Jay Fox - THE WALLS

We left without speaking these words to one another, of course. She went around the corner and upstairs to her sister's apartment; I hopped on an Astoria-bound train. There, in Astoria, I came upon one of my favorite pieces by Coprolalia, which, unfortunately, no member of the staff could date with any certainty. Sean had labeled it Cōlin Jenkins . I have no idea why. It featured a very dejected Colin Powell holding his severed left ear in a mason jar. There must be some reference there, but I'm at a loss to explain what it is. Regardless, it was certainly better than one of the pieces close by Shea Stadium, which featured a quotation of Derrida's twelfth aphorism. The same quote appeared in a place on Smith Street, though, as Sean pointed out, the two were not written by the same hand.

The repetition is not what surprises me; rather, it's the difference between the two areas. In the bar near Shea (or Ashe, depending on your preference), I was the only person who spoke English as a first language. A captious woman at the bar translated my questions for the bartender (the typical questions that I ask whenever I actually find something done by Coprolalia: Do you know who did it? Can you describe the man you think may have done it? Can you provide an accurate date upon which the piece appeared? etc.). She then translated the bartender's responses back to me. This made her something of a gerund. Neither of the women was familiar with Coprolalia, and both expressed a silent disdain as I explained myself.

The bartender eventually cut me off.

The pseudo-gerund then spoke: “She wants to know your job.” She was a plump nubile, perhaps even underage, with thick glasses, intelligent eyes, and a lofty voice. Her face was very sharp, sculpted even, though to imply that her features were the result of anything plastic would be to ignore the relative innocence in her smile. She was guarded, but not cynical; incredulous, but not maliciously so. She just seemed to express a mild reluctance to either affirm or doubt another's honesty — a common feature in individuals still green enough to believe that happy endings are remote only in their relation to the present, not their potential.

“My what?”

“What is your work?” she reiterated. The pseudo-gerund did not capture the harshness or peremptory tone of the bartender, who stood with her hands upon her hips. She was no taller than a cello. Still, there was fierceness in her face that cautioned the use of excessive charm or flirtation. “Your job. What is your job?”

“I don't have one,” I said gingerly.

“She wants to know why.”

“I just graduated.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don't know.”

“You need a job.”

“I know.”

The both laughed. “She says you are like her son.”

“Your son just graduated?” gingerly again.

“No,” she said between chuckles. “He's on Rikers.”

The majority of the patrons of Smith Street were familiar with Coprolalia, though no one could impart much of use on the matter. Most of the bartenders wanted to know where I was conducting my graduate work. I would reply that I had just finished my undergraduate studies. Interest then faded. A couple at one of the bars on that strip was less dismissive. We talked over the course of two or three drinks. I don't remember the girl's name — it was mildly ethnic, perhaps an Eastern European version of a common American name. She was career-oriented and had these perfect eyebrows that I couldn't help but admire, even if I had never really considered a woman's eyebrows to be a point of interest. The guy's name was Rob. He worked as a paralegal and didn't really think of it as anything more than a temporary gig, as he played in an “alt-country” band that was beginning to gain a significant following. I was hesitant to believe him at first, but his collection of guitars backed up the claim. This collection included, but was not limited to, a '68 New Yorker, a '66 Tele, and a newer Ibanez that he swore by. He was trying to find a Casino (“the guitar Lennon played in the 'Revolution' video”), but the search was proving to be far more difficult than he assumed it would be (“A decent one is like two grand, man”). The jukebox featured a Woody Guthrie song that had been reworked by Wilco and Billy Bragg, something that evoked an elated smile from Rob each of the four times it came on. The song brought back rather painful memories for me, but that's a story in and of itself. Most of our conversation revolved around music and his band, the Ribs. He confessed that they were struggling to find a sound, but this did nothing to stifle his confidence in their abilities. Their style was defined as “Pixies meets Ryan Adams, though recently we've been doing a lot of almost Zappa-esque stuff because our new lead guitarist is fucking nasty. He's our Nels Cline.” According to Rob, their fans appreciated the more technical aspects of the newer songs, and they had been gradually getting more and more people to come and see their shows. They were better off financially than they had been the previous year, as a good deal of money had been coming in through iTunes. By means of a somewhat flawed inductive conclusion, he figured he would be able to quit his day job in two years. They just needed to keep reaching new people. Myspace, he said, was a great way to do so. He reminded me of this at least seven times before I left.

I realized fairly on that a lot of the bars on Sean's list no longer feature the work of Coprolalia. Some no longer exist (the bars, that is). Of those that do, it is common for them to have recently renovated or simply painted their facilities. I initially believed this only applied to Manhattan, but, as the week wore on, I found that this statement did not need geographical qualification. Suffice to say, many hours were spent examining canvases home to nothing more than the typical banalities one runs into when scanning over a lavatory wall.

Sometimes these banalities encroached upon Coprolalia's work, which was yet another difficulty. Such is the case when you abandon the process of painting. One bar in particular, some painfully trendy place on Ludlow, was coated in graffiti so thick that I couldn't discern where one thing ended and another began. Everything lost its original meaning, its original purpose, its individuality. This was something of a paradox, perhaps a critique of the information age. Maybe it was even a deliberate effort on the part of Coprolalia, but I doubt even he could dedicate enough time to create something so baroque. After all, he is far more of a laconic artist than most like to admit.

Still, there were some basic themes that I begin to discern as the number of pieces I saw grew. Some of his work is almost maudlin in its cynicism. While it certainly is the case that any wit runs the risk of appearing bitter or fatalistic, Coprolalia does not seem all that concerned about being labeled a misanthrope. Sometimes his work makes him seem conceited or impudent; other times it reveals a man who is modest, perhaps even unsure of himself. His references also run a gamut, though, in this case, it ranges from the weird to the arcane. The less obscures stuff incorporates figures from pagan mythology: Prometheus, Pandora, Orpheus, Icarus, and Phaeton all appearing regularly. He is also a fan of using passages from Shakespeare and the Bible, particularly the Old Testament, which, according to St. Jerome, is where the real wisdom is to be found. In his more esoteric pieces I have caught everything from Chaucer to Ferlinghetti, Milton to Baraka; all of the Karamazovs have popped up, as have most of the Impressionists. And then there are the philosophers, not only the ones with whom nearly every American college student has some affinity (Hobbes, Descartes, Locke, Hume, Voltaire, Kant, Hegel, Nietzsche, etc.), but the more (post)modern ones that seem fixated on the distinction between inference and reference, identity and difference. It is sometimes frustrating to find one of his pieces only to not understand what the hell he is talking about, though not as frustrating as being told the piece's obvious and superficial meaning by someone at the bar who doesn't understand that my confusion is far deeper than they assume. A lot of times I feel as though I should take a month off to study up so I can be a few planes closer to the one he is on, but I have neither the funds nor the time.