Interview with Lee Basham

by David Freeman

Heli 2

VOA: What is the purpose of the borderland film project?

BFP: For us the “border” is the Rio Grande—hundreds of miles all along the southern edge of Texas. We try to take as much of it in as we can. There are several of us working on the project. It’s a documentary project in, I think, the best sense of documentary. It documents. It tries not to preach, protest or wax poetic. It shows what we find, not what we look for. That doesn’t mean we don’t come across preachers of various creeds, protestors, too. Or wise old women with poems to share. We do, we have.  And artists, everywhere, from right here in the Rio Grande Valley and as far away as the East coast—Susan Harbage-Page, building a bridge over the Rio Grande out of kids’ floaties and handing out trophies for best swimmer and fastest runner. Or that crazy wall-ladder.  Amazing. We have a lot of footage, some edited pieces, and a design to bring it together to tell a unified, very human story about the border. Not discursive. With another film project in Oregon coming to completion—a documentary about the emerging knife-fighting culture in America from the view of one of its leaders—we will be bringing the border film out this winter. We might call it Borderlife.

VOA: First, tell me about this knife movie.

BFP: I walked into a friend’s house, out in west Texas. There were colored plastic loops hanging from the ceiling. Like weird Christmas decorations. He said they were peoples faces. If you stabbed at them “you’d at least get an eye, a humane approach.” He gushed with several other acute butcheries. I was astonished. “Who taught you to do these horrible things?” He told me, and said the man was gaining a great following. So we went to Oregon. It’s true. He’s training an army out there.. He has…certain ideas. And he wants to be honestly understood. I can only offer the movie up for more explanation. We’ve got a solid edit.

VOA: Interesting. Ok, but back to the border work.

BFP: It’s a documentary, I think, in the best…..

VOA: Describe the process of transformation from original intent.

BFP: Yes, there was a big change. When we started, we charged down from the high plains of Kansas to expose the injustice of border policies, right the wrong, save the orphans. I mean, we were outraged, righteous.  A best friend had been detained by the border patrol. He had come over to the United States when he was a young kid of 9 or so—from Iran. Roll forward fifteen years. It’s been more than a year since 911. I had told him and his girlfriend what a pretty place the border in West Texas is, “Big Bend, a must see. You can even go to Mexico, visit this tiny village, and eat tacos and drink beer cooled in the snowmelt of the Rio Grande.” So he’s down in Big Bend National Park, seeing the wild, desert volcanic wonderland of that place, there for the majesty of it all with his little red-head girlfriend, when: Whop! He’s in a border patrol cell and the agent outside is crowing over the radio, “We got a Mohammed down here! We got a Mohammad!” Mohammed? That’s not his name. He isn’t Moslem—like that matters—and at any rate about the most peaceful person I’ve ever known.  All evidence aside, all reason out the window, they wanted him to be a terrorist infiltrating from Mexico, armed with the most deadly weapon imaginable; a cute brainwashed white female suicide bomber, heading for the White House, New York, who knows, who cares? “We got a Mohammed!”. Like a pack of deranged boy scouts on a snipe hunt.

VOA: Did they release him?

BFP: Sure, after haranguing and humiliating him for hours. So out of this, the lessons on life in the borderlands began. We got a good video camera and a mobile editing system and drove to the West Texas border; our first target, the closing of the traditional river crossings. The Rio Grande is the border out there, too. And the scattering of people who live in the area daily crossed back and forth, the south side  folks for medical treatment and gasoline to run their farms and ranches, the mostly Anglo north for fresh food and to visit family and friends. Then the Border Patrol labeled the ancient crossings a “terrorist threat”, closed them all and started arresting people. A granddad, for coming over to buy ice cream for his grandkids, waiting on the southern bank. Jesus. The river’s 20 feet wide and a foot deep for a hundred miles there. You can walk across anywhere. They weren’t stopping anyone but the peaceful, nonimmigrating, law abiding locals. Now when Abuela has a heart attack, she gets to die. But who cares? The Border Patrol had to put on a show. Most everyone out there agreed with that assessment, but then the story fragmented in the most amazing ways. It wasn’t long until I noticed people weren’t saying what I wanted to hear, were going farther than I ever wanted to hear, were saying things I never thought of ever hearing, and I started listening. Soon enough, I got detained, too. The agents told me,  “You’re a drug smuggler, alright, but the film crew bit, that’s a clever twist, buddy. We’re going to take a chain saw to your car and camera if you don’t confess right now.” And I listened to those guys for a couple of hours, too.  They dropped the chain saw stuff and started telling me what it was like for them out there, how they felt. It all got more and more engrossing, like a detective story with spiritual twists every dozen pages. My life became trips back to Kansas, then turn around and back to the river. I started sensing people instead of issues, everyone struggling in their hearts. In the end, I went out of my way to live on the border. I had to understand this.  Found out there was a little college starting up in South Texas, someplace called McAllen. What luck! I thought, “Be there in about 15 minutes.”

VOA: Since moving to South Texas what is the greatest difference in identity and place that you see?

BFP: Different than Kansas?

VOA: Ok.

BFP: People are more honest about our situation here.

VOA: What do you mean?

BFP: That America is a game we play. Up there they don’t understand that. It’s a gigantic given, and there’s no way they can see to get out. Here it’s a choice on so many levels, and you can cheat and know, hey, it’s just a game. Make no mistake, within a social species like ours there is nothing more powerful, more awe inspiring than the games we play together. But they are still just that. Games. People are keenly aware of that here, at least on a community level.

VOA: You’re a professor of philosophy. How does that impact the film project?

BFP: I get to do what I teach my students to. Abandon your certainties and marvel at the world. I really don’t know what else to say. Except maybe philosophical analysis helps place things more before us, not mixed within ourselves, an external structure that we can observe. Then the borderland seems like a vast, complex human personality, arguing with itself, lying to itself, being uplifted by its own dignity and victories, forgetting its mistakes…on and on.

VOA: The process of filming and editing is large. Who is on your crew and assists with the process?

BFP: Most of us are from down here, now. I like to work with people outside the college because they move in different circles and know things my academic companions might not, or might not have noticed. Some of the people come from McAllen, others from the so-called “colonias” to the north and south of town. Others live in West Texas.  I want to mention Ring Huggins in that regard. An amazing guy. They volunteer as guides, translators, camera operators. They all love the borderland and want to help understand it. Because we often have run ins and confrontations with Federal law enforcement on the border, a lot of these people like to lay low. To some extent, my position and race may shelter me in certain ways they aren’t sheltered. Some are afraid of the Border Patrol, afraid of getting on, or too high up, any lists. I respect their caution. In a sense this isn’t ICE or the BPs fault, we’re just often in the same place at the same time as the agents, and the agents want to know why. I suspect Federal law enforcement has as much footage of us as we do of them.  More. They have treated us with extreme suspicion, on several occasions chased us with helicopters, pointed machine guns and shotguns at us—the canoe we sometimes use drives them absolutely batty–but most of the time, so far, law enforcement has also been courteous and professional when our purpose became clear. I want to compliment the agents on that. The transition from seeing us as a criminal squad to seeing us as harmless documentarians can’t be easy to make, but they made it quickly and without resentment. They know something is happening here worth documenting.

The smugglers and crossers? They just wave most of the time. Big smiles, hearty greetings, and then they are gone. Only a few times have they reacted negatively.

VOA: What is the intent of the visual discourse you hope to achieve?

BFP: I hope to give people a place to begin again in their thinking and feeling about the borderland.

A place where we can all recognize ourselves and each other. Not an argument.

VOA: From your travels and lectures and debates what is one example of a success that stands out?

BFP: Success? Well, people react very favorably to the film drafts. Everywhere. And I’ve learned a lot in the last few years about how to edit the stories without taking the heart out. Nabokov said that as a writer you must be able to “kill your darlings”—put the overall pace first, not cling to the parts you love. That goes for film. Sometimes, the darlings have to go. I’ve gotten better at that, and that helps people listen. But real success? A northern crowd converted to compassion, insight and activism? A foolish Federal edict overthrown? Dare to dream—and we should dare to dream. But I do remember talking with a BP agent who had been chasing little children.  I learned something. The kids were trying to cross the river so they could go to school. Imagine that! You’re a little kid, and they tell you that you don’t have to go to school, that you are no longer even allowed to, and instead of yelling hallelujah!,  bring on the endless summer! you start smuggling your own  tiny body over the border everyday just to learn to read and write. Well this agent’s job was to catch the “little invaders”—that’s what he called them, with a grin. I asked him if he didn’t feel, well, “silly” doing things like that for a living. He answered, “Of course. It’s idiotic. But I love the country out here, I love driving that road.”

David Freeman is Editor of Voices of Art magazine.

THE HISTORY OF THE DIVISION: exhibition by Matt Shultz

at the University Museum, Southern Illinois University, Carbondale by Adrienne Foster.

The Southern Illinois University Museum of Carbondale held a truly unique exhibition this past March. Unlike the ceaseless run of postmodernist art that has deconstructed contemporary society to death without any opportunity for rebirth, I was quite refreshed to experience an exhibit that can only be referred to as a spiritual journey.  This show, The History of The Division, was an MFA thesis exhibition by SIUC graduate student Matt Schultz.

At the exhibition entrance is a table covered with an array of merchandise and printed material in black and red with The Division insignia that elicits associations with The Red Cross and Christianity. Posed in front of this wall is a cloaked figure that resembles a raven.  It is identified as the Trickster Crow, who is a sly messenger and is associated with reincarnation processes.

Though this exhibition was in fact a Master of Fine Arts thesis exhibition created by one artist, as was notated on the wall behind the Trickster Crow, no one seemed to notice; everyone seemed to be convinced of the reality of this organization.

Because of his choice of venue, the overall presentation of the exhibit, the diversity of artifacts included, and his meticulous attention to detail, Schultz presents a history of a fake organization that is so believable that the viewer is convinced of its true existence. Schultz then exposes himself as the divine creator of this “reality” to point to the construction of our belief systems in a capitalist and materialist society.

This typical museum exhibit has wax figures of important members within The Division, vitrines with artifacts, plaques that give a brief history of each character, and dioramas that position them in their respective environments, from THE DIVISION PAST to THE DIVISION PRESENT.  There is even an iMac set up to access the organization’s live website, TheDivision.org.

As can be seen in the prominent facial features of the figures and photographic representations of the party members, each character has a striking resemblance to the artist, which can easily be seen as the artist mingled throughout the exhibit, wearing a red dress-shirt and black slacks. It is as if he is a living character in this history. Correlation of member birth and death dates supports this; when one member “dies,” another is born.  This reincarnation process can also be seen in the myth of The Division god, Brx who is left on the earth “to die many times over” and has “hands like ash and pumice” which would require wearing gloves like those worn by all members depicted in the exhibit.

Schultz presents himself as the divine creator of this organization from its creation myth to present. Schultz is Brx, Dr. Baron Klaus von Heidelberg, Rudolph Stiener, The Unknown Soldier, and the Trickster Crow; he is the creator, the magician, the doctor, the priest, the shaman; he is the manipulator of symbols and language to trick the viewer into believing a constructed reality, but only to bring about spiritual healing.

An inattentive viewer is easily convinced of this organization’s reality because the evidence of its construction lies in the tiny details. However, Schultz’s artist statement quite clearly states his intentions in the available brochure: “My work addresses belief systems… Often we put faith in these systems without verifying their authenticity… Only by critically examining our world can we find the truth.”  Only by critical examination of Schultz’s exhibit will the viewer be able to unveil the construction of this organization, this “reality.”

Schultz’s intention is easily seen in his piece Horus Cristo 2¢, a painted case with a shrunken mummy that refers to Horus, an Egyptian god who was born to a virgin mother, was crucified, and rose from the dead three days later, and Jesus Christ, who shares this same history. The “2¢” recalls carnival sideshow acts that capitalize on mystery and viewer gullibility in order to make a few bucks. This piece suggests that these two religions are other forms of constructed belief systems used for monetary profit and calls viewers to question these systems for themselves. As I exit the exhibition, I pass the merchandise table with a better understanding of what I am being sold.  Ideas, like artifacts, are formed by humans, humans who are looking to understand the world they live in. Overtime, humans have lost touch with the world they were trying to understand, and have become completely involved in the world they have constructed. In a society run by materialism, seeing is believing.  Those who have control of what the masses see and consume, whether in science, politics, media, or religion, are the people who have the power and control over anyone who is willing to accept and consume what is being sold to them.

Matt Schultz is putting his foot down, as is an entire emerging generation of independent thinkers and doers who refuse to sit back and let themselves be consumed by a system that is taking over their money, their livelihood, and their beliefs.

The final section of the exhibit presents Schultz’s solution. A sweat lodge used by contemporary Division members in healing rituals refers to  the  reunification of humans with their greater Self.  Several significant artists throughout history have equated this spiritual healing with the transformative experience of art, including Marcel Duchamp, Joseph Beuys, and contemporary writer and “magician,” Alan Moore.  These men worked to heal the spirits of their audience through their art, as Schultz does in this exhibit.

Schultz’s The History of The Division is calling his audience to critically examine the society we live in, to see the constructions, to question belief systems, and, in short, to help bring us back to a more profound experience of the existence that we have in this amazing universe.  So question yourself, question your leaders, question your world—not out of rebellion or disrespect, but to find our flaws as humans and contribute to the effort to improve our world instead of allowing ourselves to be consumed by an increasingly broken one

[Show as slideshow]

Adrienne Foster, Master of Fine Arts Candidate  at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale, is currently studying visual culture and digital media.

VOA PAM 2011 Cover

Coming in the next few days will be scores of articles from the issue, galleries and any other extras we can pass on to our readers!

The paper edition of the PAM Edition will soon be available in any and all respectable art galleries and venues in central and south Texas, as well as a few supportive businesses!  Come back soon for a complete list of available locations!

Also, you will soon be able to download a complete copy of the magazine and some of our backlist from this site.

See you soon!

by Gene Elder

Interview with Ansen Seale

(originally printed in v17i2)

Gene: Ansen! How nice to have you here today. You have just opened an exhibit at the Land Heritage Institute. This requires some explanation. Describe this to us.

Ansen: My recent project is called the Corn Crib and is located in south Bexar County on a 1200 acre plot of land along the Medina River. It was commissioned by the Land Heritage Institute and FotoSeptiembreUSA. LHI is a living “land museum” and is located where the Applewhite Reservoir was to be dug had it not been for the popular uprising which turned it down in 1991.

Gene: And you put photos in an old rock shed.

Ansen: My only instructions were that the piece had to be about the land and that it had to contain photography. With those wide-open parameters in mind, Penny Boyers, Michael Mehl and I went scouting around looking for a location and a project.

Gene: I came. I saw. It was a long walk to the corn crib.

Ansen: Yes. On this 1200 acres are several human habitation sites that vary in age from 10,000 years old to the mid 1970’s when it ceased operations as a farm. One of the complexes of buildings was constructed in the 1850s using the stacked-stone method of construction. Most of the buildings have fallen to ruin, but the one that  remains was a place where corn was stored in the winter to feed animals (and perhaps humans as well). I knew from the minute I saw it that this was the place. The building measures 12 x 13 feet and has a  corrugated steel roof, probably replacing the original roof in the 1930s.  The ruins of the original stone house can be viewed nearby.

Gene: Unusual site. I expect there won’t be that many people that come to see it.

Ansen: Unusual indeed. And that’s exactly the point. The viewer must travel and experience the land in order to gain the fullest appreciation of the art. This place was perfect for the installation because it provides protection from the weather. Photography is an inherently fragile medium and until recently, it’s place in public art installations has been limited. So I was thrilled when I realized that this small structure would protect the photos, and the photos would protect the building, both by keeping people from touching the walls and, in a larger sense, by giving the building a purpose.

Gene: Is this permanent?

Ansen: Yes, this is a permanent exhibit. The Land Heritage Institute is not fully open to the public yet, but I’ve been taking interested people to see the Corn Crib every other weekend or so.

Gene: Okay, enough about the site. How about the photos.

Ansen: Taking my cue from the surroundings, I wanted to created a chapel-like environment to honor corn, the sustainer of all the inhabitants on this land for 10,000 years. When you enter the Corn Crib, you see nine transparencies glowing like stained glass windows. They show images of various varieties of corn taken with my digital panoramic camera. Some of the panels show more monochromatic varieties of corn; all red or all blue. Others are covered with multi-colored kernels looking like a carpet of jelly beans.

Gene: They are lit from behind, and I didn’t see any electricity.

Ansen: The Corn Crib is way off the electrical power grid, so by necessity I had to make a very green project. To light my photographs, I constructed back-lit LEDs panels and powered them with solar panels. Other than the glowing photos, the interior of the space is dark.

Gene: Well, we need more of this in the inner city as well. Maybe you can think of other places that need to be illuminated.

Ansen: Wow, I just noticed, this couch really IS chartreuse!

Gene: HAHAHA, yes, you artists notice everything. Well, that explains the corn crib. Now you get to ask me a question. I always let the guest ask the last question.

Ansen: Don’t you think it’s true that San Antonio has one of the most vibrant, active and well supported arts communities in the country? I mean, it’s easy to complain about a lot of things in SA, but really, there’s something going on here all the time in the arts. I’ve only lived in SA since 1979, so I don’t have a lot of perspective about what goes on in other places. I do travel a lot, but that’s not the same as being plugged in to a local community. From what visitors have told me, I get the sense that for its size, SA is very special in this regard. What do you think?

Gene: San Antonio is a strange bird and that is why we all like it. I have been here since 1971 and the art scene has certainly gotten more interesting. But we still don’t have major dance companies coming here. I want to see the Joffrey Ballet and other dance companies that Margaret Stanley always brought to town. There may be a lot of stuff to do and a lot of brilliant talent but we don’t have an arts leader like Margaret Stanley. And that is what we really need now. Margaret had national and international respect and knew how to get the wealth in San Antonio behind her fundraisers and projects, and she could still sit around with the artists and be right at home in both worlds. The loss of Margaret’s San Antonio Performing Arts Association ended a very unique time in our art history and education. I need to invite Margaret to the Chartreuse Couch. I’m going to get her on the phone right now.

Gene Elder is the Archives Director for the HAPPY Foundation.