[Gasification] "Koyaanisqatsi" (Seriously OT!!)

[jim mason]

that was a fantastic story peter.  thank you.  i read it to the end.

yes, off topic, but relevant, as gasification is the only energy conversion
scenario i've encountered to date that is deeply open, interpretative and
expressive, somewhat like the playing of music.  it is creative,
qualitative, and improvisational, even when attempting the most quantative
studies of it.  your article on virtuoso violin playing amongst morning
bureaucrats is not unrelated.

gasification is such a vast mess of variables, in both fuel composition and
conversion processes, that it can't help from being a rich manifestation of
many particularities.  it is seldom the same twice, and the enthusiast
remains always enthralled by the continuing relevations and improvised
responses.

so much of energy work rises little above a dry technical accounting.  such
is not terribly compelling for the emotive human mind.  maybe this is why
the PV list has so little traffic, and the gasification one has lots,
orchestrated by the most interesting collection of individuals on a public
list i've ever found.  gasification has the potential to go past a zero sum
solving of a problem and making it disappear into the background.
gasification on the contrary always invites one in for a view of the larger
carbon based world around us.  it reveals, inspires and teaches.  it quickly
becomes about much more than making an engine run.

i think it is this evocative and revelatory aspect of gasification that it
is biggest attraction.  thus why i am trying to orchestrate a regular series
of workshops on it, with regular building and iterative play, over here in
california.  thus why i am rerolling all this into a large art project this
summer (http://whatiamupto.com/mechabolic/index.html).  we're trying to
expose gasification as the sensual art of metabolism that it is.

like cuisine is revealing of the character of ingredients that make up the
food we eat and oxidize for energy.  such should be our techniques for
processing the vastly varied and fascinating biomasses for our mechanical
animals.

j









On 4/9/07, Peter Singfield <snkm at btl.net> wrote:
>
>
> Does a "COW" have a "soul"
>
> Does a "modern"????
>
> So -- why fill the planet dull of "COWS"????
>
> What is the purpose???
>
> How about 100 million real humans rather than 6 billion Human COWS???
>
>
> http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/04/AR2007040401
> 721.html?hpid=artslot
>
> Cover Story
> Pearls Before Breakfast
> Can one of the nation's great musicians cut through the fog of a D.C. rush
> hour? Let's find out.
>
> By Gene Weingarten
> Washington Post Staff Writer
> Sunday, April 8, 2007; Page W10
>
> HE EMERGED FROM THE METRO AT THE L'ENFANT PLAZA STATION AND POSITIONED
> HIMSELF AGAINST A WALL BESIDE A TRASH BASKET. By most measures, he was
> nondescript: a youngish white man in jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a
> Washington Nationals baseball cap. From a small case, he removed a violin.
> Placing the open case at his feet, he shrewdly threw in a few dollars and
> pocket change as seed money, swiveled it to face pedestrian traffic, and
> began to play.
>
> It was 7:51 a.m. on Friday, January 12, the middle of the morning rush
> hour. In the next 43 minutes, as the violinist performed six classical
> pieces, 1,097 people passed by. Almost all of them were on the way to
> work,
> which meant, for almost all of them, a government job. L'Enfant Plaza is
> at
> the nucleus of federal Washington, and these were mostly mid-level
> bureaucrats with those indeterminate, oddly fungible titles: policy
> analyst, project manager, budget officer, specialist, facilitator,
> consultant.
>
> Each passerby had a quick choice to make, one familiar to commuters in any
> urban area where the occasional street performer is part of the cityscape:
> Do you stop and listen? Do you hurry past with a blend of guilt and
> irritation, aware of your cupidity but annoyed by the unbidden demand on
> your time and your wallet? Do you throw in a buck, just to be polite? Does
> your decision change if he's really bad? What if he's really good? Do you
> have time for beauty? Shouldn't you? What's the moral mathematics of the
> moment?
>
> On that Friday in January, those private questions would be answered in an
> unusually public way. No one knew it, but the fiddler standing against a
> bare wall outside the Metro in an indoor arcade at the top of the
> escalators was one of the finest classical musicians in the world, playing
> some of the most elegant music ever written on one of the most valuable
> violins ever made. His performance was arranged by The Washington Post as
> an experiment in context, perception and priorities -- as well as an
> unblinking assessment of public taste: In a banal setting at an
> inconvenient time, would beauty transcend?
>
> The musician did not play popular tunes whose familiarity alone might have
> drawn interest. That was not the test. These were masterpieces that have
> endured for centuries on their brilliance alone, soaring music befitting
> the grandeur of cathedrals and concert halls.
>
> The acoustics proved surprisingly kind. Though the arcade is of
> utilitarian
> design, a buffer between the Metro escalator and the outdoors, it somehow
> caught the sound and bounced it back round and resonant. The violin is an
> instrument that is said to be much like the human voice, and in this
> musician's masterly hands, it sobbed and laughed and sang -- ecstatic,
> sorrowful, importuning, adoring, flirtatious, castigating, playful,
> romancing, merry, triumphal, sumptuous.
>
> So, what do you think happened?
>
> HANG ON, WE'LL GET YOU SOME EXPERT HELP.
>
> Leonard Slatkin, music director of the National Symphony Orchestra, was
> asked the same question. What did he think would occur, hypothetically, if
> one of the world's great violinists had performed incognito before a
> traveling rush-hour audience of 1,000-odd people?
>
> "Let's assume," Slatkin said, "that he is not recognized and just taken
> for
> granted as a street musician . . . Still, I don't think that if he's
> really
> good, he's going to go unnoticed. He'd get a larger audience in Europe . .
> . but, okay, out of 1,000 people, my guess is there might be 35 or 40 who
> will recognize the quality for what it is. Maybe 75 to 100 will stop and
> spend some time listening."
>
> So, a crowd would gather?
>
> "Oh, yes."
>
> And how much will he make?
>
> "About $150."
>
> Thanks, Maestro. As it happens, this is not hypothetical. It really
> happened.
>
> "How'd I do?"
>
> We'll tell you in a minute.
>
> "Well, who was the musician?"
>
> Joshua Bell.
>
> "NO!!!"
>
> A onetime child prodigy, at 39 Joshua Bell has arrived as an
> internationally acclaimed virtuoso. Three days before he appeared at the
> Metro station, Bell had filled the house at Boston's stately Symphony
> Hall,
> where merely pretty good seats went for $100. Two weeks later, at the
> Music
> Center at Strathmore, in North Bethesda, he would play to a
> standing-room-only audience so respectful of his artistry that they
> stifled
> their coughs until the silence between movements. But on that Friday in
> January, Joshua Bell was just another mendicant, competing for the
> attention of busy people on their way to work.
>
> Bell was first pitched this idea shortly before Christmas, over coffee at
> a
> sandwich shop on Capitol Hill. A New Yorker, he was in town to perform at
> the Library of Congress and to visit the library's vaults to examine an
> unusual treasure: an 18th-century violin that once belonged to the great
> Austrian-born virtuoso and composer Fritz Kreisler. The curators invited
> Bell to play it; good sound, still.
>
> "Here's what I'm thinking," Bell confided, as he sipped his coffee. "I'm
> thinking that I could do a tour where I'd play Kreisler's music . . ."
>
> He smiled.
>
> ". . . on Kreisler's violin."
>
> It was a snazzy, sequined idea -- part inspiration and part gimmick -- and
> it was typical of Bell, who has unapologetically embraced showmanship even
> as his concert career has become more and more august. He's soloed with
> the
> finest orchestras here and abroad, but he's also appeared on "Sesame
> Street," done late-night talk TV and performed in feature films. That was
> Bell playing the soundtrack on the 1998 movie "The Red Violin." (He
> body-doubled, too, playing to a naked Greta Scacchi.) As composer John
> Corigliano accepted the Oscar for Best Original Dramatic Score, he
> credited
> Bell, who, he said, "plays like a god."
>
> When Bell was asked if he'd be willing to don street clothes and perform
> at
> rush hour, he said:
>
> "Uh, a stunt?"
>
> Well, yes. A stunt. Would he think it . . . unseemly?
>
> Bell drained his cup.
>
> "Sounds like fun," he said.
>
> Bell's a heartthrob. Tall and handsome, he's got a Donny Osmond-like dose
> of the cutes, and, onstage, cute elides into hott. When he performs, he is
> usually the only man under the lights who is not in white tie and tails --
> he walks out to a standing O, looking like Zorro, in black pants and an
> untucked black dress shirt, shirttail dangling. That cute Beatles-style
> mop
> top is also a strategic asset: Because his technique is full of body --
> athletic and passionate -- he's almost dancing with the instrument, and
> his
> hair flies.
>
> He's single and straight, a fact not lost on some of his fans. In Boston,
> as he performed Max Bruch's dour Violin Concerto in G Minor, the very few
> young women in the audience nearly disappeared in the deep sea of silver
> heads. But seemingly every single one of them -- a distillate of the young
> and pretty -- coalesced at the stage door after the performance, seeking
> an
> autograph. It's like that always, with Bell.
>
> Bell's been accepting over-the-top accolades since puberty: Interview
> magazine once said his playing "does nothing less than tell human beings
> why they bother to live." He's learned to field these things graciously,
> with a bashful duck of the head and a modified "pshaw."
>
> For this incognito performance, Bell had only one condition for
> participating. The event had been described to him as a test of whether,
> in
> an incongruous context, ordinary people would recognize genius. His
> condition: "I'm not comfortable if you call this genius." "Genius" is an
> overused word, he said: It can be applied to some of the composers whose
> work he plays, but not to him. His skills are largely interpretive, he
> said, and to imply otherwise would be unseemly and inaccurate.
>
> It was an interesting request, and under the circumstances, one that will
> be honored. The word will not again appear in this article.
>
> It would be breaking no rules, however, to note that the term in question,
> particularly as applied in the field of music, refers to a congenital
> brilliance -- an elite, innate, preternatural ability that manifests
> itself
> early, and often in dramatic fashion.
>
> One biographically intriguing fact about Bell is that he got his first
> music lessons when he was a 4-year-old in Bloomington, Ind. His parents,
> both psychologists, decided formal training might be a good idea after
> they
> saw that their son had strung rubber bands across his dresser drawers and
> was replicating classical tunes by ear, moving drawers in and out to vary
> the pitch.
>
> TO GET TO THE METRO FROM HIS HOTEL, a distance of three blocks, Bell took
> a
> taxi. He's neither lame nor lazy: He did it for his violin.
>
> Bell always performs on the same instrument, and he ruled out using
> another
> for this gig. Called the Gibson ex Huberman, it was handcrafted in 1713 by
> Antonio Stradivari during the Italian master's "golden period," toward the
> end of his career, when he had access to the finest spruce, maple and
> willow, and when his technique had been refined to perfection.
>
> "Our knowledge of acoustics is still incomplete," Bell said, "but he, he
> just . . . knew."
>
> Bell doesn't mention Stradivari by name. Just "he." When the violinist
> shows his Strad to people, he holds the instrument gingerly by its neck,
> resting it on a knee. "He made this to perfect thickness at all parts,"
> Bell says, pivoting it. "If you shaved off a millimeter of wood at any
> point, it would totally imbalance the sound." No violins sound as
> wonderful
> as Strads from the 1710s, still.
>
> The front of Bell's violin is in nearly perfect condition, with a deep,
> rich grain and luster. The back is a mess, its dark reddish finish
> bleeding
> away into a flatter, lighter shade and finally, in one section, to bare
> wood.
>
> "This has never been refinished," Bell said. "That's his original varnish.
> People attribute aspects of the sound to the varnish. Each maker had his
> own secret formula." Stradivari is thought to have made his from an
> ingeniously balanced cocktail of honey, egg whites and gum arabic from
> sub-Saharan trees.
>
> Like the instrument in "The Red Violin," this one has a past filled with
> mystery and malice. Twice, it was stolen from its illustrious prior owner,
> the Polish virtuoso Bronislaw Huberman. The first time, in 1919, it
> disappeared from Huberman's hotel room in Vienna but was quickly returned.
> The second time, nearly 20 years later, it was pinched from his dressing
> room in Carnegie Hall. He never got it back. It was not until 1985 that
> the
> thief -- a minor New York violinist -- made a deathbed confession to his
> wife, and produced the instrument.
>
> Bell bought it a few years ago. He had to sell his own Strad and borrow
> much of the rest. The price tag was reported to be about $3.5 million.
>
> All of which is a long explanation for why, in the early morning chill of
> a
> day in January, Josh Bell took a three-block cab ride to the Orange Line,
> and rode one stop to L'Enfant.
>
> AS METRO STATIONS GO, L'ENFANT PLAZA IS MORE PLEBEIAN THAN MOST. Even
> before you arrive, it gets no respect. Metro conductors never seem to get
> it right: "Leh-fahn." "Layfont." "El'phant."
>
> At the top of the escalators are a shoeshine stand and a busy kiosk that
> sells newspapers, lottery tickets and a wallfull of magazines with titles
> such as Mammazons and Girls of Barely Legal. The skin mags move, but it's
> that lottery ticket dispenser that stays the busiest, with customers
> queuing up for Daily 6 lotto and Powerball and the ultimate suckers' bait,
> those pamphlets that sell random number combinations purporting to be
> "hot." They sell briskly. There's also a quick-check machine to slide in
> your lotto ticket, post-drawing, to see if you've won. Beneath it is a
> forlorn pile of crumpled slips.
>
> On Friday, January 12, the people waiting in the lottery line looking for
> a
> long shot would get a lucky break -- a free, close-up ticket to a concert
> by one of the world's most famous musicians -- but only if they were of a
> mind to take note.
>
> Bell decided to begin with "Chaconne" from Johann Sebastian Bach's Partita
> No. 2 in D Minor. Bell calls it "not just one of the greatest pieces of
> music ever written, but one of the greatest achievements of any man in
> history. It's a spiritually powerful piece, emotionally powerful,
> structurally perfect. Plus, it was written for a solo violin, so I won't
> be
> cheating with some half-assed version."
>
> Bell didn't say it, but Bach's "Chaconne" is also considered one of the
> most difficult violin pieces to master. Many try; few succeed. It's
> exhaustingly long -- 14 minutes -- and consists entirely of a single,
> succinct musical progression repeated in dozens of variations to create a
> dauntingly complex architecture of sound. Composed around 1720, on the eve
> of the European Enlightenment, it is said to be a celebration of the
> breadth of human possibility.
>
> If Bell's encomium to "Chaconne" seems overly effusive, consider this from
> the 19th-century composer Johannes Brahms, in a letter to Clara Schumann:
> "On one stave, for a small instrument, the man writes a whole world of the
> deepest thoughts and most powerful feelings. If I imagined that I could
> have created, even conceived the piece, I am quite certain that the excess
> of excitement and earth-shattering experience would have driven me out of
> my mind."
>
> So, that's the piece Bell started with.
>
> He'd clearly meant it when he promised not to cheap out this performance:
> He played with acrobatic enthusiasm, his body leaning into the music and
> arching on tiptoes at the high notes. The sound was nearly symphonic,
> carrying to all parts of the homely arcade as the pedestrian traffic filed
> past.
>
> Three minutes went by before something happened. Sixty-three people had
> already passed when, finally, there was a breakthrough of sorts. A
> middle-age man altered his gait for a split second, turning his head to
> notice that there seemed to be some guy playing music. Yes, the man kept
> walking, but it was something.
>
> A half-minute later, Bell got his first donation. A woman threw in a buck
> and scooted off. It was not until six minutes into the performance that
> someone actually stood against a wall, and listened.
>
> Things never got much better. In the three-quarters of an hour that Joshua
> Bell played, seven people stopped what they were doing to hang around and
> take in the performance, at least for a minute. Twenty-seven gave money,
> most of them on the run -- for a total of $32 and change. That leaves the
> 1,070 people who hurried by, oblivious, many only three feet away, few
> even
> turning to look.
>
> No, Mr. Slatkin, there was never a crowd, not even for a second.
>
> It was all videotaped by a hidden camera. You can play the recording once
> or 15 times, and it never gets any easier to watch. Try speeding it up,
> and
> it becomes one of those herky-jerky World War I-era silent newsreels. The
> people scurry by in comical little hops and starts, cups of coffee in
> their
> hands, cellphones at their ears, ID tags slapping at their bellies, a grim
> danse macabre to indifference, inertia and the dingy, gray rush of
> modernity.
>
> Even at this accelerated pace, though, the fiddler's movements remain
> fluid
> and graceful; he seems so apart from his audience -- unseen, unheard,
> otherworldly -- that you find yourself thinking that he's not really
> there.
> A ghost.
>
> Only then do you see it: He is the one who is real. They are the ghosts.
>
> IF A GREAT MUSICIAN PLAYS GREAT MUSIC BUT NO ONE HEARS . . . WAS HE REALLY
> ANY GOOD?
>
> It's an old epistemological debate, older, actually, than the koan about
> the tree in the forest. Plato weighed in on it, and philosophers for two
> millennia afterward: What is beauty? Is it a measurable fact (Gottfried
> Leibniz), or merely an opinion (David Hume), or is it a little of each,
> colored by the immediate state of mind of the observer (Immanuel Kant)?
>
> We'll go with Kant, because he's obviously right, and because he brings us
> pretty directly to Joshua Bell, sitting there in a hotel restaurant,
> picking at his breakfast, wryly trying to figure out what the hell had
> just
> happened back there at the Metro.
>
> "At the beginning," Bell says, "I was just concentrating on playing the
> music. I wasn't really watching what was happening around me . . ."
>
> Playing the violin looks all-consuming, mentally and physically, but Bell
> says that for him the mechanics of it are partly second nature, cemented
> by
> practice and muscle memory: It's like a juggler, he says, who can keep
> those balls in play while interacting with a crowd. What he's mostly
> thinking about as he plays, Bell says, is capturing emotion as a
> narrative:
> "When you play a violin piece, you are a storyteller, and you're telling a
> story."
>
> With "Chaconne," the opening is filled with a building sense of awe. That
> kept him busy for a while. Eventually, though, he began to steal a
> sidelong
> glance.
>
> "It was a strange feeling, that people were actually, ah . . ."
>
> The word doesn't come easily.
>
> ". . . ignoring me."
>
> Bell is laughing. It's at himself.
>
> "At a music hall, I'll get upset if someone coughs or if someone's
> cellphone goes off. But here, my expectations quickly diminished. I
> started
> to appreciate any acknowledgment, even a slight glance up. I was oddly
> grateful when someone threw in a dollar instead of change." This is from a
> man whose talents can command $1,000 a minute.
>
> Before he began, Bell hadn't known what to expect. What he does know is
> that, for some reason, he was nervous.
>
> "It wasn't exactly stage fright, but there were butterflies," he says. "I
> was stressing a little."
>
> Bell has played, literally, before crowned heads of Europe. Why the
> anxiety
> at the Washington Metro?
>
> "When you play for ticket-holders," Bell explains, "you are already
> validated. I have no sense that I need to be accepted. I'm already
> accepted. Here, there was this thought: What if they don't like me? What
> if
> they resent my presence . . ."
>
> He was, in short, art without a frame. Which, it turns out, may have a lot
> to do with what happened -- or, more precisely, what didn't happen -- on
> January 12.
>
> MARK LEITHAUSER HAS HELD IN HIS HANDS MORE GREAT WORKS OF ART THAN ANY
> KING
> OR POPE OR MEDICI EVER DID. A senior curator at the National Gallery, he
> oversees the framing of the paintings. Leithauser thinks he has some idea
> of what happened at that Metro station.
>
> "Let's say I took one of our more abstract masterpieces, say an Ellsworth
> Kelly, and removed it from its frame, marched it down the 52 steps that
> people walk up to get to the National Gallery, past the giant columns, and
> brought it into a restaurant. It's a $5 million painting. And it's one of
> those restaurants where there are pieces of original art for sale, by some
> industrious kids from the Corcoran School, and I hang that Kelly on the
> wall with a price tag of $150. No one is going to notice it. An art
> curator
> might look up and say: 'Hey, that looks a little like an Ellsworth Kelly.
> Please pass the salt.'"
>
> Leithauser's point is that we shouldn't be too ready to label the Metro
> passersby unsophisticated boobs. Context matters.
>
> Kant said the same thing. He took beauty seriously: In his Critique of
> Aesthetic Judgment, Kant argued that one's ability to appreciate beauty is
> related to one's ability to make moral judgments. But there was a caveat.
> Paul Guyer of the University of Pennsylvania, one of America's most
> prominent Kantian scholars, says the 18th-century German philosopher felt
> that to properly appreciate beauty, the viewing conditions must be
> optimal.
>
> "Optimal," Guyer said, "doesn't mean heading to work, focusing on your
> report to the boss, maybe your shoes don't fit right."
>
> So, if Kant had been at the Metro watching as Joshua Bell play to a
> thousand unimpressed passersby?
>
> "He would have inferred about them," Guyer said, "absolutely nothing."
>
> And that's that.
>
> Except it isn't. To really understand what happened, you have to rewind
> that video and play it back from the beginning, from the moment Bell's bow
> first touched the strings.
>
> White guy, khakis, leather jacket, briefcase. Early 30s. John David
> Mortensen is on the final leg of his daily bus-to-Metro commute from
> Reston. He's heading up the escalator. It's a long ride -- 1 minute and 15
> seconds if you don't walk. So, like most everyone who passes Bell this
> day,
> Mortensen gets a good earful of music before he has his first look at the
> musician. Like most of them, he notes that it sounds pretty good. But like
> very few of them, when he gets to the top, he doesn't race past as though
> Bell were some nuisance to be avoided. Mortensen is that first person to
> stop, that guy at the six-minute mark.
>
> It's not that he has nothing else to do. He's a project manager for an
> international program at the Department of Energy; on this day, Mortensen
> has to participate in a monthly budget exercise, not the most exciting
> part
> of his job: "You review the past month's expenditures," he says, "forecast
> spending for the next month, if you have X dollars, where will it go, that
> sort of thing."
>
> On the video, you can see Mortensen get off the escalator and look around.
> He locates the violinist, stops, walks away but then is drawn back. He
> checks the time on his cellphone -- he's three minutes early for work --
> then settles against a wall to listen.
>
> Mortensen doesn't know classical music at all; classic rock is as close as
> he comes. But there's something about what he's hearing that he really
> likes.
>
> As it happens, he's arrived at the moment that Bell slides into the second
> section of "Chaconne." ("It's the point," Bell says, "where it moves from
> a
> darker, minor key into a major key. There's a religious, exalted feeling
> to
> it.") The violinist's bow begins to dance; the music becomes upbeat,
> playful, theatrical, big.
>
> Mortensen doesn't know about major or minor keys: "Whatever it was," he
> says, "it made me feel at peace."
>
> So, for the first time in his life, Mortensen lingers to listen to a
> street
> musician. He stays his allotted three minutes as 94 more people pass
> briskly by. When he leaves to help plan contingency budgets for the
> Department of Energy, there's another first. For the first time in his
> life, not quite knowing what had just happened but sensing it was special,
> John David Mortensen gives a street musician money.
>
> THERE ARE SIX MOMENTS IN THE VIDEO THAT BELL FINDS PARTICULARLY PAINFUL TO
> RELIVE: "The awkward times," he calls them. It's what happens right after
> each piece ends: nothing. The music stops. The same people who hadn't
> noticed him playing don't notice that he has finished. No applause, no
> acknowledgment. So Bell just saws out a small, nervous chord -- the
> embarrassed musician's equivalent of, "Er, okay, moving right along . . ."
> -- and begins the next piece.
>
> After "Chaconne," it is Franz Schubert's "Ave Maria," which surprised some
> music critics when it debuted in 1825: Schubert seldom showed religious
> feeling in his compositions, yet "Ave Maria" is a breathtaking work of
> adoration of the Virgin Mary. What was with the sudden piety? Schubert
> dryly answered: "I think this is due to the fact that I never forced
> devotion in myself and never compose hymns or prayers of that kind unless
> it overcomes me unawares; but then it is usually the right and true
> devotion." This musical prayer became among the most familiar and enduring
> religious pieces in history.
>
> A couple of minutes into it, something revealing happens. A woman and her
> preschooler emerge from the escalator. The woman is walking briskly and,
> therefore, so is the child. She's got his hand.
>
> "I had a time crunch," recalls Sheron Parker, an IT director for a federal
> agency. "I had an 8:30 training class, and first I had to rush Evvie off
> to
> his teacher, then rush back to work, then to the training facility in the
> basement."
>
> Evvie is her son, Evan. Evan is 3.
>
> You can see Evan clearly on the video. He's the cute black kid in the
> parka
> who keeps twisting around to look at Joshua Bell, as he is being propelled
> toward the door.
>
> "There was a musician," Parker says, "and my son was intrigued. He wanted
> to pull over and listen, but I was rushed for time."
>
> So Parker does what she has to do. She deftly moves her body between
> Evan's
> and Bell's, cutting off her son's line of sight. As they exit the arcade,
> Evan can still be seen craning to look. When Parker is told what she
> walked
> out on, she laughs.
>
> "Evan is very smart!"
>
> The poet Billy Collins once laughingly observed that all babies are born
> with a knowledge of poetry, because the lub-dub of the mother's heart is
> in
> iambic meter. Then, Collins said, life slowly starts to choke the poetry
> out of us. It may be true with music, too.
>
> There was no ethnic or demographic pattern to distinguish the people who
> stayed to watch Bell, or the ones who gave money, from that vast majority
> who hurried on past, unheeding. Whites, blacks and Asians, young and old,
> men and women, were represented in all three groups. But the behavior of
> one demographic remained absolutely consistent. Every single time a child
> walked past, he or she tried to stop and watch. And every single time, a
> parent scooted the kid away.
>
> IF THERE WAS ONE PERSON ON THAT DAY WHO WAS TOO BUSY TO PAY ATTENTION TO
> THE VIOLINIST, it was George Tindley. Tindley wasn't hurrying to get to
> work. He was at work.
>
> The glass doors through which most people exit the L'Enfant station lead
> into an indoor shopping mall, from which there are exits to the street and
> elevators to office buildings. The first store in the mall is an Au Bon
> Pain, the croissant and coffee shop where Tindley, in his 40s, works in a
> white uniform busing the tables, restocking the salt and pepper packets,
> taking out the garbage. Tindley labors under the watchful eye of his
> bosses, and he's supposed to be hopping, and he was.
>
> But every minute or so, as though drawn by something not entirely within
> his control, Tindley would walk to the very edge of the Au Bon Pain
> property, keeping his toes inside the line, still on the job. Then he'd
> lean forward, as far out into the hallway as he could, watching the
> fiddler
> on the other side of the glass doors. The foot traffic was steady, so the
> doors were usually open. The sound came through pretty well.
>
> "You could tell in one second that this guy was good, that he was clearly
> a
> professional," Tindley says. He plays the guitar, loves the sound of
> strings, and has no respect for a certain kind of musician.
>
> "Most people, they play music; they don't feel it," Tindley says. "Well,
> that man was feeling it. That man was moving. Moving into the sound."
>
> A hundred feet away, across the arcade, was the lottery line, sometimes
> five or six people long. They had a much better view of Bell than Tindley
> did, if they had just turned around. But no one did. Not in the entire 43
> minutes. They just shuffled forward toward that machine spitting out
> numbers. Eyes on the prize.
>
> J.T. Tillman was in that line. A computer specialist for the Department of
> Housing and Urban Development, he remembers every single number he played
> that day -- 10 of them, $2 apiece, for a total of $20. He doesn't recall
> what the violinist was playing, though. He says it sounded like generic
> classical music, the kind the ship's band was playing in "Titanic," before
> the iceberg.
>
> "I didn't think nothing of it," Tillman says, "just a guy trying to make a
> couple of bucks." Tillman would have given him one or two, he said, but he
> spent all his cash on lotto.
>
> When he is told that he stiffed one of the best musicians in the world, he
> laughs.
>
> "Is he ever going to play around here again?"
>
> "Yeah, but you're going to have to pay a lot to hear him."
>
> "Damn."
>
> Tillman didn't win the lottery, either.
>
> BELL ENDS "AVE MARIA" TO ANOTHER THUNDEROUS SILENCE, plays Manuel Ponce's
> sentimental "Estrellita," then a piece by Jules Massenet, and then begins
> a
> Bach gavotte, a joyful, frolicsome, lyrical dance. It's got an Old World
> delicacy to it; you can imagine it entertaining bewigged dancers at a
> Versailles ball, or -- in a lute, fiddle and fife version -- the
> boot-kicking peasants of a Pieter Bruegel painting.
>
> Watching the video weeks later, Bell finds himself mystified by one thing
> only. He understands why he's not drawing a crowd, in the rush of a
> morning
> workday. But: "I'm surprised at the number of people who don't pay
> attention at all, as if I'm invisible. Because, you know what? I'm makin'
> a
> lot of noise!"
>
> He is. You don't need to know music at all to appreciate the simple fact
> that there's a guy there, playing a violin that's throwing out a whole
> bucket of sound; at times, Bell's bowing is so intricate that you seem to
> be hearing two instruments playing in harmony. So those head-forward,
> quick-stepping passersby are a remarkable phenomenon.
>
> Bell wonders whether their inattention may be deliberate: If you don't
> take
> visible note of the musician, you don't have to feel guilty about not
> forking over money; you're not complicit in a rip-off.
>
> It may be true, but no one gave that explanation. People just said they
> were busy, had other things on their mind. Some who were on cellphones
> spoke louder as they passed Bell, to compete with that infernal racket.
>
> And then there was Calvin Myint. Myint works for the General Services
> Administration. He got to the top of the escalator, turned right and
> headed
> out a door to the street. A few hours later, he had no memory that there
> had been a musician anywhere in sight.
>
> "Where was he, in relation to me?"
>
> "About four feet away."
>
> "Oh."
>
> There's nothing wrong with Myint's hearing. He had buds in his ear. He was
> listening to his iPod.
>
> For many of us, the explosion in technology has perversely limited, not
> expanded, our exposure to new experiences. Increasingly, we get our news
> from sources that think as we already do. And with iPods, we hear what we
> already know; we program our own playlists.
>
> The song that Calvin Myint was listening to was "Just Like Heaven," by the
> British rock band The Cure. It's a terrific song, actually. The meaning is
> a little opaque, and the Web is filled with earnest efforts to deconstruct
> it. Many are far-fetched, but some are right on point: It's about a tragic
> emotional disconnect. A man has found the woman of his dreams but can't
> express the depth of his feeling for her until she's gone. It's about
> failing to see the beauty of what's plainly in front of your eyes.
>
> "YES, I SAW THE VIOLINIST," Jackie Hessian says, "but nothing about him
> struck me as much of anything."
>
> You couldn't tell that by watching her. Hessian was one of those people
> who
> gave Bell a long, hard look before walking on. It turns out that she
> wasn't
> noticing the music at all.
>
> "I really didn't hear that much," she said. "I was just trying to figure
> out what he was doing there, how does this work for him, can he make much
> money, would it be better to start with some money in the case, or for it
> to be empty, so people feel sorry for you? I was analyzing it
> financially."
>
> What do you do, Jackie?
>
> "I'm a lawyer in labor relations with the United States Postal Service. I
> just negotiated a national contract."
>
> THE BEST SEATS IN THE HOUSE WERE UPHOLSTERED. In the balcony, more or
> less.
> On that day, for $5, you'd get a lot more than just a nice shine on your
> shoes.
>
> Only one person occupied one of those seats when Bell played. Terence
> Holmes is a consultant for the Department of Transportation, and he liked
> the music just fine, but it was really about a shoeshine: "My father told
> me never to wear a suit with your shoes not cleaned and shined."
>
> Holmes wears suits often, so he is up in that perch a lot, and he's got a
> good relationship with the shoeshine lady. Holmes is a good tipper and a
> good talker, which is a skill that came in handy that day. The shoeshine
> lady was upset about something, and the music got her more upset. She
> complained, Holmes said, that the music was too loud, and he tried to calm
> her down.
>
> Edna Souza is from Brazil. She's been shining shoes at L'Enfant Plaza for
> six years, and she's had her fill of street musicians there; when they
> play, she can't hear her customers, and that's bad for business. So she
> fights.
>
> Souza points to the dividing line between the Metro property, at the top
> of
> the escalator, and the arcade, which is under control of the management
> company that runs the mall. Sometimes, Souza says, a musician will stand
> on
> the Metro side, sometimes on the mall side. Either way, she's got him. On
> her speed dial, she has phone numbers for both the mall cops and the Metro
> cops. The musicians seldom last long.
>
> What about Joshua Bell?
>
> He was too loud, too, Souza says. Then she looks down at her rag, sniffs.
> She hates to say anything positive about these damned musicians, but: "He
> was pretty good, that guy. It was the first time I didn't call the
> police."
>
> Souza was surprised to learn he was a famous musician, but not that people
> rushed blindly by him. That, she said, was predictable. "If something like
> this happened in Brazil, everyone would stand around to see. Not here."
>
> Souza nods sourly toward a spot near the top of the escalator: "Couple of
> years ago, a homeless guy died right there. He just lay down there and
> died. The police came, an ambulance came, and no one even stopped to see
> or
> slowed down to look.
>
> "People walk up the escalator, they look straight ahead. Mind your own
> business, eyes forward. Everyone is stressed. Do you know what I mean?"
>
> What is this life if, full of care,
>
> We have no time to stand and stare.
>
> -- from "Leisure," by W.H. Davies
>
> Let's say Kant is right. Let's accept that we can't look at what happened
> on January 12 and make any judgment whatever about people's sophistication
> or their ability to appreciate beauty. But what about their ability to
> appreciate life?
>
> We're busy. Americans have been busy, as a people, since at least 1831,
> when a young French sociologist named Alexis de Tocqueville visited the
> States and found himself impressed, bemused and slightly dismayed at the
> degree to which people were driven, to the exclusion of everything else,
> by
> hard work and the accumulation of wealth.
>
> Not much has changed. Pop in a DVD of "Koyaanisqatsi," the wordless,
> darkly
> brilliant, avant-garde 1982 film about the frenetic speed of modern life.
> Backed by the minimalist music of Philip Glass, director Godfrey Reggio
> takes film clips of Americans going about their daily business, but speeds
> them up until they resemble assembly-line machines, robots marching
> lockstep to nowhere. Now look at the video from L'Enfant Plaza, in
> fast-forward. The Philip Glass soundtrack fits it perfectly.
>
> "Koyaanisqatsi" is a Hopi word. It means "life out of balance."
>
> In his 2003 book, Timeless Beauty: In the Arts and Everyday Life, British
> author John Lane writes about the loss of the appreciation for beauty in
> the modern world. The experiment at L'Enfant Plaza may be symptomatic of
> that, he said -- not because people didn't have the capacity to understand
> beauty, but because it was irrelevant to them.
>
> "This is about having the wrong priorities," Lane said.
>
> If we can't take the time out of our lives to stay a moment and listen to
> one of the best musicians on Earth play some of the best music ever
> written; if the surge of modern life so overpowers us that we are deaf and
> blind to something like that -- then what else are we missing?
>
> That's what the Welsh poet W.H. Davies meant in 1911 when he published
> those two lines that begin this section. They made him famous. The thought
> was simple, even primitive, but somehow no one had put it quite that way
> before.
>
> Of course, Davies had an advantage -- an advantage of perception. He
> wasn't
> a tradesman or a laborer or a bureaucrat or a consultant or a policy
> analyst or a labor lawyer or a program manager. He was a hobo.
>
> THE CULTURAL HERO OF THE DAY ARRIVED AT L'ENFANT PLAZA PRETTY LATE, in the
> unprepossessing figure of one John Picarello, a smallish man with a
> baldish
> head.
>
> Picarello hit the top of the escalator just after Bell began his final
> piece, a reprise of "Chaconne." In the video, you see Picarello stop dead
> in his tracks, locate the source of the music, and then retreat to the
> other end of the arcade. He takes up a position past the shoeshine stand,
> across from that lottery line, and he will not budge for the next nine
> minutes.
>
> Like all the passersby interviewed for this article, Picarello was stopped
> by a reporter after he left the building, and was asked for his phone
> number. Like everyone, he was told only that this was to be an article
> about commuting. When he was called later in the day, like everyone else,
> he was first asked if anything unusual had happened to him on his trip
> into
> work. Of the more than 40 people contacted, Picarello was the only one who
> immediately mentioned the violinist.
>
> "There was a musician playing at the top of the escalator at L'Enfant
> Plaza."
>
> Haven't you seen musicians there before?
>
> "Not like this one."
>
> What do you mean?
>
> "This was a superb violinist. I've never heard anyone of that caliber. He
> was technically proficient, with very good phrasing. He had a good fiddle,
> too, with a big, lush sound. I walked a distance away, to hear him. I
> didn't want to be intrusive on his space."
>
> Really?
>
> "Really. It was that kind of experience. It was a treat, just a brilliant,
> incredible way to start the day."
>
> Picarello knows classical music. He is a fan of Joshua Bell but didn't
> recognize him; he hadn't seen a recent photo, and besides, for most of the
> time Picarello was pretty far away. But he knew this was not a
> run-of-the-mill guy out there, performing. On the video, you can see
> Picarello look around him now and then, almost bewildered.
>
> "Yeah, other people just were not getting it. It just wasn't registering.
> That was baffling to me."
>
> When Picarello was growing up in New York, he studied violin seriously,
> intending to be a concert musician. But he gave it up at 18, when he
> decided he'd never be good enough to make it pay. Life does that to you
> sometimes. Sometimes, you have to do the prudent thing. So he went into
> another line of work. He's a supervisor at the U.S. Postal Service.
> Doesn't
> play the violin much, anymore.
>
> When he left, Picarello says, "I humbly threw in $5." It was humble: You
> can actually see that on the video. Picarello walks up, barely looking at
> Bell, and tosses in the money. Then, as if embarrassed, he quickly walks
> away from the man he once wanted to be.
>
> Does he have regrets about how things worked out?
>
> The postal supervisor considers this.
>
> "No. If you love something but choose not to do it professionally, it's
> not
> a waste. Because, you know, you still have it. You have it forever."
>
> BELL THINKS HE DID HIS BEST WORK OF THE DAY IN THOSE FINAL FEW MINUTES, in
> the second "Chaconne." And that also was the first time more than one
> person at a time was listening. As Picarello stood in the back, Janice Olu
> arrived and took up a position a few feet away from Bell. Olu, a public
> trust officer with HUD, also played the violin as a kid. She didn't know
> the name of the piece she was hearing, but she knew the man playing it has
> a gift.
>
> Olu was on a coffee break and stayed as long as she dared. As she turned
> to
> go, she whispered to the stranger next to her, "I really don't want to
> leave." The stranger standing next to her happened to be working for The
> Washington Post.
>
> In preparing for this event, editors at The Post Magazine discussed how to
> deal with likely outcomes. The most widely held assumption was that there
> could well be a problem with crowd control: In a demographic as
> sophisticated as Washington, the thinking went, several people would
> surely
> recognize Bell. Nervous "what-if" scenarios abounded. As people gathered,
> what if others stopped just to see what the attraction was? Word would
> spread through the crowd. Cameras would flash. More people flock to the
> scene; rush-hour pedestrian traffic backs up; tempers flare; the National
> Guard is called; tear gas, rubber bullets, etc.
>
> As it happens, exactly one person recognized Bell, and she didn't arrive
> until near the very end. For Stacy Furukawa, a demographer at the Commerce
> Department, there was no doubt. She doesn't know much about classical
> music, but she had been in the audience three weeks earlier, at Bell's
> free
> concert at the Library of Congress. And here he was, the international
> virtuoso, sawing away, begging for money. She had no idea what the heck
> was
> going on, but whatever it was, she wasn't about to miss it.
>
> Furukawa positioned herself 10 feet away from Bell, front row, center. She
> had a huge grin on her face. The grin, and Furukawa, remained planted in
> that spot until the end.
>
> "It was the most astonishing thing I've ever seen in Washington," Furukawa
> says. "Joshua Bell was standing there playing at rush hour, and people
> were
> not stopping, and not even looking, and some were flipping quarters at
> him!
> Quarters! I wouldn't do that to anybody. I was thinking, Omigosh, what
> kind
> of a city do I live in that this could happen?"
>
> When it was over, Furukawa introduced herself to Bell, and tossed in a
> twenty. Not counting that -- it was tainted by recognition -- the final
> haul for his 43 minutes of playing was $32.17. Yes, some people gave
> pennies.
>
> "Actually," Bell said with a laugh, "that's not so bad, considering.
> That's
> 40 bucks an hour. I could make an okay living doing this, and I wouldn't
> have to pay an agent."
>
> These days, at L'Enfant Plaza, lotto ticket sales remain brisk. Musicians
> still show up from time to time, and they still tick off Edna Souza.
> Joshua
> Bell's latest album, "The Voice of the Violin," has received the usual
> critical acclaim. ("Delicate urgency." "Masterful intimacy." "Unfailingly
> exquisite." "A musical summit." ". . . will make your heart thump and weep
> at the same time.")
>
> Bell headed off on a concert tour of European capitals. But he is back in
> the States this week. He has to be. On Tuesday, he will be accepting the
> Avery Fisher prize, recognizing the Flop of L'Enfant Plaza as the best
> classical musician in America.
>
> Emily Shroder, Rachel Manteuffel, John W. Poole and Magazine Editor Tom
> Shroder contributed to this report.
>
> Gene Weingarten, a Magazine staff writer, can be reached at
> eingarten at washpost.com.
>
> He will be fielding questions and comments about this article Monday at 1
> p.m.
>
>
>
>
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