| I don't go to the Burning Man festival seeking spiritual
enlightenment. I go because I like to revel in fire, dance and music. Nor do
I go to Burning Man because I'm a student of anthropology and civilization, but rather
because it's one of the few places on Earth where you can escape the constraints of modern
civilization. And I certainly haven't made the pilgrimage to Burning Man these past eight
years because I like driving seven hours to immerse myself in a hot, dry, hostile
environment. Yet, I am always amazed at how my experience transcends all of these
issues.
I know I must be there, and that I will come away profoundly affected. You might
hear something like that from thousands who attend this event, yet each would be talking
about an experience that is completely different and unique to them alone. Over the years
I've read so many journalistic accounts of this festival, many by brilliant writers, and
for the most part, they fail to convey the essence of Burning Man.
My own experience at last year's (1997) event was so intense, it has motivated me
to join those before me who have attempted to share in words, this shared experience which
defies literal communication. After reading, if you're so inclined, please drop me a note to let me know if I succeeded or not.
Labor Day Weekend 1997
As usual, there were wondrous works of art and performance that enveloped me and
elicited my participation (I'm a drummer and part of the drumming collective which leads
the procession to the man for his immolation). But even after eight years as part of this
project, I was caught offguard and forced to once again re-examine my fundamental belief
system, and view of creative expression in particular. I had a life-changing experience as
a reaction-to and in interaction with a performance that on the face of it, was just a
bunch of aggressive men and women bent on intimidating everyone in their path and burning
everything they possibly could possibly get to. I had just met the
"Vegematic."
The one fact no-one will dispute about the Burning Man festival is that things
explode and burn there. What some might not want you to know is how dangerous these events
actually are. Sure, the people designing the big pyrotechnic installations are skilled,
but not necessarily professionals (at least in the pyro profession). I happen to know that
some of the folks who prepare these displays for the festival enjoy putting their lives at
risk in the pursuit of intense experience. I've been guilty of that myself from time to
time, as it helps to remind me that I'm ALIVE.
The point is that this is not a sanitized, safety-bound event in which you need
not be concerned for your well-being. You are putting yourself in danger by attending
Burning Man. If you forget to drink enough water, you could die. Not watching where
you are walking could make you an unwitting part of a fire-performance, getting injured or
worse.
This situation presents an undeniable reality-shift from the world in which most
of us live, where we expect governments and businesses to be our surrogate parents, to
take care of our needs. We rely on courts to litigate our civil suits when we seek to make
others responsible for what happens to us. It would be a much better world in which
people would routinely take responsibility for their own well-being and the effects of
their actions, in my opinion. That world exists at Burning Man.
The outrageous and absurd costumes, performances, theme camps and behaviors you
observe only serve to enhance this shift of perceived reality to the extent that you begin
to wonder what is real and what is not. Is that person truly a disgruntled postal worker,
or just a stand-up comedian? Do they really know how big an explosion that
contraption will create? Do I really need to worry whether they will burn down my
tent?
Personally, I have no great attachment to everyday reality. I view it like a
computer operating system that is useful mostly because it allows me to run the same
software as most other people. We have no way of knowing whether there is such a thing as
objective reality anyway, so why not enjoy the variety of a new one every now and then?
Burning Man is nothing if not a smorgasbord of alternate realities. This then, is
the frame of mind I found myself in on the festival's final day last year.
The anticipation of the "burn" builds the intensity of expression from
the moment you arrive. You can feel it in the air. Sexual energy is intensified, primitive
instincts usually dormant become shockingly prevalent. You are cro-magnon man, your life
is a struggle, but you survive by your will, your wits, and your urge to evolve. And just
how do you evolve? You express yourself.
I choose to express through ritual at this event. The drums I play harken
primitive aspects from within. The fire before me is the altar upon which I must make an
offering. I select a treasured instrument, a drum which I have loved and played over time,
and designate this physical thing as my sacrifice. Raising the drum above my head, I whirl
in dizzying dervish-style until my fingers release their grasp and a thousand eyes bear
witness to the short arc of flight. Landing amidst the white-hot embers of the now-fallen
Burning Man, the sacrificial drum is vaporized in seconds. My catharsis achieved, I am now
free to roam the desert playa, a character reborn to engage in human drama..
That's where I was when I encountered the Vegematic. (photos by Leo Nash). It's
straight out of hell, suggesting engineering from the industrial revolution transported to
Fritz Lang's Metropolis. Part vehicle, part flame-thrower, part earth drilling
device, I envision this machine being used to battle creatures in a 1950's monster movie,
or to torture souls of the damned in the realm of satan. I'm immediately fascinated.
photo by Leo Nash
Sitting atop the thing, its creator Jim Mason invokes the motor which
rotates the intimidating giant drill-bit head. A pressurized gas-charger
propels a massive flame as much as seventy feet from the barrel at its center. A
hand-crank allows Jim to raise the angle of the barrel to about 45 degrees so that it is
now pointing at a large helium balloon about forty feet away.
I notice that there is a now a crowd gathered around this scene, made up of others
who like me, find something about this spectacle compelling, at least for the moment. They
may well be gentle loving people in another reality, but this is an angry mob, bent
on destruction, preferably by fire. "Burn it!" the shout goes up as I hear the
ominous groan of the Vegematic's motor for the first time.
A man with a bullhorn, known in the performance world as "Chicken John,"
offers a warning to the owners of the camp with the helium balloon: "step
aside." Faced with this machine and the angry mob, that's exactly what they do. Then
in an instant, a very loud, very hot, very bright arm of flame reaches out for the
balloon, clenching it in a heated grasp. The explosion it creates is awesome enough to
quiet the mob. Just a little, and for just a little while.
The visual appeal of the helium blast has swelled the ranks of the mob following
the trail of the vegematic. The ignition of the first target seemed to simply feed their
hunger for more fire. Like medieval villagers, we migrate on to the next camp.
photo by Jay Bain
|
Here, a young artist (whose name I did not get) is
sitting around a camp fire with his friends at the foot of a sculptural masterpiece he had
created and called "The Agony of Man." I had heard that this fellow
did not consider himself to be a "real" artist and he was just building
something to burn, in the spirit of the festival. I admit this is hearsay, but I
understand that seeing how his work affected attendees at the festival changed his
perception of himself as an artist, and of this work. Perhaps it should not be burned
after all. |
The vegematic wheels into position directly in front of the 20-foot
high wood and metal sculpture. Mason is revving the the drill-motor as if it were a race
car. The ominous whine it omits is the cue for Chicken John on the bullhorn.
"Step aside!" he warns the bystanders.
Three of the four people who were seated in the path of the fire cannon were
safely behind it in about two seconds after that warning. One was not. The artist,
rising slowly from his seat before the campfire, folds his arms and shakes his head to
tell the confronting horde that he will not step aside and allow his work to be destroyed
by them.
Chicken John repeats his instructions, more insistently now. Jim releases a small
blast of fire, sort of a warning shot to indicate the verity of his intention. All of a
sudden I find myself overcome with emotions of all kinds flooding in from the darkest
corners of my psyche.
"What is going on here?" I ponder. "What am I doing here?" Is
this newly transformed artist ready to die ablaze to protect his work? Will these
"performers" make good on their threat? What is really being played out here? I
am worried about the behavior of this mob. If the vegematic does not destroy this thing,
will the crowd accept that, or will they take control of the machine and destroy it
themselves?
All these questions and not an answer in sight. I knew though, that I was engaged
in direct interaction with some of the ugliest aspects of our human nature, and I was
afraid. I did not know exactly where the line was to be drawn on the violent destruction
of property (people?), and I knew that the behavior of the mob was real and based
on suspension of disbelief. The most frightening aspect of this scene is a crowd being
whipped into an increasingly destructive mood. A crowd for whom all of this is not
performance, but immersive reality.
My mind was reeling with "what-ifs." What if they actually injured
this man? What if the uncivilized mob overpowered the rational "audience?" What
would I do? What COULD I do? Am I responsible for this by simply being here? Again, the
answers are more elusive, yet I am unable to simply turn away.
It must have been only a few seconds, but they were some of the tensest I've ever
felt, as the showdown reached its climax. The artist is still standing his ground, and
finally the vegematic disengages and begins to move on. This failure to destroy the work
and the man sends a wave of visible (and audible) discontent through the mob...and a new
bubble of fear to my chest.
Even as I am questioning my reasons for following this spectacle, I know I have to
continue. This has now become much more than performance art with fire. This is the
confrontation of good and evil in a cosmic allegory, revealing the truth of our nature in
the process of unfolding before me.
I notice that we've been on this destructive quest for nearly an hour, the
steadily growing crowd around the vegematic cheering madly as all manner of flammable
material meets its end before the machine. Shelter structures, miscellaneous sculptures
and other property have become fuel for the flames. Each time Chicken John would shout
"step aside!" (and eventually the mob joined-in on this chant), then Jim would
rev the motor and let the jet-propelled fire out into the night.
Inevitably, the field of available targets had just about been exhausted.
That is, all but one very big one. We are now headed straight for the festival's main
stage. This large A-frame structure had been host to numerous music and dance performances
over the course of the festival, and in the hours following the burn, it was home to the
DJ's spinning techno and trance rhythms for the "community dance"
(spelled r-a-v-e). The tool of devastation on wheels cut a path through the crowd of
dancers to a position directly in front of the DJ console on stage. The surreality of this
vision has me cursing the fact that I am out of film.
As if to underscore the difference in mindset between the trance-dancers and the
mob, instead of issuing his usual warning, Chicken John jumps onstage and insists to the
DJ, "Play some Led Zeppelin!" The Vegematic lets out a motorized groan and a
flaming belch in response. The overgrown drill-bit nose is now dripping gasoline in
flames like the devil with a wet cold. A scene from Hieronymous Bosch's painting of
"Hell" flashes across my mind.
The DJ is Goa Gil, and perhaps due to his nature, or perhaps the fact that he has
come all the way from India, he is hardly reacting to the implied threat. In fact, he is
turning up the volume in peaceful defiance of the metal invasion in front of him. With all
due respect for the views of others, I've had my doubts about the professed spiritual
nature of these dances. I do however, believe that intent is well more than half of the
journey. I wondered if these frenetic dancing kids knew how their faith was about to be
tested.
I didn't have to wait long to find out.. The crew of the machine is tilting the
flamethrower's barrel up at the console. Gil is staring down the 12-foot barrel of
this jet powered char-broiler. I had to remind myself that this is theatre, or is it? I'm
still not sure. "Burn it!" the mob chants, "Burn THEM!" in a mantra of
destructive abandon that causes me to feel a mix of shame and fear and apprehension (fuel
for enlightenment).
Like an opposing pacifist army, the ravers are standing their ground, some
shouting in defiance of the threat, some in disbelief that this could really be happening.
Chicken John, like the demented circus ringmaster that he is, issues his now-familiar
warning over the bullhorn. We seem to have traveled back centuries in time. I don't
remember ever feeling farther from home than this.
For only the second time among at least a dozen confrontations, the vegematic is
backing down, leading one to feel that there may indeed be hope for these humans, and
perhaps there is something that purifies and bonds us together in the music and dance.
Final Showdown
This story is not quite over. There is one more challenge that we've been
waiting to see the vegematic meet. Jim had envisioned this encounter from the start,
and has gone to great expense and effort to make it real. He has created a 15-foot high
ball of solid ice in the middle of what is known as Black Rock City. Using a giant
fiberglas mold, styrofoam and hay bales for insulation, a refridgeration unit had been
employed onsite for days to freeze water that was poured into the mold. On Saturday (one
full day prior to this encounter), the casing was removed and the glory of this work was
revealed.
photo by Jay Bain
|
There it stood, in utter defiance of the desert heat
and all the fire that was to surround it over the next 24 hours. A snowball in hell. I was
surprised at how little it had melted in the day's sun, but was certain that a giant ice
ball would become a giant puddle after the onslaught of the vegematic's firegun and drill.
The drama continued to unfold. |
The nose of the Vegematic is aimed for the center of the frozen
sphere. It will bury it's drilling blade in the outer surface of the ball. It will
then drill it's way into the center of the ice. From there, the flamethrower's power will
be maximized, melting the chilly sculpture from the inside out.
The crowd is larger than ever, and shouting for violence against the target. As
far as I can tell, there are no cheerleaders for the ice. As the monster machine moves
into place against the ice, the familiar sound of the motor is drowned by mob-noise.
The drill turns, but the ice is apparently tougher than expected. Jim resorts to using the
fire to soften her up. Whoosh, whoosh, again and again the fire spews forward, the drill
bit revolves and the battle of the elements plays itself out. This continues for some
time, until the remaining fuel is spent.
The Morning After
The ultimate truth of this journey (internal and external) was evident the next
morning for all to see. In a way, I half-expected to return here and find no
evidence of the previous night's experience whatsoever. Instead, right where we left it
during our night of fire was the vegematic, it's rusting drill-nose buried just a few
inches in the ice ball, out of fuel and out of luck.
I'm not sure whether the great truth I was seeking was actually embodied in this
tableau, but I was satisfied with the outcome. It's easy to make poetic comparisons about
fire and ice, but for me the intensity of the experience came from those unanswerable
questions and what they told me about myself and my fellow man. Something ugly.
Something beautiful. I am grateful for the mirror.
The ice had won - this time. Next time, who knows?
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