Excerpted from LOLA, CALIFORNIA: A Novel by Edie Meidav, to be published in July 2011 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. Copyright © 2011 by Edie Meidav. All rights reserved.

1984

Rose crossing a square in Spain, could be Valencia or Granada or any of the places where two girls stay the summer after high school, sleeping under rowboats or in flowerbeds, in hostels or pensions with balustrades and mites made venerable and happy by tourists, but it happens to be a less trafficked area of Barcelona, not far from where Senegalese vendors pray, and Rose is all chrysalis, bruisable and diffident, aware of contours, thrilled by the people she will meet, the ones who will reveal all her possible faces, still hidden in magic invisible cloak sleeves.

She is crossing a newly washed square toward Lana in a white T-shirt called a wifebeater, and does it matter whether she holds aloft two drinks and one straw, or one drink with two straws, and whether the drink is horchata or limonata and that in a shaded patio Lana sits awaiting Rose with some dark- browed man they have just met? The man doesn’t matter: he just spells the name of some new adventure together. Rose’s tongue inches forward, all is potential. The surface of her skin could be a plum’s, ripe and ready for anything, because someone just granted her new sap: at that point, Rose is still included in Lana.

All that matters is crossing toward her friend, their bubble mostly unburst, Rose no longer an observer, now someone deserving to take breath and live, every footfall commuting what had been one long and lonely life sentence.

What goads her on could be as happenstance as the single brush of an arm as they stride along a railway platform, enough to act as a million fireflies of encouragement in the dark of all they leave unsaid. Rose, crossing toward Lana, shivers. They will never be lovers. They have been newly set loose on the world, fairly oblivious to everyone else. Masters or meteors: two girls at seventeen.

HIGHWAY FIVE TENTH OF DECEMBER, 2008 9:54 A.M.

Vic has been, for years, losing his appetite. This happens on death row. In the last thirty days he has lost fourteen pounds and much of his eyesight.

“What’s the matter, boss?” the guard Javier asks. “You want to look like a war victim?”

“Who do I want to look like?” Vic’s fingers hover over yet another food tray, its edges webbed with grime, as if sensing radioactivity.

“Who’s looking?”

“Food smells bad today?”

“The body doesn’t want food,” says Vic. The day before, he’d had a consuming hallucination that some old friends from early schoolboy and surfing days in America awaited him in the prison courtyard. In a fancy suit he had gone out to bless them. Then he argued with some official that he wasn’t ready to follow the guy into a cold corridor.

Too tired, he had to get back to bed.

Later Vic talked to Javier about how nice and thoughtful it was that the prison had arranged this courtyard ceremony. Only from Javier’s tone did Vic understand that no ceremony had taken place.

“I don’t understand what’s happening to my body,” he says now to Javier, because Vic can’t rise from his cot. There’s a machine making his heart tick and a numb ellipsis occupying the nib where his stomach used to be; the ellipsis makes it hard to rise. He speaks to the fifteen by fifteen sound tiles in the ceiling.

15 + 15 = 30, as he knows well. Also 5 + 25. Also 9 + 21. Much better to count these than the click and screech of gates locking and unlocking.

Javier stands on the other side of the food slot. “Didn’t take your meds yet? Took the vitamins at least?”

“I’m not that optimistic.”

Javier sees the untouched tray. “Señor Legend, maybe it’s time forus to call Doctor K?”

“No. Interference would be problematic. Who’s Doctor K?”

“You’ll see him tomorrow. Maybe later today.”

Such concern emanates from the guard, for a second Vic knows

Javier to be one of the thirty- six righteous people walking the face of the earth, if not already an angel.

Vic waits. “Could you please come in?” He clears his throat before repeating himself.

Javier looks behind and then unlocks, making the choice to reach upward and slant the cell’s camera a few centimeters away. Someone might see them but in so many ways his prisoner is right: who’s looking?

“I’m here,” says Javier. In the protocol book, one exemption gets its own page: once the Bureau of Prisons finalizes the sentence and only the slimmest chance of gubernatorial intervention remains, humane and dignified treatment beyond the scope of protocol becomes permissible. How can anyone define the slimness of a chance?

“Would you mind lying with your head right there to give me some of your body warmth?”

Javier gets down on his knees next to Vic, ginger in laying his head down on the bony prisoner chest, an emptied birdcage. “This is crazy, man.”

“Your warmth is kindness,” says Vic. “I feel it entering me. In your hand too. But you could lose your job.”

“Also my pension.”

“No man ever laid his head on me.”

“Well, they don’t give out teddy bears around here, right?”

“True. No one ever gave me a teddy bear.”

Javier stands up quickly. “You okay? You’re talking strange.”

“How do I talk?”

“Your tongue, like it’s heavy.”

In mock joust, Vic sticks out his tongue at Javier, a proof of how manly and battle- ready he remains. He tries straightening the wayward vertebrae in his spine. “The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.”

“You’ll be okay, boss. I’m going to ask for another blanket. Maybe

I can get you another Mahler recording.”

“You know he’s a distant ancestor.”

“I know, Legend.”

“What do you live for?” asks Vic, desperate to keep him near.

“My kid. Or grandchildren.” Then Javier stops.

“But that’s for them. What keeps you going?”

“I don’t know.” The guard waits. “Maybe your daughter will visit today?”

“Now you’re lying,” says Vic. “You never lied before.” His eyes betray and don’t stop betraying. Since the time when he was small and someone shot a wolf cub in front of him, he had never cried, at least not in front of a living person. Today his eyes happen to let tears slide out.

“I’m saying maybe.”

“Maybe,” echoes Vic, already turning away as Javier leaves the cell, showing the humanity of a good host: flouting regulations, removing the tray.

* * *

Lola, California is out now.

—Edie Meidav is the author of LOLA, CALIFORNIA and other novels.
Other sites of possible interest: www.ediemeidav.com; www.lolacalifornia.blogspot.com; lolacalifornia at Twitter and on Facebook.

Two other dogs were found, some cats, and a few cattle washed down from the Adour River—as happens after every big storm—carrying with it drugs, wads of banknotes, cigarette cartons, etc. The town hall employed men to clean away these more or less inappropriate objects, some of them bloodstained, from the beach. Jérémie’s dog hadn’t a single tooth left, its tongue had been severed.

Dusk was falling. I knew he was searching for his dog. A few hours earlier, he had arrived, slightly concerned, to ask me if I had seen it—occasionally the dog went for a walk with the girls. I had tried to calm him, reminding him just how quick, intelligent, and alert the animal had shown itself to be—even to my eyes, someone who is not very interested in domestic pets—and therefore clever enough to take shelter if the weather was turning for the worse. His complexion was almost gray. Behind him, the sea was roaring, low clouds were streaming past like submarines in the bronze sky. “Keep me posted,” I’d said to him. “Use your phone. Have faith.”

A moment later, the storm had broken, and during the two hours that followed I completely forgot about him and his dog.

Roger had set off to do goodness knows what in town, and the two little girls, who claimed they had seen a flash of lightning pass through the house, were clinging to me and trembling like leaves, while the sky was lit up and deafening explosions shook the entire house.

They were tugging at my sweater. I had one of them on each knee. They were bending forward to yell into my ear when the heavens unleashed a flash of lightning right over the dunes. A sudden apparition, in the garden, just as the storm was moving away, was the cause of their latest cries: a sort of motionless specter on his milky-white, steaming shoulders from which huge drops trickled.

Jérémie was holding the remains of his dog in his arms.

“Listen, girls,” I said. “You must go up to your bedroom.”

But they had already jumped up, had opened the bay window, and were rushing over to Jérémie before I was able to step in. They were drenched from head to foot in a trice.

I ushered everyone into the kitchen. The girls were weeping noisily and were throwing tantrums. Jérémie appeared to be in a state of shock. I took the animal from him and went to lay it on top of the dryer. A stuffed doll, weighing ten kilos or so, scarcely recognizable, and unpleasant to touch.

I made everyone get out of the kitchen. The twins were clinging to me and sobbing, convinced that I could do something to bring this dog back to life. I dragged them over to the bar so that I could pour a dram of 70° whisky—o river of fire, o reviving force—for someone who seemed to be desperately in need of it.

“Let’s sit down,” I said. “Let’s try to control our breathing. OK, girls? Calm down. And you, Jérémie, drain that glass, please. I’m going to get you another. There’s no point in howling, you know. Where’s your father? I’d like to know where he is. You’re soaked. Go and find some towels. Jérémie and I will dry you. Won’t we, Jérémie? Won’t we, Jérémie? My poor old friend. What a wretched business, by the way. The poor dog. But come along, sit down, don’t just stand there like an idiot. Yes, do, don’t worry about that. It’s waterproof leather. Don’t bother about that. Try and relax. Breathe in. Breathe in deeply. So you found him like that, on the rocks? Beneath the lighthouse, you say? Do you think he fell from up there? That he bumped into a couple of irritable gays having it away in the bushes? Hmm. Maybe. It’s not impossible. I know they don’t like being disturbed. But I don’t imagine you’ve any proof of what you’re suggesting. These guys must have chucked your dog in the water? And why would they do that, Jérémie? Look at me. What’s the matter? Wait a second. Listen to me, girls. I’m not joking anymore.”

While they set off in the direction of the airing cupboard upstairs, I leaned over toward him:

“You went to bug them, is that it? Don’t tell me you did that, Jérémie. Look at me. Did you go to bug these guys? But what on earth got into your head? You see the result? Your father didn’t help you, as far as that’s concerned. I’m telling you frankly, he did you no favors.”

His head dropped so low that I could no longer see his face. I didn’t know whether water was dripping from him or whether he was crying. A smell of damp dog now pervaded the house. A small puddle was forming at his feet. One more appalling story. A story of total wastefulness—for which the dog paid the price.

“Listen to me. We can’t bury a dog in the forest in weather like this, absolutely not. That would be verging on madness, do you hear? Digging a grave in weather like this, you must be joking? Using the headlights, I suppose? In twenty inches of mud. In teeming rain.” They pointed out that the storm had died down. That the moon had dried the darkened fields as it rose.

I helped him carry the dog to the trunk of my car while the girls searched the house, gathering up all the flashlights they could find; I could hear the cutlery flying around in the drawers, the cupboard doors slamming.

As I went out, I had the feeling that I was diving into a pool of warm water. I left a message for Judith informing her of the predicament we had got into, were she to come home and find the house empty. If she ever did come home. Something I was never entirely sure about. “I don’t even know where you are,” I added in a tone of voice that struck me as plaintive.

As time went by, I was becoming increasingly sentimental. If I went on like this, I would soon become ridiculous.

Half an hour later, we pulled up in the middle of the forest. It was still raining quite hard. It was still dark. In the back, the little girls were still spluttering into their handkerchiefs. I turned round to them and made them promise not to move from there while Jérémie and I were working.

Very quickly, our task became a quagmire.

The earth was dark and thick. As we dug deeper, the hole filled with water. Through the misted-up windows of the car, the two girls were watching us open-eyed. The rain, all around us, was spitting like bacon in a frying pan. “I’m not going to go on asking you the same question until the end of time,” I said, almost yelling so that he should hear me. “Don’t count on it. So, one last time, I’m asking you, Jérémie, are you all right? . . . if not I’ll drive you to the emergency room right away to be looked after, OK? I recommend you find your tongue again quickly, OK?”

To begin with, he nodded. I told him that wouldn’t be enough.

“Yeah, it’s OK,” he muttered finally. “I don’t want to talk.”

These types of windbreakers with hoods that we had brought with us, very fashionable with campers and tourists, were sticking to our skins the way transparent film clings to vacuum-packed food.

“They murdered my dog!” he grunted between his teeth before beginning to dig frantically again.

I looked at him for a moment. “I can’t get over the fact that you could have done that,” I said to him eventually. “I’m flabbergasted. Your mother really will be pleased. I think she’ll be really proud of you. Doubly so. But for a start, you don’t know a thing. You accuse these people, but you don’t know a thing. You’ve no right to do that.”

He stood up and looked at me fiercely, but no word came from his lips. He suddenly hurled his shovel to the ground and set off furiously to collect his dog.

We had already talked about this, he knew what I thought and what my views were on the subject. Nevertheless, I had admitted that when it had to do with the father or the mother, it did not make things any easier for the child. I could understand his confusion. I could understand that things weren’t quite right inside this child’s head—and yet it wasn’t as if we were having to be protected from rabies or poliomyelitis or dyscalculia.

He stood still for a moment, in front of the open trunk of the car, while torrential rain beat down on his head, before bending down to pick up his dog. Once again, I was happy to admit that the loss was tough for a young fellow who had just come out after six years in prison. In any case, all this was not very good for my coachwork; I didn’t know whether Audi treated the inside of the trunk with antirust.

• *          *

The following day, we were obliged to go back to put up a cross or risk dealing with a double nervous breakdown— Alice had brought them up very badly—and being labeled an infidel; Alice had managed to have them baptized and religion was already seeping into their young and hazy minds. Since when had people not been putting crosses on graves? What sort of a grandfather did they have after all?

The weather was fine after the previous night’s storms. The sky was a washed-out blue. Imagining that we might use the opportunity to find a few cèpe mushrooms, I agreed—on condition that they didn’t expect me to be involved with preparing the thing, for I wasn’t in the mood for that.

I was unsure whether to wake their father. I was having breakfast. I took a look at my post. Since I was still writing a few stories for newspapers and had become unusually obsessive about proof corrections—I was well known for being the worst in the whole country, the kind who really did split hairs—I was still fairly busy, and this meant I could not devote my time to their games, their ceremonies, their fussy demands, and I had therefore left them in the garage, asking them to be careful not to injure themselves with any sharp tool or other.

As for me, I could no more bring myself to put two bits of wood together—or anything else—as long as there was a chance that Alice was still alive.

Judith had returned in the middle of the night. For the time being, she was asleep.

What was the point of waking her up either? On reflection, talking to the twins was what probably suited me best on this dazzlingly bright day. A light breeze was coming from the sea, mingled with the scent of tamarisks. I found the girls and examined the cross they had made with bits of wood from a crate and bent nails. “Good work,” I said to them in a friendly way as I operated the garage door. “I know someone who’s going to be pleased.”

I wasn’t talking about Jérémie. However, it was he whom I spotted in my rearview mirror when I switched on the engine. I gave a frosty glance at the girls. Then I reversed and stopped alongside him.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” I said after contemplating him for a moment. “Go back home. Let us deal with this.”

It was as if he were clenching his teeth with all his might. In the end, I asked him to get in. “I was saying that for your own good,” I said as I drove off. From a canvas bag he carried on his shoulder, he took out a cross that had been astonishingly and elaborately carved and polished, and which gleamed like a fine, old wooden floor that had been newly polished.

The girls cried out in delight. He shrugged his shoulders. He explained that he had developed this pastime in prison. That this carefully decorated cross was the least he owed his friend, his companion.

It was so childish. On a level with the twins, who would soon be asking for holy water; yet the girls were still at an age to bury dead beetles . . . and he at an age to hold up a service station.

He must have spent the entire night there. It was so childish. I didn’t need to see the state his hands were in to imagine the ordeal he was going through, but I found it somewhat hard to sympathize, considering what I was going through myself.

In any case, he was sending out very negative vibes. I suspected that he was taking advantage of his mother’s absence in order not to eat anything. Before she left, A.-M. had filled the freezer with individual portions that could be put straight into the microwave, but this seemed to require an effort he could not manage. He was growing extremely pale.

He didn’t utter a word throughout the journey. I didn’t know whether I was right or wrong to go through this foolish procedure with them. And yet it was from me, I supposed, being the eldest in the group, that one might have expected a little good sense. To have put a stop right away to this jaunt, which did not show any of us in a good light.  However, I had not done this. I had not clapped my hands to bring the three of them down the earth. I had not put my foot down. I had opened the car door and asked Jérémie to get in.

I would have found it very difficult to say what it was I was giving in to, but the result was here, on this road that meandered through the brush and climbed up toward the hill, in an atmosphere that was as sultry as one could imagine.

The cross that Jérémie had carved and the skill and passion that he had obviously devoted to its construction made the process even more solemn, even more unbearable. Just what one needed to avoid. But it was too late to turn back now.

A little while later, Jérémie was looking at my CD player and scrolling through my lists. “Can I put on ‘Current 93’?” he asked as we were nearing our objective; a shower of golden petals that had fallen from the trees rustled on the road, still shimmering after the strong intermittent downpours during the night. I gave in. What did it matter? I could see the twins in the rearview mirror. I could see their hands joined, I could see their lips moving and I wondered whether they were reciting some sort of prayer.

We had buried the dog in the teeming rain but we were now dealing with the funeral ceremony on one of those infinitely graceful autumn days for which we were the envy of the entire world. The bay that stretched out behind us, from the Spanish coast to the horizon, was like a casket of jewels that sparkled with amethysts, sapphires, turquoises, etc. Ernesto often used to walk here. I mean to say that Ernest Hemingway often used to walk here. He always said that there was no better place in the world for a writer. He was hardly exaggerating. He used to come to these parts regularly, accompanied by one of my aunts, to pick cèpes and take a siesta beneath the ancient oak and chestnut trees. That stout fellow.

Jérémie had brought along a hammer and some nails the size of a finger to put up the two crosses. The tree trunk beneath which his dog was buried seemed as hard as stone. He had asked me to leave the doors open so that we could hear some of those dismal songs that David Tibet specialized in; meanwhile the grim hammer blows echoed through the forest and the twins squelched about in the mud searching for leaves and flowers as decorations. I stood back a little, chewing on nicotine gum, pretending not to notice the flight of the crows directly above the clearing where the scene was taking place. I was longing to wander about in the brush, for I could detect a very distinct smell of fresh mushrooms. Alice adored cèpes. Tears began to streak down my cheeks, just thinking about this. As I drove off along the wrong road, I could sense Jérémie’s silent approval.

- Philippe Djian is the author of more than twenty novels and best known in the US for 37.2° le matin, which was made into the film Betty Blue.

Excerpt from Unforgivable by Philipee Djian to be published in the English Language in the US by  Simon & Schuster on March 9th, 2010. Translated from the French by Euan Cameron. Originally published by Editions Gallimard in 2009

http://books.simonandschuster.com/Unforgivable/Philippe-Djian/9781439164419

Genius borrows nobly.

260

Good poets borrow; great poets steal.

261

Art is theft.

262

Why is hip-hop stagnant right now, why is rock dead, why is the conventional novel moribund? Because they’re ignoring the culture around them, where new, more exciting forms of narration and presentation and representation are being found (or rediscovered).

263

American R & B was enormously popular in Jamaica in the 1950s, but none of the local musicians could play it authentically. The music culture was based around DJs playing records at public dances; huge public-address systems were set up for these dances. DJs started acting more and more as taste editors, gaining reputations for the distinct type of record each of them would play. After a while, the act of playing the records also became an opportunity for style and artistic expression. They still used only one record player, but they developed special techniques of switching records in a split second to keep the music going seamlessly. The Jamaican music industry started producing its own recordings, and they, too, were utilized by these sound-system men, who would make recordings specifically for their own dances and wouldn’t let anyone else have the record. Even when Jamaican musicians were available to play these public dances, the audience preferred the manipulation and combination of prerecorded material.

264

Sampling, the technique of taking a section of existing, recorded sound and placing it within an “original” composition, is a new way of doing something that’s been done for a long time: creating with found objects. The rotation gets thick. The constraints get thin. The mix breaks free of the old associations. New contexts form from old. The script gets flipped.

265

In the 1960s, dub reggae—artists recording new parts over preexisting music, often adding new vocals and heavy tape echo—evolved straight out of the sound-system DJ movement, which was always eager to incorporate any new advancement in technology. A decade later, King Tubby and Lee “Scratch” Perry began deconstructing recorded music. Using extremely primitive, predigital hardware, they created what they called versions. In 1962, Jamaica was granted its full independence from Britain, and more Jamaicans started coming to the United States. It was only natural that these immigrants would gravitate toward the ready-made black communities in America, especially New York City. Newly arriving Jamaicans brought with them the idea of the soundsystem DJ; filtered through an African American perspective, the music moved in a different direction than it had in Jamaica. In many ways, hip-hop was born out of the Jamaican idea of turning record-playing into an art form.

266

From when I first met King Tubby and see him work, I knew there was a man with a great deal of potential. He could make music outta the mistakes people bring him, like every spoil is a style to King Tubby. He would drop out the bits where a man sing a wrong note and bring up another instrument or drop out everything for pure bass and drum riddim; then he’d bring back in the singing. You would never know there was a mistake there because he drop in and out of tracks like that’s what he was always intending to do. He do it all live, too. He don’t build it up bit by bit, him jus’ leggo the tape and do his thing. You watch him, it like watching a conductor or a maestro at work. And of course every time it would be different. He always want to surprise people—I think he even want to surprise himself sometimes—and if he mix the same tune a dozen times, you will have twelve different version.

267

In the early 1970s, many technologies became much more widely available to the general public, including the portable PA system, the multichannel mixer, and the magnet-drive turntable made by the Technics company.

268

You don’t need a band to do this stuff. You steal somebody else’s beats, then—with just turntables and your own mouth— you mix and scratch the shit up to the level your own head is at.

269

Lil Wayne, Nine Inch Nails, Radiohead are hugely popular artists who recently circumvented the music business establishment by giving their music directly to their audience for free on the web. The middle man has been cut out; listeners get a behind-the-scenes peek at work in progress. Lil Wayne can put out whatever he pleases, whenever he pleases, and the music fan gets access to far more material than a standard album release would provide. For all three of these acts, sales went up after they had first given away some, if not all, of the new release. Their fans rewarded them for creating this intimate link.

270

In 2008, Damien Hirst, the richest visual artist in the world, sold his work “directly” to buyers through a Sotheby’s auction rather than through the time-honored method of galleries; it was the largest such sale ever: 287 lots, $200 million.

271

What’s appropriation art? It’s when you steal but make a point of stealing, because by changing the context you change the connotation.

272

Reality-based art hijacks its material and doesn’t apologize.

273

My taste for quotation, which I have always kept—why reproach me for it? People, in life, quote what pleases them. Therefore, in our work, we have the right to quote what pleases us.

274

Elaine Sturtevant, an American artist born in 1930 in Lakewood, OH, has achieved recognition for works that consist entirely of copies of other artists’ works—Duchamp, Beuys, Warhol, Stella, Gonzalez-Torres. In each case, her decision to start copying an artist happened well before the artist achieved wide recognition. Nearly all of the artists she has chosen to copy are now considered major artists.

275

Looking for songs to sample and melodies to use—picking through the cultural scrap heap for something that appealed to me—I went through the Billboard R & B charts and the Top 40 charts from the late 1940s until the present. With the aid of the search function on iTunes, I was able to hear a twentysecond section of just about any song I wanted to hear. It was fascinating to watch popular music morph and mutate year by year, especially on the R & B charts (black music has always been quicker to incorporate new songs and technologies). It was like watching stop-animation film footage, seeing this object (the main style of the time) grow and shrink like a plant, rise and fall, swell and collapse: swing music slimming down and splicing into gospel and making rhythm and blues, rhythm and blues slowing down into soul, soul hardening into funk, funk growing into disco, and disco collapsing under its own sheen as hip-hop hid in the underground. It wasn’t until after I’d gone through the whole set of charts and reviewed my notes that I realized there was a trend in the songs I chose to sample. The number of songs I picked remained consistent through the 1950s and ’60s, but by the end of the 70s it dropped off. I’d picked only a few songs from the 80s and none from the 90s. Why do the songs of the late 70s and afterward hold very little appeal for me? Somewhere along the way, as recording technology got better and better each year, the music lost something; it became too perfect, too complete. Which is why so many artists have turned to using samples and other preexisting sources in various forms: in this rush of technological innovation, we’ve lost something along the way and are going back to try to find it, but we don’t know what that thing is. Eating genetically altered, neon-orange bananas, we aren’t getting what we need, and we know something is missing. We’re clinging to anything that seems “real” or organic or authentic. We want rougher sounds, rougher images, raw footage, uncensored by high technology and the powers that be.

276

Rappers got the name MC (master of ceremonies) because they began as hosts at public dances, and as the form evolved, they began to take more and more liberties in what they said between and over the records. Emceeing evolved into a channel for artistic expression—the voice of the host or the voice of the editor fusing with the selected program. The materials of art now include bigger clumps of cultural sediment. Everything in the history of media is fair game: artists painting pictures over road maps, placing photos within comic book landscapes, Kanye West splicing together his own song “Gold Digger” with Ray Charles’s “I Got a Woman.” It’s exciting to deface things that we live among, whether what’s defaced is an Otis Redding record or a brick wall.

277

The birth of jazz: musicians made new use of what was available—marching-band instruments left over from the Spanish-American War. Jazz also made use of different forms of music, from ragtime to blues and impressionistic classical music. Later on, Jazz ran improvisatory riffs on show-tune standards. Or think of a cover version: a composition that already exists is revisioned by another artist. The original composition still exists, and the new one dances on top of the old one, like an editor writing notes in the margins. Hip-hop and dance DJs take snatches of different songs that already exist in the culture and stitch them together to suit their own needs and moods. The folk tradition in action: finding new uses for things by selecting the parts that move you and discarding the rest.

278

Facebook and MySpace are crude personal essay machines. On everyone’s page is a questionnaire, on which each person is asked to list personal info—everything from age to sexual status. A MySpace user can choose a sound track for his page, post pictures of himself, post downloads, and redesign the graphics however he wishes. Many people update their pages constantly and provide running commentary on their lives in the blog function that comes with a site. Millions of little advertisements for the self. I learn more about my younger brothers from reading their Facebook pages than I ever have from actual conversation with them. They write detailed accounts of their personalities and take everything very seriously (as many do) in a sincere attempt to communicate with others but also to control the presentation of their “image.” Every page is a bent version of reality—too unsophisticated to be art but too self-conscious to be mere reportage. In this new landscape, everyone gets a channel. It seems to be the ultimate destiny of every medium to be dragged down to the lowest common denominator, which is at once democratic, liberating, exhilarating, bland, deafening, and confusing. User-made content is the new folk art. If an eighteen-year-old girl in Delaware can’t be in a Hollywood movie, she takes pictures of herself dressed how she imagines a movie star would dress and posts them on her MySpace page. If the members of a Missoula bar band can never be on MTV, they borrow their boss’s camcorder, make their own video, and post it on YouTube. Reality-based art by necessity. Me Media. Blogs, wikis, social-networking sites, podcasts, vlogs, message boards, email groups, iMovie, Twitter, Flickr: more than a third of adult American internet users have created original content and posted it on the web. And it gets more sophisticated every day: chain email gives way to the blog, which gives way to the vlog, which gives way to the webisode. The massively popular video games Guitar Hero and Rock Band not only turn once static content into an interactive experience, but the newer versions have extra functions to let the players actually create new music with the building blocks the game provides. YouPorn, a free YouTube-like site on which users post their homemade porn, has become one of the most popular porn sites. Karaoke is another example of how realitybased art is winning at a grassroots level, among nonexperts. Karaoke is a generic version of live hip-hop. Little skill or equipment is needed to allow people to perform, but no matter how bad or ill-advised the karaoke singer is, he or she is using existing material for means of self-expression, and the audience accepts the fact that there is no band and the music is recorded. The song already exists in the culture and is known to all involved. What is also known is that the music itself has been rerecorded and is a bastardized version of the original backing track. Everyone knows there is nothing original going on, but somehow the whole thing becomes original in its dizzying amateurness. What happens in karaoke is a disposable variation on something iconic in the culture, such as a big 80s hit like “Billie Jean.” It’s reality-based art nearly devoid of art. The only self-expression is the uniqueness of the particular rendition that the karaoke singer performs. And within the space of the original hit, anything goes: squealing, shouting, changing lyrics, wishing friends happy birthday—whatever the singer chooses to do with his three minutes of spotlight. For some it’s just a gag, but others take it very seriously. There’s a communal feeling between audience and singer, because they’re interchangeable.

279

From age thirteen to twenty-four I was in a four-piece rock band (same model as the Beatles through Nirvana). I came to Seattle at eighteen, playing that form of music, but at some point I felt there was nothing else—nothing more—to be done with the standard rock format. The band broke up, and I had a year to float around artistically. The fusion of hip-hop techniques and rock ’n’ roll seemed to be much more exciting. When I came out with the new sound, many of my old friends in rock bands thought I was selling out. It was a tough jump to make. Many musicians said if I was using loops of other recordings, I was unoriginal or untalented or hiding behind technology. There was definitely a line in the sand, and when I crossed it, there was no returning to traditional rock.

280

Language is a city, to the building of which every human being has brought a stone, yet each of us is no more to be credited with the grand result than the acaleph which adds a cell to the coral reef that is the basis of the continent.

281

Just as the letters of our language are metaphors for specific sounds, and words are metaphors for specific ideas, shards of the culture itself now form a kind of language that most everyone knows how to speak. Artists don’t have to spell things out; it’s much faster to go straight to the existing material—film footage, library research, wet newspapers, vinyl records, etc. It’s the artist’s job to mix (edit) the fragments together and, if needed, generate original fragments to fill in the gaps. For example, when Danger Mouse’s The Grey Album was released in 2004, listeners heard the Beatles chopped up and re-presented underneath the contemporary rapper Jay-Z’s vocals. The album simultaneously reflected back to the Beatles, to Jay-Z’s 2003 The Black Album (from which the vocals were taken), and to the artistic tastes of DJ Danger Mouse, who made the new piece of art. The songs work as songs, but they also work as history lessons. Another layer was added by the fact that it’s illegal to use the Beatles for sampling. Capitol Records went to court to silence the album, but it was already too far out into the culture to be stopped. Beyond the use of old media to make a new project, there was the added benefit of a “plotline” on top of the music (underground art vs. corporate empire). This combination led to record-setting free downloads.

282

The DJ known as Girl Talk is taking sampling to its inevitable extreme. He runs Lil Wayne over Nirvana, Elton John over The Notorious B.I.G. Sometimes the juxtaposition is fantastic; usually it’s not. The novelty wears thin very quickly. Anyone can throw together two random things and call it collage art. When musical artists began using existing recordings as a medium of creative expression, they created a new subclass of musicians. An artist making use of samples, while going by a variety of names, is, essentially, a creative editor, presenting selections by other artists in a new context and adding notes of his own.

283

A literary equivalent would be along the lines of “creative translation” such as Ezra Pound’s Homage to Sextus Propertius, in which Pound picked through the elegies of Propertius, translated them, cut them up, and reassembled them in a fashion he deemed entertaining and relevant. Examples from other forms: Thelonius Monk Plays Duke Ellington, in which Monk takes great liberties with Ellington’s songbook. Lichtenstein’s appropriation of comic book art. Picasso’s use of newsprint, among other media, in, say, Composition with Fruit, Guitar, and Glass. Paul’s Boutique: The Beastie Boys, Dust Brothers, and Mario Caldato, Jr., sample from more than 100 sources, including Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, James Brown, and Sly & the Family Stone. Steve Reich’s “Different Trains,” which incorporates audio recordings about train travel by Holocaust survivors and a Pullman porter. Musique concrète, for instance, John Cage’s “Imaginary Landscape No. 4,” written for 12 radios, each played by 2 people (one to tune the channel and one to control volume and timbre). A conductor controls the tempo; the audience hears whatever is on the radio in 97 that city on that day. Russian composer Sofia Gubaidulina’s “Offertium,” which mutates themes from Bach’s “Musical Offering” until they’re beyond recognition. In “Three Variations on the Canon in D Major by Johann Pachelbel,” Brian Eno bends and twists Pachelbel. The nineteenth-century Christian hymn “Nearer, My God, to Thee” was “put together” by Eliza Flower, whose sister, Sarah Flower Adams, had written the lyrics in the form of a poem. Eliza set Sarah’s poem to the music of Lowell Mason’s “Bethany.” Over the years, it’s been set to other tunes as well. Eliza Flower never gets credit for writing the song, credit going only to Adams for the lyrics and Mason for the music, although it was Flower who “edited” the two together.

284

In hip-hop, the mimetic function has been eclipsed to a large extent by manipulation of the original (the “real thing”): theft without apology—conscious, self-conscious, conspicuous appropriation.

285

Graffiti artists use the stuff of everyday life as their canvas— walls, dumpsters, buses. A stylized representation is placed on an everyday object. In visual art, as in other media, artists take unfiltered pieces of their surroundings and use them for their own means.

286

In that slot called data, the reality is sliced in—the junk-shop find, thrift-store clothes, the snippet of James Brown, the stolen paragraph from Proust, and so on.

287

In hip-hop, realness is something to have and express but not question. Realness is sacred. Realness is taboo. Realness refers to a life defined by violence, drugs, cutthroat capitalism—a life not unfamiliar to superstar rappers like The Game (who has been shot five times) and 50 Cent (nine times) when their crews shoot at each other. “I got you stuck off the realness,” Prodigy of Mobb Deep raps in the song “Shook Ones Pt. II,” probably the most widely quoted use of the term. “We be the infamous / you heard of us / official Queensbridge murderers.” It’s Mobb Deep’s realness that makes you a “shook one”; it’s Prodigy’s realness that got you stuck. This leads to the term’s larger meaning, the meaning Cormega takes, for example, in titling his debut album The Realness. There’s no title track to explain the term. It’s posted at the front of the album like an emblem representing all that follows. The same for Group Home’s song “The Realness,” in which DJ Premier samples “Shook Ones Pt. II” to isolate the words “the realness” and “comes equipped.” Melachi ends his verse by saying he “comes equipped with that Brainsick shit,” referring to the guest rappers from the Brainsick Mob, but that’s all we know about these terms. There’s no definition of realness, only a declaration that they’re equipped with it. In the spoken-word introduction to his song “Look in My Eyes,” Obie Trice says, “Every man determines his definition of realness, what’s real to him.” Realness is not reality, something that can be defined or identified. Reality is what is imposed on you; realness is what you impose back. Reality is something you could question; realness is beyond all doubt.

288

Cultural and commercial languages invade us 24/7. That slogan I just heard on the TV commercial: I can’t get it out of my head. That melody from the theme song to that syndicated sitcom that arrives at seven every night: we’re colonized by this stuff. It invades our lives and our lexicon. This might be of no consequence to the average media consumer, but it spells trouble for the artist. There is now a slogan, a melody, a raw building block of art living in his brain that he doesn’t own and can’t use.

289

The evolution of copyright law has effectively stunted the development of sampling, thereby protecting the creative property of artists but obstructing the natural evolution of human creativity, which has always possessed cannibalistic tendencies. With copyright laws making the sampling of popular music virtually impossible, a new technique has evolved in which recordings are made that mimic the recordings that the artists would like to sample. These mimic recordings—not nearly as satisfying as sampling the original record—are then sampled and looped in the same way that the original would have been. We don’t want a mimic of a piece of music, though; we want the actual piece of music presented through a new lens. Replication isn’t reproduction. The copy transcends the original. The original is nothing but a collection of previous cultural movements. All of culture is an appropriation game.

290

People are always talking about originality, but what do they mean? As soon as we are born, the world begins to work upon us, and this goes on to the end. What can we call our own except energy, strength, and will? If I could give an account of all that I owe to great predecessors and contemporaries, there would be but a small balance in my favor.

291

A great man quotes bravely and will not draw on his invention when his memory serves him with a word as good. What he quotes, he fills with his own voice and humor, and the whole cyclopedia of his table talk is presently believed to be his own.

292

Mixtapes are used—as they’ve traditionally been used—to advertise and promote a new record, but they’re also becoming a forum for illegal music: music that has uncleared samples and thus can’t be released through proper channels. Much more than a collection of songs, mixtapes have a host who introduces the programs and talks in between songs as if the listener were at a live show. A DJ selects the music and mixes many different songs together into new pieces. Many times the singers from the selected songs will customize the song and add new twists unique to that particular mixtape. The new vocals are often extremely self-reflexive, mentioning the mixtape itself and how it was made. In the majority of mixtapes I’ve heard, the original songs are re-presented in unique new ways, but record labels then bust their own promotional operatives. Which is similar, in a sense, to the situation regarding file sharing: the companies complaining about downloading (e.g., Sony) are the same companies making the machines that do the downloading. Instead of prosecuting people who have an interest in their product, these companies could try to figure out how to use this consumer interest to their advantage. Mass-media producers are wasting their time trying to hold the dam together, but it broke several years ago. The technology to duplicate, copy, and sample mass-produced media isn’t going away. What do we do with “outlaw” works of art? If I’m burning copies of Titanic and selling them as sup-posedly real copies of the movie, that seems illegal, but if I use elements of Titanic in a Tarnation-style film, that doesn’t seem wrong to me. I think it should be a question of intent. However, both cases are wrong in the eyes of the law.

293

Chris Moukarbel, who was sued by Paramount Pictures over a twelve-minute video based on a bootleg Oliver Stone film script about 9/11, had another video in a New York gallery exhibition that sought to marry politics and art. This one was created from film shot in the process of making the video that led to the lawsuit. Paramount filed suit in United States District Court in Washington, saying that Mr. Moukarbel’s original video, World Trade Center 2006, infringed on the copyright of the screenplay for Mr. Stone’s $60 million film World Trade Center. “I’m interested in memorial and the way Hollywood represents historical events,” Mr. Moukarbel said in an interview a month before the Paramount movie was released. “Through their access and budget, they’re able to affect a lot of people’s ideas about an event and also affect policy. I was deliberately using their script and preempting their release to make a statement about power.”

294

The progress of artistic growth in many media is being hindered, like those poor pine trees in alpine zones able to grow only a few weeks each year. For writers and artists who came of age amid mountains and mountains of cultural artifacts and debris: all of this is part of their lives, but much of it is offlimits for artistic expression because someone “owns” it.

295

Shepard Fairey, borrowing liberally from traditions of urban art and the propaganda poster, took an image off Google and transformed it into a major icon of the 2008 campaign. The image (Obama, atop the word HOPE, looking skyward and awash in red, white, and blue) condensed the feeling of the Obama campaign into a single visual statement. It wasn’t until after the election that the Associated Press realized that it owned the copyright to one of the photos from which Fairey worked. Mannie Garcia, the photographer who took the photo, had no idea it was his work until it was pointed out to him. He later claimed that it was he who actually owned the copyright. This didn’t stop the Associated Press from demanding a large sum of money in “damages” for the now famous photo, which—until very recently—it didn’t know it had and in fact may not own the copyright to. In 2009, backed by Stanford University’s Fair Use Project, Fairey countersued the AP. When Fairey later acknowledged that he had lied about which image he’d used as the basis for his poster, Fairey’s attorneys withdrew from the case. Lawrence Lessig, the director of the Edmond J. Safra Foundation Center for Ethics at Harvard, who had been advising Fairey but not representing him, said that the significant issue in fair-use cases is whether the image has been transformed from the original; if it has been “fundamentally transformed,” he said, it is protected by copyright law.

296

Most of the passages in this book are taken from other sources. Nearly every passage I’ve clipped I’ve also revised, at least a little—for the sake of compression, consistency, or whim. You mix and scratch the shit up to the level your own head is at . . .

297

You’ll notice that he doesn’t assert ownership over his ideas. He’s in some kind of Artaudian condition where all the ideas are unoriginated and unsourced; that’s how he can claim anybody else’s ideas as his own. Really all he wants to do is acquire everyone’s inner life.

298

Stolen property is the soul. Take them out of this book, for instance—you might as well take the book along with them; one cold eternal winter would reign in every page of it. Restore them to the writer: he steps forth like a bridegroom.

299

He dedicated his scruples and his sleepless nights to repeating an already extant book in an alien tongue.

300

The recombinant (the bootleg, the remix, the mash-up) has become the characteristic pivot at the turn of our two centuries. We live at a peculiar juncture, one in which the CD (an object) and the recombinant (a process) still, however briefly, coexist. There seems little doubt, though, as to the direction things are going. The recombinant is manifest in forms as diverse as Alan Moore’s graphic novel The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, machinima generated with game engines (Quake, Halo, World of Warcraft), Dean Scream remixes, genre-warping fan fiction from the universes of Star Trek or Buffy, the JarJar-less Phantom Edit, brand-hybrid athletic shoes, and Japanese collectibles rescued from anonymity by custom paint jobs. We seldom legislate new technologies into being. They emerge, and we plunge with them into whatever vortices of changes they generate. We legislate after the fact, in a perpetual game of catch-up, as best we can, while our new technologies redefine us—as surely and perhaps as terribly as we’ve been redefined by broadcast television.

Excerpted from Reality Hunger: A Manifesto, (Knopf, 2010)

- David Shields‘s most recent book, The Thing About Life Is That One Day You’ll Be Dead, (Knopf, 2008), was a New York Times bestseller. He is the author of eight previous books, including Black Planet: Facing Race During an NBA Season, a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award; Remote: Reflections on Life in the Shadow of Celebrity, winner of the PEN/Revson Award; and Dead Languages: A Novel, winner of the PEN Syndicated Fiction Award. His essays and stories have appeared in the New York Times Magazine, Harper’s, Yale Review, Village Voice, Salon, Slate, McSweeney’s, and Utne Reader; he’s written reviews for the New York Times Book Review, Los Angeles Times Book Review, Boston Globe, and Philadelphia Inquirer.

Shields has received a Guggenheim fellowship, two NEA fellowships, an Ingram Merrill Foundation Award, a Ludwig Vogelstein Foundation grant, and a New York Foundation for the Arts Fellowship. He lives with his wife and daughter in Seattle, where he is a professor in the English department at the University of Washington. Since 1996 he has also been a member of the faculty in Warren Wilson College’s low-residency MFA Program for Writers, in Asheville, North Carolina. His work has been translated into ten languages.

Citations:

259 Emerson

260 Commonly attributed to Eliot; put together two statements, one by Eliot and one by Picasso, and you pretty much have it.

261 Picasso

264 Paul D. Miller, aka DJ Spooky, Rhythm Science

265 Lloyd Bradley, Bass Culture

266 Lee Perry, quoted in Bradley, This Is Reggae Music

271 Peter Mountford, “Alistair Wright,” unpublished manuscript

273 Jean-Luc Godard, in Cahiers du Cinéma, 1960–1968, vol. 2, ed. Jim Hillier

274 Wikipedia entry on Sturtevant

280 Emerson

287 Brian Goedde, “Fake Fan,” Experience Music Project Annual Pop Music

Conference

288 Lethem

289 Last sentence: Ralph Ellison, Collected Essays

290 Goethe

291 Emerson

293 Felicia R. Lee, “An Artist Releases a New Film After Paramount Blocks His First,” New York Times

295 Last sentence: Liz Robbins, “Artist Admits Using Other Photo for ‘Hope’ Poster,” New York Times

297 Charles Baxter, The Soul Thief

298 Laurence Sterne, Tristram Shandy

299 Borges, “Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote”

300 Gibson