In our tireless search for the world's worst artists, Mr. Adrian was recently pleased to uncover a strong candidate in our very own back yard -- Mr. Mark Pauline of Survival Research Laboratories, who provided all the fun at the recent ground-breaking ceremonies for the so-called "SFMOMA".
The antics of his gigantic remote-controlled machines were duly enthused over by our provincial press (still named The Chronicle and not yet SFNY Times). But then again, they also enthused -- believe it or not -- over a hole dug in the ground for the occasion by some "performance artist". We will certainly keep an eye on him for a Puvis.
And they fairly raved about the future "SFMOMA" building, whose main feature is to be a big skylight to vie with the fenestration up the street of the much-reviled "Juke Box" Marriott Hotel. In other words, while we read all about it several weeks ago, our local coverage missed the real point of the spectacle entirely.
Prior to this event, Mr. Pauline had not been considered for a Puvis. First, there is the question: are SRL productions art? Mr. Pauline is no help here. He quite correctly says that's not his problem. Well then, suppose we conduct a gedanken experiment (it worked for Einstein): let's pretend this SRL stuff does not move, amble, shriek, or belch flame. What remains are assemblages of nuts, bolts, rusty metal, and industrial cast-offs. Yep, it's art.
The second difficulty was that Mr. Pauline appeared personally much too sincere to be a serious contender. After all, he has blown off a hand researching explosives. Residing in a hard-scrabble, hair-shirt environs -- an original SFTriBeCa, if you will -- Mr. Pauline was known to relax by shooting neighborhood rats (we refer to rattus rattus here). He has lashed the limbs of a hamster to the controls of a bulldozer-sized walking machine, which thrashed around vacant lots like a fear-crazed hamster. He had a pair of inhuman cyborgs tear a pig carcass to pieces in front of thousands of bloodthirsty people. Then there was the exploding piano; the immolated pigeons; the giant effigy of Hitler planned for incineration at a SRL performance in Austria.
Fabulous! Altogether too fabulous! Yet, there was found to be lacking a certain star quality found in the top artists today. A quality hard to define -- a sort of mystery amalgam of je ne sais quoi, arrogance, and cynicism.
Then suddenly, the "SFMOMA" dedication. That's it! A tame, bespoke performance: to take 15 minutes, no more, no less; to be enacted without incurring legal liability; to lend without hazard a little frisson of avant-garde daring; to afford a glimpse of the big, bad SRL in guaranteed safety, like, "Look, Jimmy, come pet Kuddles the Killer Whale!". Pauline sells out! He shows star quality. He is ready for the big time. He may even be ready for a Puvis.
The whole exercise was to be an apotheosis of the status quo. And SRL was to provide a spicy note, without ruffling the overall orchestration of the groundbreaking ceremonies. First, bleachers were erected so the important people -- various nabob donors, $100,000-a-year civic officials, and the like -- could see without inconvenience. Tents were filled with food so they wouldn't go hungry, hunger being reportedly a problem in the area. Flanking this was their loyal press corps ("running-dog" is probably too strong a term). And beyond, past protective Cyclone fences, the sidewalks and streets were given to the vulgus, which arrived in droves due mainly to the cynosure of this promised SRL performance. Every bicycle messenger in town was there, along with tattooed young men in earrings, and zaftig future mothers of America overflowing leather bustiers. Their level of interest and devotion to SRL is high -- not to say fanatical -- whether due to the haecceity of the machines themselves, or the promise of noise and destruction.
Mr. Adrian, whose invitation to the bleachers was unaccountably overlooked, viewed the show clutching a Cyclone fence, while balanced on top of a friendly messenger's bicycle. A hundred other enfants du paradis crushed the tops of parked cars to see above the crowd.
The spectacle these faithful witnessed was tame by SRL standards. A piano suspended by chains did not explode. There was no burning flesh. Joe Bob Briggs would have more to report from a drive-in movie. Right on cue at the 15 minute mark, a distant siren wailed, and some firemen appeared to squelch a few flames with extinguishers, and present Mr. Pauline with a ceremonial $60 fine for starting a fire! One can just see it as a line item in the event's budget: "SFFD Finale: $60."
To his credit, Mr. Pauline did not completely go gentle into the good night of conformity, however. He trotted out a mobile flame-throwing device which turned out to be an antique but still potent V-1 rocket engine! This engine was the power plant of the notorious "buzz bombs" Hitler sent over England in WW2. These were so loud they unnerved Britons even before descending to explode on London.
It was not noted how our betters in the bleachers reacted, but the second-class people watched in glee as the Fuehrer's Vergeltungswaffe-Ein took hair-raising control of the arena. Mr. Adrian, fingers locked in the Cyclone fence, felt a wave of terror as the ...thing ...fired in his direction. Whether it was the heat, the noise, the stunning subsonic vibration, or perhaps a primal fear of the Hun, the effect was awesome. When the V-1 "vengeance weapon" plunged into a giant vulvate metallic receptacle and ejaculated fire, the event truly reached a climax.
And with that, Mr. Pauline reached the pinnacle of Puvis correctness, earning the third Award!
Yes, all told, Mr. Pauline is a Puvis champion. Je-ne-sais-quoi -- he's got it. Cynicism -- this show proved it. Arrogance -- vouchsafed by the V-1. Had he just aimed the V-1 at the bleachers, the Puvis Award would be awarded with oak leaf clusters. As it is, he definitely bears watching, as does SRL. Or should we now say "SFSRL"?