6B — Thursday, January 30, 2020
b-side
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
The store where I work is
getting these new shirts in stock
for the spring (I promise this isn’t
a plug).
I’m
deeply
excited
about
them, partly because I haven’t
seen them in person and I want
the swift rush of dopamine that
comes with showcasing a product
that really stands on its own. And
partly, because I’m afflicted with
a feverish interest in anything that
brings to mind the work of Giotto
and Hieronymous Bosch — not
to say that Medieval, Early and
post-Renaissance depictions of
European Catholic mysticism are
even close to the entirety of what’s
at play. Dubbed by Max Grobe at
Highsnobiety as makers of “the
occult alternative to your favorite
Hawaiian shirt,” Endless Joy is
the brainchild of designer Stevie
Anderson, whose creations are
“instilled with cryptic symbology
and the subversive artworks play
host to a motley crew of deities,
shamans & spirits engaged in
a dialectic of complementary
opposites.”
On its website, the brand
normally goes out of its way to
explain the source of inspiration for
the artwork. From my perspective,
Anderson has managed to create
a
visual
language
of
global
mysticism without coming from
a
Westernizing,
colonizing,
exoticizing
or
otherwise
problematic
positionality.
Anderson does not directly take
from different cultures, but rather
envisions ways in which belief
systems might intersect without
valuing one over the other, and
also goes out of his way to explain
the histories from which his
inspiration comes.
Iterations of his philosophy like
the Paradise Lost shirt eschews the
assumption of a classical rendering
of the primordial fall from grace
that the John Milton-indebted
name might entail. A classic camp
collar shirt, fashioned out of
ecologically sourced Indonesian
silk and mother-of-pearl buttons,
affords an atmospheric canvas
filled with skies of deep lapis,
palm trees that at once look tall
and thin and muted and wilting
and beaming with energy, sugilite-
hued fruits that adorn them and
a ground filled with what looks
like translucent hair.The ground
comes up around and brushes
against the feet of two opposing
figures, each occupying one side of
the shirt’s two front-facing panels.
The identity of the figures, vastly
different in their appearance, is
quite open to interpretation.
However, the shirt in question
just
isn’t,
really.
The
two
aforementioned figures appear to
come from late-medieval and early-
Italian-Renaissance depictions of
both deities and anthropomorphic
figures of the afterlife envisioned
by artists like Giotto di Bondone
through Catholic and aristocratic
patronage. To the left is a humanoid
rabbit woman, wearing a goddess-
like, one shoulder coral dress out of
organza or tulle, donning perked
up ears, wide eyes and a modest
grin as she exalts a blue python
snake that’s wrapped around her
arms. To the right of this scene
is a woman completely cloaked
in a white, form-fitting, jersey-
like material with exaggerated
goddess sleeves and a high slit
starting at the right hip. She holds
a tall, lit candle and maintains a
friendly posture that welcomes
you into this new environment.
That same woman is mirrored on
the back of the shirt, with the same
friendly posture and slight smile
that’s visible even through her
cloak. To her right is a humanoid
man with the head of a goat. He
wears a loincloth out of that same
white jersey fabric, his hands and
fingers are splayed and slightly
stretched out to his sides and his
renaissance-like
contrapposto
is directed elsewhere. He seems
curious, but not with any respect
to the viewer that’s now being
welcomed in from both sides of
this wearable canvas. The symbols
in this work are extensive. A
cloaked woman, a candle, and the
sexualization of what appears to
be religious attire and its fusion
with references to Roman statues
and idealized nudes. The nods to
Greek mythology, biblical texts,
and to the kinds of creatures that
are often exaggerated and made to
be unsettling depictions of what
might exist in canonized versions
of hell. The luxuriously deep blue,
suggesting both night and a kind
of otherworldly environment, and
the ties to nature that are altered
just enough to toe the line between
reality and fantasy. These all
present more questions than they
do answers. The sum of the shirt’s
parts don’t necessarily add up to
anything, and they certainly don’t
have to be read into this deeply, but
they do draw on familiar visual
narratives in order to present
something new.
In a short description, the brand
states that “beneath the electric-
spirit of the acid-lit palm, swinging
in the blue night & surrounded by
stars… emerge the archetypes.”
Followed by the quote from famed
psychologist Carl Gustav Jung,
“Man has developed consciousness
slowly and laboriously, in a process
that took untold ages to reach the
civilised state. And this evolution
is far from complete, for large
areas of the human mind are still
shrouded in darkness.” What are
these archetypes? Is this scene a
depiction of Heaven? Hell? If not,
then where might we be? If this
environment isn’t based entirely
in an ideology that’s been laid out
for us, then how can we go about
understanding it? In what could
be argued as one of the brand’s
more
visually
straightforward
garments, Anderson calls on the
consumer and viewer alike to
challenge their notions of the
supernatural, the afterlife and
how they might apply to the
frameworks through which we
view culture in a broad sense as
well as in our everyday lives.
Velveteen Dreams: On heaven and hell, part 1
DAILY STYLE COLUMN
SAM KREMKE
For the Daily
Iterations of his philosophy like
the Paradise Lost shirt eschews
the assumption of a classical
rendering of the premordial fall
from grace that the John Milton-
indebted name might entail
When I find a song to share
with my mom, I always wait
until it’s the two of us in the car.
It would be difficult to trace how
many of our shared obsessions
began with this exact scene, but
I imagine the fugitivity of the
moment and ourselves on the
road — minds and bodies alike —
are somehow linked.
It’s something to do with not
having to watch her face if I don’t
want to, which is something to do
with fear of finding disinterest
in it, which is something to do
with how absurdly high stakes
these transactions feel to me. It
doesn’t make me feel like I’m in
the crosshairs; instead, it calls
my understanding of the person
sitting beside me into question.
A folk cover of a Nirvana song
played between those seats, as
did my mom’s first contemporary
hip-hop record, as did the song
that initiated our (neverending)
Solange phase. Once, on a night
drive during my new wave spurt,
I queued a sequence that started
with The Replacements’ “I Will
Dare,” probably included a Cars
song I thought she might be able
to pretend wasn’t the Cars (Dad
loves, Mom hates), definitely
included Echo & the Bunnymen
and concluded with Iggy Pop.
She told me she hadn’t listened to
those songs since she was around
my age, commuting to college at
U-M Dearborn.
Those moments, identifying,
then translating across a synapse
I
hadn’t
detected,
are
the
ones I wait for. The ones that
compensate for the face she made
when, say, I tried to convince her
Bob Dylan could sing.
***
I don’t know if I should be
writing about this. I wasn’t there
to see how it began: with the
artful labor of creating a mixtape.
I’ve never had a cassette slipped
into my hands, never consulted
someone’s
carefully
printed,
cryptic title to gather a hint as to
what I might hear.
I’ve come of age in the days
of Spotify and other digital
streaming services. I don’t tend
to look at the past in a way that
lends itself to longing, so I quickly
adapted
to
an
increasingly
intangible
experience
with
music. Even after admiring box
after box of vinyl, I rarely make
purchases at the record stores
I visit, and I don’t miss the
choreography of extracting a CD
without leaving fingerprints on
it. Does that mean that I have no
taste of that old-school magic?
I don’t think so. I think when
I pull up the Spotify playlist I
commissioned from a friend after
hearing his favorite Kendrick
Lamar song by chance and finally
admitting that I had neglected a
revolutionary genre for too long,
I know something of its charms.
I don’t think that because the
songs on the digital counterpart
of a mixtape were easier to
compile that less attention and
care were devoted to the act of
compiling them. I don’t think
that kind of transaction will ever
depreciate if music is still part of
it.
***
I’ve begun to confuse the
absence of a person with the
absence of their music. I’ve
begun to confuse the presence
of a person with the sound of
their music. I’ll give you an
example: It’s not when I visit the
house where my Pa once lived
that I perceive his absence most
clearly. That might proceed in
part from my Nana’s refusal to
move anywhere else and curator-
like preservation of the home
they once shared. Regardless, it’s
when I listen to a song and think,
I know exactly who would love
this song, and that person is him,
and the music sharing comes to a
sad, jolting halt that I know what
it means for him to be gone.
It
got
worse
when
my
Grandma Laura died. Unlike my
Pa’s heart attack, her death was
anticipated,
slowly,
painfully
ambled toward. At one point,
she gathered her grandchildren
around her chair and presented
us with paper butterflies, glued
to adjustable clips so that we
could attach it to something.
It was supposed to be her way
of being with us, even as her
mobility slipped away. I cried in
the bathroom: Because of what it
meant, I both wanted and didn’t
want it in the most severe way.
Six years after her death, in
the process of moving in and
out of college dorms, I lost the
butterfly. One of the most fragile,
most important belongings I
have ever had, and ever will
have. Telling my mom was much
more
shameful,
much
more
distressing than any Catholic
sacrament I had ever been forced
to participate in. How could my
grandmother ever be present
if I lost the object in which she
vested that presence?
I don’t know, but I can tell you
that I turned to music.
“Paper Butterfly,” I titled it.
The caption adds, “favorite songs
of and songs inspired by the
favorite songs of my grandma,
Laura Leigh Schmidt (1948-
2012).” It’s a playlist on Spotify,
with a foundation of Paul Simon
and Queen (her favorites), a few
songs of special significance
interspersed (Elton John’s “Your
Song”: the song my mom told me
my uncle and Grandma Laura
danced to at his wedding) and, of
course, songs I wish I could play
for her. Yusuf’s “If You Want to
Sing Out, Sing Out.” Paul Simon’s
not the only one with the voice
of an angel. Grace Potter & The
Nocturnals’s “Stars.” I can’t
look at the stars / They make me
wonder where you are. Aretha
Franklin’s “You Make Me Feel
Like a Natural Woman.” Tell me
what that feels like.
That’s more than translating
across a synapse. It’s the letter
I’ll never send because I can’t.
It’s a language for grief, a less
painful iteration of the imagined
conversation, where at least
the silence, still impervious, is
disturbed.
***
So I’m confessing once and for
all: I’m your Spotify stalker.
I can’t tell you how many
essays and sorrows and long
nights
your
playlists
and
inadvertent
recommendations
have gotten me through, so what
I should say next is thank you.
Thank you for luring me into
the worlds of dream pop and
contemporary R&B, worlds I’m
not sure I could have found the
entrance to without you.
Thank you for dismantling
the concept of “guilty pleasure,”
for listening publicly, so I can
also listen publicly to songs
I worshipped in ninth grade,
when I need them to remind me
of what that time felt like.
And no, I’m not proud of this
one, but thank you for showing
me you’re alive when sometimes
I wonder. When I haven’t heard
from you in a few days, sometimes
I stakeout the “Friend Activity”
sidebar. Then I’ll see your name
and your song and the speaker
with
the
arcs
representing
sound, and I exhale. You’re okay.
It’s post-punk, so you’re probably
not happy. But the music is on,
so you are alright. In adequate
hands, for now.
***
I’ve used playlists as the
language
of
my
grief,
so,
naturally, I’ve also used them
to try to make legible fleeting,
off-mark feelings that could
have thickened into something
like love. “Could have” because
I
should
preface
this
with
another confession, that I forgot
how the story goes. It was the
same promising, blinding boy-
meets-girl, followed by the same
violation
of
boundaries,
the
levying of power dynamics, for
which boy expresses guilt and
girl comforts boy. (Who comforts
girl?)
But between points A and
B of course, there was music.
There were songs that said, I’m
trying to figure out my feelings
for you. There were careful
recommendations that said, You
might understand this, even
though no one else has. The
songs added up in our minds
and told us what we wanted to
believe about one another. For
me, that was that I found a man
who wasn’t just luring me in with
feigned respect for boundaries
and limits, who wouldn’t take
advantage. (I was wrong.) For
him, it seemed something more
like I was the antidote to some
part of himself, with involuntary
powers of healing. (He was
wrong, too.)
These
song
statements
and
misrepresentations
were
housed in Spotify’s collaborative
playlist function. We had two
of
them;
especially
in
the
beginning, I would contemplate
my contribution obsessively. I
tried to calculate all the ways it
could misfire, both in terms of
whether he would actually like
it and whether it would say what
I wanted it to say. And I would
wait for his response song, check
the playlists obsessively, listen
the moment he added something.
One day, close to the end, at
a time where I was somewhere
between wanting to see him often
and feeling like I was supposed
to want to see him often, I was
walking to work. It was cold
and I’d forgotten the earmuffs
he’d once complimented. To
make matters worse, my hair
was pulled back, so the wind
gnawed mercilessly at both ears.
I inserted an earbud in each,
numbness still blossoming, and
queued the most recent songs he
added to one of the playlists.
One was about finding a
reason to live in another person,
which he had promised I wasn’t,
that he wouldn’t let one person
be that, but the song still had
warmth. Another was about a
couple’s atypical, wonderfully
awkward track to falling in love.
I felt a flood of warmth, starting
with my ears. His songs playing
in them, their lyrics I figured
might as well be his words,
warmed me from the inside
out, swirled around my head,
dizzying, almost fashioning a
pair of earmuffs out of thin air
and a few well-sung notes.
After the boundary violation,
I grew resentful of his music. I
didn’t look forward to adding
songs to our playlists anymore;
when I did, it was perfunctory
and begrudging. I shuddered
when I saw him listening to
a song I’d recommended or
whenever his name displayed on
my “Friend Activity” (“friend,”
the word I questioned). When I
realized how not only permissible
but also how simple it would be
to escape this dimension of his
lingering, it was ridiculously
liberating. How unburdening it
was to unfollow the playlists, to
delete the one I made for him and
lastly to unfollow him.
It’s unnerving how still, when
I listen to a song by an artist he
liked and I once liked, it carries a
new weight of having been part of
a trust I developed with someone
but deeply regret. Maybe it’s that
we surrender pieces of ourselves
to our songs, the transaction,
the dialogue that they are. We
must because the associations
between a person and their
music is wonderful sometimes,
unbearable
other
times
and
always incontrovertible.
We must, because getting
free from him and getting free
from his music felt like the same,
almost possible, depriving but
necessary thing.
***
It used to make me sad, how
integral music or really any form
of media can be to some of my
relationships. I thought of it as
the mark of a fizzling connection,
like the unintelligible audio that
occasionally
bursts
through
static as you drive away from the
tower.
Now I’m not so sure. What
if, instead, it was the strongest
connection
we
could
have
among ourselves? What if it’s the
cables buried deep, the ones that
survive the storms and are there
even after the soil and pollution
are piled on top?
My favorite line of poetry
comes from a sam sax poem
called “bury.” In it, sax entertains
his fascination with burial rites,
concluding with his own such
preferences: “when I’m gone,
make me again / from my hair.
carry me with you / a small book
in your pocket.”
When it comes down to it, I
think I see music in a related,
baseline way.
When I’m gone, remember
me by my songs. Make a playlist
in my name; I’ll be there,
somewhere, probably in between
the minor chords.
Coming of age in the days of music streaming, Spotify
MALE RAFFINE
B-SIDE: MUSIC NOTEBOOK
JULIANNA MORANO
Managing Arts Editor
I don’t think that
because the songs
on the digital
counterpart of
a mixtape were
easier to compile
that less attention
and care were
devoted to the act
of compiling them.