Werner Trittleiter

One of my recent art projects has been uploading some of my original photographs to various Wikipedia pages. It started with the Folly Boat, whose Wikipedia page I was surprised to find did not have an accompanying photo. Then I uploaded one of my sketches to the Staunton Wikipedia page. This was a little risky, since sketches are typically seen as personal expression and Wikipedia only wants you to upload pictures that impart factual information. But my drawing is an objective depiction of the traffic lights at the intersection of Churchville and Central Avenues in Staunton, and I placed the image in the Infrastructure section, next to the paragraph identifying the major highways that pass through Staunton. Churchville Avenue is coterminous with U.S. 250. This drawing was uploaded on July 24, and it is still there.

Next I posted one of my photographs of Robert Smithson's Spiral Jetty to that sculpture's page. This one was also tricky, since Spiral Jetty is somehow owned by the Dia Art Foundation, and they supposedly own the copyright to images of the work. But the Wikipedia entry itself said it was okay, and the image has remained up since I posted it on July 29.

I have since added five more photographs to the Staunton page, as well as photos to pages for Jackson Pollock, the Brandywine River Museum of Art, Bubblegum Alley, Cadillac Ranch, and more. It got to the point where I created two pages—Folly Mills Creek and the old Staunton Coca-Cola bottling plant—just to be able to place my photos on them! 

I have some pictures taken at the Gagosian Gallery on Madison Avenue in Manhattan, and with these I decided to get a little mischievous. The pictures were taken before I was informed that interior photography was prohibited at the gallery, so even though a Wikipedia page is not an official website, I figured there might be people associated with the gallery watching the page who might delete photos of the interior. The first picture I added was a really nice pic I got of Peggy observing some large-scale photographs by Andreas Gursky. For the caption, I wrote, "Installation view, Gagosian Gallery, Madison Ave., featuring the work of Andreas Gursksy," including a wikilink to Gursky's page. Nothing snarky here. 

Click on image to enlarge it.

But then I added a picture of an empty gallery, a space where artworks are usually displayed that just happened to be empty at the time. In the world of "contemporary art," this room could be perceived as a work of art in itself, which is a little snarky as it mildly sends up Conceptualism. And I placed it in the section on Legal Issues, subsection Tax Evasion, as in, "If you don't get your affairs with the IRS in order, this is what your galleries could look like." A little snarky.

 

I let these two pictures stand for a week to see if anybody would delete them. Nobody did. So then I got real snarky and uploaded a photo I had taken of a utility space in the gallery that was visible to the public with a stepladder leaning against a wall.

For the caption I used the same format I had used for the first picture: "Installation view, Gagosian Gallery, Madison Ave., featuring the work of Werner Trittleiter." Sounds like a real artist's name, right? Werner is the worldwide leader in the manufacture and sale of stepladders, and "trittleiter" is the German word for "stepladder."

Of course, this is an homage to the pioneering example of conceptual art, Marcel Duchamp's Fountain. Duchamp inaugurated the idea of the "readymade," the idea that any man-made object can be perceived as a work of "art" if it is placed in an "art gallery." This is an early commentary on the absurdity of the idea that "art" is an order or class separate from all other man-made objects, and that the "art world" is the sole arbiter of what qualifies as "art." 

So, I wanted to see if art world types would automatically assume that the stepladder is a work of "contemporary art" and/or to see if they would be too embarrassed to admit that they were unfamiliar with the work of Werner Trittleiter. The picture was posted on October 23, and it's still there. So maybe I got 'em. Or maybe it's just Wikipedia and nobody cares.

Nedrock 4

One of the toughest things about playing music for a living, especially playing covers in bars and at tiki huts, was the lack of applause. Even when I was killing it, I would get little to no response. I attributed this to a number of factors. First, in such settings, the guy or gal with the guitar (as I refer to this type of performer) is generally considered background music. And I made things a little harder on myself by refusing to play the old canon. It was customary, even into the '90s and probably still today, to play classics from the '60s and '70s—"Brown Eyed Girl," "Margaritaville," "American Pie," and so on. As I have written about before, coming out of the great rock renaissance of the early '90s I was determined to play what I called the new canon—songs by Pearl Jam, Radiohead, Nirvana, R.E.M., U2, etc. I felt like the herd mentality prevented people from responding to these songs because they were unsure if everybody else was liking them and they didn't want to be the only ones clapping.

Of course, the possibility must be entertained that maybe I just wasn't that good. While I was at the height of my powers in terms of vocal strength and range, it is true that my guitar-playing skills were rudimentary at best, having only just learned to play a few years before. (This is another reason why I didn't have a large repertoire of the classics. If I had played guitar as a kid, I probably would have had the entire Beatles catalogue at my fingertips.) 

I also have to admit that I didn't have the best stage presence. A fellow performer years before had told me that this job is as much stand-up as it is singer. I never really got good at bantering with the audience. One of my recurring lines was, "I take requests, I just don't play them"!

And it didn't help that I fancied myself a rock star. In largely family environments, I sprinkled my set list with drug songs—"Sister Morphine," "Running to Stand Still," "Not an Addict," to name a few—and smoked a joint between sets, sometimes right on stage. To say nothing of my long hair and dangling earrings.

The gold standard in Charleston in those days were the Futch Brothers, particularly my old friend from summer camp, Hank Futch. Hank and Hal would pack TBonz to the rafters every Tuesday night—Tuesday night!—and the crowd would applaud uproariously after every song. Of course, they mostly played the old canon, but they also had their secret weapon, a mien it never occurred to me to try to emulate: Hank's beaming smile.

The most genuine and memorable round of applause I ever received came many years later, in a very different setting. Exactly ten years ago, in November of 2014, out of money and out of favor, I had to move into the homeless shelter here in Staunton. This is actually when I started going by Edward up here. I was still on social media at the time (as Ned Hartley) and, not knowing what type of people I would be rubbing elbows with in the shelter, I didn't want people I knew nothing about trying to find out about me on Facebook. All my life, particularly in college, whenever "Edward Hartley" was called, I would always say, "Here. It's Ned." But now, when the staff at the shelter called me Edward, I left it at that.

Well, it turns out the people in the shelter were just fine, most of them simply in a similar situation as mine, caught a little short. Still, after one weekend I knew I had to get out of there, and the Monday after checking in on the previous Thursday I walked down to the Food Lion exactly one mile from the shelter and asked for a job. Knowing that I would probably run into people from the shelter there and not wanting them to see "Ned" on my name tag and wonder what the fuck, I introduced myself to the manager as Edward, and the rest is history.

Ironically, just a couple of weeks after I checked in, I received an email from SNHU offering me a job interview. I mean, if I had gotten the email a couple of weeks earlier I still probably would have had to move into the shelter, since it turned out I wouldn't actually start working for them until the following spring, but who knows? Anyway, when I was hired, obviously I was hired as Edward Hartley, my university email identified me as Edward, and so I continued with this new handle. Again, I didn't want my students and superiors searching for me on social media.

Now, I have been a proud Ned my whole life, but I'd always wondered what it would be like to go by my Christian name. There was this dude in Charleston when I was in college named Edward with long hair who had a dog and rode around town on a bicycle, and I always wanted to be that guy. One thing I haven't done, however, is demand that all my old friends start calling me Edward. I don't want to be that guy.

I mostly kept to myself in the shelter. I had learned from Cool Hand Luke how to keep my mouth shut and stay out of other people's business. At meals I mostly sat by myself, solving crossword puzzles. In the weeks before Christmas, they brought in members of choirs and praise groups from local churches to sing Christmas carols during supper. They were mostly okay. As with the volunteers who brought in dinner on Friday nights, they figured as homeless people we would be grateful for anything.

One such group consisted of three older ladies and a guy with a guitar. They weren't bad, exactly, just uninspired. The guy had said at the beginning that if anyone wanted to come up and join them they should feel free to do so. After a few lifeless numbers, I went up to offer my services. When I asked the guy for his guitar he was hesitant at first but did hand it to me. As I started playing, the women were still standing and wondering if they were expected to sing with me. I told them they could take a break, and the three of them immediately fell back into their chairs like rapidly deflated balloons, grateful looks on their faces.

I opened with "For the Summer" by Ray LaMontagne. I had randomly learned this song in the months before I moved up here, but I had always been struck by its aptness when I played it after I moved up here. "Rollin' through these hills I've known I'd be comin' / Ain't a man alive who likes to be alone / It's been years since I've seen my lady smiling / Have I been, have I been away so long?" 

I have always prided myself on being able to fill a space with my voice. When I played in subway stations, people would hear me first as they were buying their tickets and then would be surprised when they walked to the platform and saw that I wasn't using an amplifier. The dining hall in the shelter was the size of a small elementary school cafeteria, with probably 60 or 70 people in it, men women and children, and many of them turned to look as I played. When I was finished they gave me a hearty and sincere round of applause.

Next I played Springsteen's "My Hometown," which they loved. I'm telling you, of all the gigs I've played over the years, this performance was by far the most gratifying. We were all in the same boat, in a sea of apathy, and I think we all appreciated a moment of authenticity, from their perspective and from mine.

Afterward, one of my fellow residents—a young woman with curly blonde locks and a spectacular ass (everybody could see it)—came up to me and said, "Well, Edward, you have many hidden talents."

I'll briefly mention two other memorable performances. My regular barber was on Beverley Street between the shelter and the Food Lion, and when I went in for a haircut and told him where I was living and told him about the Christmas performance, he said he had a policy (which of course he had just made up) where he would give a free haircut in exchange for a song. He was kind of an interesting dude, sort of a local impresario, and his barber shop was filled with musical instruments. I picked up a guitar (which he said had once been played by Dave Matthews; who knows?) and played "My Hometown." The people waiting gave me a nice round of applause.

(This was the guy who organized the parking-lot concert in front of his shop that I played in May of 2015, after moving out of the shelter.)

When I played in the subways, I usually played for only a couple of hours during evening rush hour, but on Fridays I would often play longer. One Friday night, in my favorite station at 23d and Broadway, right underneath the Flatiron Building, I played for, like, five hours. I seem to remember seeing some people skipping trains to listen. For my last song, around 10 p.m., I played Dylan's "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue," which resonated throughout the cavernous underground, the trains coming less frequently now. When I finished, one man who had been listening said quietly, "That was awesome."

Nedrock, 23d Street Station, NR Line, Manhattan, summer 1997

I'm still alive (or, Nedrock 3)

A few years ago, as my various diseases began to pile up, my aunt—my dad's sister—asked if I would text her every morning to let her know that I was still alive. I said no. A few months later she asked again. I reminded her that I had already said no, and she said, "You could change your mind." Shortly thereafter I did change my mind. I figured, what could it cost me? Plus, I've come to learn in this world that when someone offers you their love, you consider yourself lucky and accept it.

I recently turned 60. I can't believe it; I still feel like a kid. Maybe it's because I never had children or owned a house. But my body is definitely aging. I have to constantly remind myself that people don't see a child when they see me. I have to be particularly careful around the sketch group, where all the ladies look like mother figures to me before I remind myself that we're all basically the same age.

Still, whenever I start to feel old, I remind myself that Brad Pitt and I are the same age. That Johnny Depp and I are the same age. That Eddie Vedder and I are the same age.

I've seen Pearl Jam twice. The first time, I only caught one song. We were going to Lollapalooza in the summer of '92, which featured Soundgarden, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Ministry, The Jesus and Mary Chain, and Pearl Jam. One asshole who went with us made us wait in the car for nearly an hour while he got ready. Then when we got to Charlotte we had to check into our hotel rooms. We figured there was no way a band as big as Pearl Jam would be the opening act. Well, they were. We got there as they were playing their final encore: Neil Young's "Rockin' in the Free World." 

Some ten years later I got atonement of a sort when a friend in Charlotte called to see if I wanted to see Pearl Jam. It was actually at the same outdoor venue and it was awesome. We got high and sang along to every song. I learned later that Pearl Jam didn't play "Jeremy" at every show. They played "Alive," "Black," "Even Flow," "Better Man" at pretty much every show, but "Jeremy" was special. They hadn't played it in Raleigh, but they played it for us. Eddie implored us to sing with him, and when we got to the "aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye" part I got goose bumps, as twenty thousand souls all hit it right on cue. It was a communal, cathartic experience, and I still get goose bumps just thinking about it. They also closed this show with "Rockin' in the Free World," which I'd seen Young, another of my heroes, premiere live on SNL years before. 

This was around the time that I got my first computer, and when I got home I purchased my first download: the soundboard recording of the show, the show I'd just seen a couple of nights before, from Pearl Jam's website. I still have it on both my iPods. 

As I've written before, "Alive" was the song that convinced me we were listening to the wrong radio station at the sports bar. It was all happening—Nirvana, Pearl Jam, grunge, alternative rock—but we were listening to the "classic rock" station. This morning a live video recording of Pearl Jam performing recently in a Seattle arena came up on my YouTube feed, and there were Eddie and Stone and Mike and Jeff and Matt still rocking. It was "Alive," and I cried a little as I watched and listened. Cried for time gone by, cried for memories of those magical days in the Nineties, cried for these old compatriots still bringing down the house.

And I texted my aunt the same three words I send to her every morning: "I'm still alive."

Nedrock, Pitt Street, Charleston, 1994

The cedar waxwing

I have not retained a whole lot from my childhood. Maybe it's because I was undiagnosed ADHD. I also think it might be the result of being from a broken home. Going back and forth each week between two households hindered continuity. Many of the things that I do remember are murky. But they're in there, and they pop up from the depths of my brain from time to time. 

One day I was chilling in my car in the parking lot of Bert's Market on Folly Beach, enjoying my then-favorite snack: Cool Ranch Doritos, Jack Link's teriyaki beef stick, and a Dr. Pepper. I don't think I was feeding the birds, but many birds were scavenging in the parking lot, brown birds I had seen a million times but whose species I couldn't identify. And then suddenly I said, "Those are grackles." When I got home and looked them up that's exactly what they were. I don't know where the name came from, but it was clearly in there somewhere from my past. (I call this sort of experience "mental archaeology.")

Around this time I was seeing a woman in an ill-fated relationship based primarily on a mutual fondness for marijuana and sex. One afternoon, in the afterglow of a particularly satisfying assignation, we lay on the bed in silence with nothing but birdsong audible, wafting in through the windows. It sounded like a bunch of different birds, each with its own distinctive call, but the more I listened, the more I began to sense that it was only one bird, and I figured it had to be a mockingbird.

Obviously, I had heard of the mockingbird, but to my mind this was the first time I'd ever really heard one singing. When I got home and looked up "mockingbird" in my trusty Concise Columbia Encyclopedia (this was in the early ohs, before I owned a computer, much less a smartphone), the entry sounded like it was addressed directly to me: "The mockingbird, the preeminent North American songbird, may mimic some 30 calls in succession, Ned."  

The mockingbird quickly became my favorite bird. I especially liked its Linnaean nomenclature: Mimus polyglottos, which sounded like a fake name coined by Chuck Jones. I found this name in a bird book I bought to support my newfound interest. There were a bunch of birds in this book that I hoped to see one day: the red-winged blackbird, the indigo bunting, the painted bunting, the Eastern bluebird, the American kestrel, and the cedar waxwing.

One day, while giving a carriage tour, I was stopped before a house on Limehouse Street when a slew of birds swooped in and alit on a holly tree full of berries, then just as quickly swooped away. I recognized the cedar waxwing from my book and I was ecstatic. "Oh, my god," I said to my bewildered passengers, "cedar waxwings! I've been hoping to see those for forever!" 

The other morning I went out to my car to find it absolutely plastered with bird droppings. I have parked in the same spot since I moved to my new apartment, underneath a tall deciduous tree of uncertain species where birds sometimes perch. There has been the occasional dropping, but nothing like this. When I got home later that day, I saw scores of cedar waxwings swooping back and forth between the big tree and the two holly trees that front my apartment building. (When I first moved here and saw the holly trees, I wondered if I would see cedar waxwings.) This was the first time I'd seen them since that day on Limehouse Street, and I watched them at intervals all afternoon from my balcony. They are gorgeous birds: a smooth back and red tips on the wings that resemble wax (hence the name); yellow belly; crested head with a black mask; and a bright yellow marking on the very tip of the tail. They must be in the process of migrating. I wonder how long they'll be here.