective? Have you read J. L. Borges’ Death and the Compass?

John Menick: I’ll probably have a lot of trouble answering the Borges thing because I haven’t read his work in years. I don’t consider him to be much of an influence. (I like his work a lot, but there’s a difference between admiration and influence.) Then again, I feel he’s unavoidable for most artists and writers, and probably influenced everyone in a way, even soap opera writers and library designers. What’s said about him is true enough: he somehow prefigured our own condition. And he did it despite being someone who definitely did not hang on a cultural cutting edge. He was a lonely librarian in Buenos Aires and he seemed better at predicting cultural paradoxes than sci-fi writers with resumes from NASA. I’m not sure how he did that. I guess it shows that lots of reading can make up for a lack of experience. That probably sounds Borgesian too.

One thing that always struck me about Borges’ stories is how he was able to write stories as a reader. He’s the reader’s reader. He’s also strongest when writing in paraliterary forms, like essays or fake reviews or historical fragments. The videos I make aren’t about books per se, but films, cinephilia. My work, at least the videos, often begins from the standpoint of a certain kind of cinephilia. It’s film criticism by other means. That’s probably what you mean by an “observer that turns into an intruder.” Viewers, for me, aren’t passive receivers of information. They’re constantly transforming what they see into their own material. Even if we agree on that, the viewer-author relation is not easy to define. If it were, I would probably be doing something else.

(By the way, Borges was also a film reviewer for a while. He wrote a hilarious review of King Kong. He hated it. Find it if you can. He’s probably the only person I know of who hated King Kong.)

What is a McGuffin?

Here’s the literal and pedantic answer: the McGuffin is the object in the film everyone talks about and desires, but only really exists to get the action moving. “Secret documents” is a classic example from spy films. Hitchcock coined the term.

I think you’re asking about it because the missing man in The Disappearance is sort of a McGuffin, but I’m employing it to other ends in the video. Unlike a traditional narrative scriptwriter, I don’t have any need to move a plot forward. For me, the McGuffin is a productive distraction. I’m really good at distracting myself — I should be working on project A, but I end up doing project B as a way of avoiding project A. This seems to be a similar operation. Making meaning becomes a massive detour. I need that journey for whatever obscure reason.

Have you noticed the man who followed you the whole day a few days ago?

I wonder how surprised any of us would be to find out we’re being followed. Most of our online transactions are archived and data mined. Our credit histories, at least in the US, define us. Most major cities are blanketed with public and private security cameras. (Insert favorite near-totalitarian surveillance example here.) What’s interesting is that we feel fairly comfortable being watched. We’re willing to fork over a certain part of our lives for a certain amount of something, whether it’s security or free shipping. I don’t think that many people avoid using Google because Google tracks our searches. Credit cards aren’t going away either. So why not be followed for a whole day? It’s a lot more personal than data mining. It’s almost flattering.

Do you have to break a watch to experience time?

I stopped wearing a watch about ten years ago. I forgot when it was exactly, but I remember why: I found I was looking at my watch on the subway and worrying about when I was going to get to my destination. It was absurd. I couldn’t move any faster than the train, and if I’m late, I’m late. So what do I need the watch for? It’s just a terrible anxiety machine. So I threw it out. I worked in an office then so I sat in front of at least two or three clocks. At home I had several clocks too. You can’t get away from them. Why strap one to your arm?

The funny part is I’m incredibly punctual – even without a watch. I don’t think watches and clocks have anything to do with an experience of time. They’re training devices. Wear one long enough and it still makes itself known. I’m afraid it takes a lot more than breaking one to kill the terrible master.

I was trying to do some research about the supposed fact that Nietzsche was using a typewriter for his last writings. Apparently, his sister bought him a Malling-Hansen Writing ball typewriter in 1882. He used this peculiar machine (which resembles human brain to me) with his eyes shut, because of his near blindness. He was never completely satisfied with it though - nobody knows why. Maybe it was the fact that this machine could only type in uppercase, maybe it was the uncomfortable architecture of it. Supposedly there is also a letter in which Nietzsche wrote to a friend: “Our writing equipment takes part in the forming of our thoughts”. I wonder if he wrote this by hand. The downside of all of this is that I am not sure now what my question for you is…

I like the Nietzsche factoid in Hearsay because some writers seem like longhand writers (Dickens, Proust), and others seem solid keyboard writers (Burroughs, Gaddis). It’s an idiotic game because it’s nearly impossible to divide up writers this way, but I don’t think anyone would think of Nietzsche as pounding out pages on a typewriter.

Like just about all of us, I write on a computer. I rarely write longhand. My handwriting is horrible. Every so often I think about working on my handwriting – sort of like going back to grade school. I’ve heard about people that willfully change their handwriting. They just decide one day to change they way they write. Or maybe they switch hands: go from being a lefty to a righty. People like that fascinate me. I wish I could do it. I think these people who change their handwriting believe it will change their thinking and therefore it will change them on a deeper level. Kind of like the belief that smiling will make you happy or those criminologists who thought they could identify a person through their handwriting. Handwriting seems to be a dying form of technology, actually. It doesn’t seem that useful anymore except for making lists and writing checks.

A new audio project: The Goldberg Variations Variations or Music for Insomniacs.

Listen to a sample: Aira (mp3, 6.5 MB).