phonewise

Edit: Don't read this as a complaining rant about what I can do...but more of a commentary on why someone else owns my phone number. :)

Phonewise, I find myself in a fairly particular situation. That particular situation has made me realize a few problematic facts about phone numbers. I got my first cell phone and number in 2004. That number has been the way to contact me ever since, and to my understanding based on how cell phone numbers are assigned, it had never been a way to contact anyone else before me. The predicament I find myself in now is the fact that I seem to not own that phone number. I find that quite odd. Who besides me would be the logical owner of my phone number?

Since I spend my time working and traveling around the world I have assembled a small collection of sim cards from various countries. Using prepaid sim card plans seems to leave one in a fringe group of people without annual contracts and invariably extends to me the joy of far inferior service. I seem to have traded the ability to have local phone numbers around the world for first rate service. Though periodically irksome, that is a tradeoff I can live with.

Since I knew that I would not be stopping back in the US for at least six months I recently sought a solution to avoid paying monthly for something I cannot make use of. While trying to inform myself of my options I was notified in a memorably monotone voice by a remarkably uninterested phone company employee that if I didn’t pay for my phone for more than a month I would risk forgetting my phone number. When I proposed the idea of cancelling my phone plan altogether and holding onto my number until my return to the country the same uninterested phone company employee informed me that that was a sure fire way to forfeit my number. What was one to do?

A recap of the absurdity: I have just been told that I must pay a private company every month in order to not lose something that I plan not to use and that I consider to be my own.

Why must I pay a monthly fee to a company in order to maintain possession of something that is mine? The fact that I can change, or “port,” as the FCC website calls it, phone companies and keep the same number would lead me to the conclusion that the phone number does not belong to the phone company either. If “my” number doesn’t belong to me and seemingly doesn’t belong to the phone company I find myself concluding that it must belong to the government. In a democratic nation without any kind of state run phone company, why would the government own my phone number? Similarly, if that were true, why would I have to pay  a private company in order to not risk having it forfeited to someone else?

I want to own my cell phone number and do with it what I please. I didn’t really think that was too much to ask, but it sure seems to be. Maybe I’ll find a way to incorporate myself as a phone company to hold onto this series of ten digits that I seem so attached to.

light art TREASURES

Today, on what could have been a quiet and uneventful day off in a quaint little town...I had my mind blown by a true treasure hidden in Germany. I convinced one of my cast mates to come join me on an adventure and he begrudgingly agreed to sacrifice what could have been a day of procrastination to see the Centre for International Light Art. The museum can only be seen by guided tour and we were quickly advised that the tour would likely be completely in German and last for 90 minutes. Just after hearing that unfortunate news we were greeted by our tour guide who told us that we would be having a private tour and that she would be happy to do it in English. She explained a few things and we venture off down a turquoise neon-tube lit staircase into a basement. Upon entering the first exposition we realize that this seemingly small and humble old brewery beholds some mind-bending treasures created by thirteen world renowned artists. We wandered from piece to piece at our own pace and as our guide recommended we spent as long as we needed on each creation and then after observing she would give us detailed and insightful remarks about each one. Where else can someone who doesn't contribute a vast sum to a museum spend as long as they like alone in an Olafur Eliasson rain corridor and watch and hear it turn on and off and then experience the optical illusions of a James Turell immersive creation!

Our guide was apologetic that we had likely missed the necessary perfect timing to see the last exhibit, James Turell's "Third Breath" a type of camera obscura that at the perfect moment after sunset gives you a view of the sky's color that can only be created by the naked eye exposed to this environment and has never been recreated otherwise. Much to her surprise and delight just moments after we walked into the outdoor creation the lights changed and out of the hole in the ceiling we saw exactly what she had described.

When the museum was founded the artists were selected and invited to the empty building to choose a space to create a piece based on the room they had chosen. All thirteen exhibits are breathtaking. Hidden in a small town, I think this must be one of the most understated and underrated museums of the world. Without the glamor or pretension of MoMA or the Tate it houses an astoundingly large and inspiring collection. I felt truly privileged to discover a museum where one can buy a ticket for 10Euro and take a private, guided, and insightfully thoughtful tour through every gallery.

As we were out the door with a glean in our eyes a man who turned out to be the director of the museum caught us and asked if we were the visitors all the way from California. After a very kind welcome and thank you for visiting his museum he confided that it was actually a very exciting day there because a Chilean artist residing in New York had just put the final touches on a new exhibit just a few minutes before. He had just barely gotten that phrase out when I exclaimed that he had to show us the new work! He hesitated a bit but I could tell right away he was thrilled by the idea. He took us downstairs and showed us a few of his personal favorite angles of the pieces on the way and then introduced us to the artist and gave us the chance to be the first to be the first sets of eyes to wander a stunning exhibition that had just been finished minutes before.

Whether you're near or far, make your way to experience this gem of an institution, a museum where the director will come find you to ensure that you enjoyed your visit. Check out a short video and some stills that caught my eye and my lens.

Keith Sonnier: Tunnel of Tears, 2002

Olafur Eliasson: The reflective corridor | Draft to stop the free fall, 2002

Mischa Kuball: Space-Speech-Speed, 2001

Jan van Munster: ICH (in dialogue), 2005

Keith Sonnier: Tunnel of Tears, 2002

Rebecca Horn: Lotus Shadow, 2006

Li Hui: amber (2006)

James Turrell: Floater 99, 2001

James Turrell: Third Breath, 2005/2009

ode to a grape

      Until just a few days ago I stayed for a month in a hotel in a fairly small town in Germany. The best part about this hotel was the freshly made breakfast and such incredibly kind service. The waiter who served us every morning knew the succession of drinks we all liked in the morning and gave us huge hugs as we left. Staying there for a month meant 30 breakfasts. Though I switched off between a variety of morning treats, I ordered muesli with fruit every single morning. The muesli was topped with a delicious plump orange gooseberry which a few minutes of research informed me most likely came all the way from Mexico to adorn my fruit salad served by an Italian in Germany. Each of those 30 bowls of muesli was also adored with an average of 6 purple concord grapes sliced in half. These repulsive little fruits tasted of nothing and were stocked full of small bitter seeds that once chewed were impossible to eradicate from ones mouth.
      I could not get over the ridiculousness of the fact that these grapes were picked by hand by an undervalued laborer, shipped across the planet, sliced, and finally arranged on top of my muesli. After this voyage that once upon a time was the adventure or even merely the dream of a lifetime for any human, let alone a grape, I have the audacity to daintily pick them off and leave them on the side of my breakfast. That means that those grapes travelled all the way around the globe just to end up rotting in a european landfill. I’m sorry little grapes. But really, you did not taste good at all...so its not completely my fault. Maybe we're both guilty in this mayhem. If you tasted just a bit better I would have gobbled you up and likely never even pondered the ludicrosity of your trajectory, just like all the rest of the food I eat.