In Which It Is Wrong To Want More

Based Notes

by SARAH WAMBOLD

CK One is as close to the scent of man as anything, second only to the inside of Goodwill.

Its chemistry closes the gap between men and women, like a liquid force field that attracts and then blurs any distinguishing physical characteristics. The most mysterious of the senses, our sense of smell unlocks an unseen guide within us, steering us toward or away from whatever is afloat. The power of this perfume lies in the pervasiveness of the fragrance and within its iconic ads.

It’s not easy to change the world through perfume, so it’s necessary to set up intrigue by commodifying a culture. Heroin chic was the perfect choice for CK One; a slightly dangerous, androgynous image that flaunted its boredom. Gender equality achieved through not paying attention. The vapid lifestyle of implied substance abuse was almost a reflection of the consumer who wanted to smell like everyone else.

Between its launch in 1994 and 2002, CK One was everywhere and the world felt generally more secure in itself. It has maintained good reviews while becoming the Facebook of perfume, a tool everyone can use to stay connected to the past.

I’m not afraid to admit that 97-98 were a couple of the best years of my life. I was in Junior High, had received my first rejection letter from the popular group and learned to officially not give a fuck. It was when my personality was at its purest, when my heart was as open as it’s ever been.

Kids at that age reek of organ growth; their base notes a mix of sour lemon and antiperspirant, with a singular top note of Winterfresh gum. Just learning then that scents can cover up or cast a spell of emotions, all interactions with chemicals are an experiment in getting attention or deflecting it. Even the spectacular failures leave quite an impression.

CK One smelled strong around necklines in my junior high and even though I got close, it never rubbed off. Outside of the bottle, CK One fit perfectly in the status quo; an inoffensive upper of a perfume. This was the odor of trendiness, of peer pressure, of groupthink. One spritz left you out of whatever might be considered foul. Rejecting the blandness I sought out my own toxic pleasure. I found Gucci Rush. It smells like fire, is adult in the porniest sense of the word and something I’d still wear today if I had any confidence.

Unlike the odor of shampoo, body spray or air fresheners, a perfume of any note gives the impression that time was invested and then suspends it for a bit. To be associated with a brilliant scent is to hold a power that can’t be underestimated. When the wind carries nostalgia, even the most forgotten about person on the planet becomes a rare and valuable fragrance.

Without the nose, we wouldn’t know we were alive. Science would be meaningless. It wouldn’t occur to anyone to eat fruit. No one would shower. Life doles out scents with indifference and we apply the logic. We make them say one thing while we do another. Over time their meaning changes. By high school, CK One was a sweet-smelling time machine and the world had moved onto J.LO Glow. The next four years wore on longer than anyone cared to remember.

Sarah Wambold is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Austin. You can find her twitter here. She last wrote in these pages about Grant Wood. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here.

Paintings by Jean Dubuffet.

"Theme from Prince Avalanche" - Explosions in the Sky & David Wingo (mp3)

"The Lines On The Road Lead You Back Home" - Explosions in the Sky & David Wingo (mp3)

In Which We Do Not Care If They Are Smug About It

Never What You Think It Is

by SARAH WAMBOLD

I am not a lover of crowds. Or networking. Or the hype. So I have never gone to AWP. I don’t mind every community having a national gathering to celebrate themselves and I do not even care if they are smug about it. I am not originally from Austin and because of this I have never felt like I could really be critical of our own crowded, networking, hype-fest South By Southwest. Plus I end up participating in some fashion and always enjoy myself without ever buying a badge or a wristband.

This year I decided to start my South By experience earlier than usual, attending a panel entitled Platforms for Haunting: The Talking Dead. I occasionally contribute to my friend Caitlin’s website about death and dying because I want to open a funeral home in Austin and I thought this would be a good thing to write about.  I was happy this panel made it into the festival; I started imaging really smart conversations about what death looks looks like in the 21st century, particularly with technological intervention.

SXSW interactive badges started at $695 and mid-festival can be picked up for $1150. Music and film badges mid-festival are between $650-$800. The Interactive festival goers are the tech-world’s finest or its hopefuls. Many of them have start-ups. Most of them are men. A few of them paid for their badges with their own money. Regardless, they all understand the internet and how to share information on it much better than the rest of us.

I received a free t-shirt on the train downtown because I listened to a promoter explain how to use a rewards card for Belly. I have no clue how to use it and I never got the e-mail I was promised would explain it.

When I got to the hotel ballroom where the panel was being held, I realized I had a half an hour to wait and decided to enjoy the river view from the hotel’s TGIF bar. I eavesdropped on a group of pilots having a most disgusting conversation about bathroom malfunctions mid-flight while they got bombed on ‘ritas and Miller Lights. 

I took my time because I knew I would have to wait until all the badge holders got in. I knew this from all the times I went to film screenings or music shows without a badge or wristband-you must wait until those who paid more have gone in and if there are still seats, regular folks who merely bought tickets are granted attendance. As I trudged up the steps to the ballroom, I saw there were many miles of rows of seats still open. I crossed the threshold into intellectual superiority.

Two steps later I was greeted by a lackluster SXSW volunteer who promptly told me Interactive is different and you don’t get in anywhere without a badge. WTF and beyond? "Because they are so expensive," he said.

As this kerfuffle happened at the door, the panel started to talk death. “I should be in there!” I think. So I hover near the door to listen in. All was not lost!

John Troyer introduced the topic and mentioned how they want to explore ways to connect the present with the past through technology. There were about 20-30 people scattered throughout 200 seats. Two girls rushed by me, flashing their badges only to realize seconds later I am not a volunteer, just a grunt with no cred.

The first panelist, Tim Cole, described his work. Something to do with mirrors and historical spaces and using the mirrors to see ghosts or something while they film or photograph it. I could not quite make out the details as I straddled the threshold between the educated and total darkness.

Lucy Heywood, the second panelist, took the podium. She spoke louder, so I caught her telling the audience that she loved old things for their stories and liked them much more than new things but was excited by the possibility in new things. She also prefers non-digitized archives and her work tries to make digital archives as much like the real thing as possible.

At that moment a man in a red GoogleDocs jacket walked up and asked which panel this was.

“Death,” I said in a low tone.

“Death,” he whispered back wearily, “It is death.” He flashed his badge and reluctantly entered.

Ms. Heywood was still talking about her idea, which from my dim perspective looked like a microfiche reader but had a slower pace, like looking through a real archive. Just then, GoogleDocs jacket appeared again, this time with a friend, both looking relieved, nearly running out the door and down the steps.

I asked the slack SXSW volunteer if they might be recording this so that I might be able to listen to it for free on the internet.

“I have no idea,” he said, complete with an eye roll and head shake.

Now the fourth panelist spoke, who I believe was David Kirk. I could hear him slightly better and I made more of an effort because I liked what he was talking about. There is a toxic man-made lake in Slovenia underneath which is 500+ bodies who were put there after the Red Army slaughtered them during WWII. There were some survivors, who returned to the spot and attempted to mark the surrounding trees with symbols indicating it is a bad space. Mr. Kirk’s project sought to commemorate the space and digitize it. From the slides, it looked like a sort of walking tour of the mass grave.

Finally Mr. Troyer began his portion, which was just like his TED talk which I had thankfully listened to before so I did not have to endure any more peasant embarrassment while the nobles talked on.

I left the hotel and walked back toward the convention center wondering how I would ever write about the panel accurately. I could barely understand what the discussion was about. I gathered that people seem to bristle at digitizing death. Each of the historians gave disclaimers of using technology in the most respectful way possible or insisted they loved what is old. They all wanted the past to come alive again.

I decided to just cobble some information together and put it on the internet, where other people who couldn’t attend could access it and maybe think differently about death and run with it.

Sarah Wambold is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Austin. You can find her twitter here. She last wrote in these pages about Grant Wood. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here.

Photographs by the author.

"At Midnight" - The Besnard Lakes (mp3)

"And Her Eyes Were Painted Gold" - The Besnard Lakes (mp3)

In Which We Renew Our Respect For Him

You can find the archive of our Saturday fiction series here.

Night Created Image Silent

by SARAH WAMBOLD

The real Tutankhamen appears on a plasma screen above the 3D replica of his withered remains which lie in a glass box in the Houston Museum of Fine Art. Communication between them is a mystery to the people who surround the glass box. A sign next to The Tut explains he is not the actual remains, but an exact representation based on CT scans. The people have come with children and they look at The Tut with eyes glazed over, unable to concentrate any longer. Kids jump up and down with excitement around the box while a few others slouch against a wall, bored. The real Tutankhamen looks at them from his screen, but hardly any of them look back.

The Tut moves. Throughout the museum, he finds himself most often in front of a Buddha made of turquoise sequins who stares calmly past him. He feels close to the Buddha, though he does not understand why. There are many things The Tut does not understand. A plaque next to the Buddha says he was created to resemble a fish; to remind people that they could die young, be forgotten, be insignificant. The real Tutankhamen died young and was nearly forgotten, but is now one of the most expensive items in the world.

The Tut knows he is eternal life. This is the happiness he can share with the real Tutankhamen. He cannot share anything else. He is kept away from his gold. In every museum, The Tut is placed in a room by himself, naked and small, at the end of the tour. Gold appears alongside his name in the title of every exhibit The Tut travels with, but that’s the closest he gets to it.

Maury Povich understands the distance between a name and a promise. He provides paternity testing to indignant parents. The child being tested appears on a screen behind Maury. He reads the results in front of a live audience. “You are the father,” he tells the man who has put his head in his hands. The child on the screen watches his father leave the stage. After a commercial break, a different child appears onscreen and the process repeats. On the plasma screen in the museum, the real Tutankhamen undergoes DNA testing to determine who his father is. A careful scientist biopsies his fragile bones. The results are read, revealing to the world that Ankenhaten is his father. The drama transcends time. The video starts over.

The Tut sits in front of the Buddha at night and tells him about being created in the real Tutankhamen’s image. The real Tutankhamen wants him to do everything he would do; to show the world what they want, but cannot fully see. The Tut lacks the charms of the real Tutankhamen. He is not dead. He is not really a child. He carries a message of durability rather than history.

The lines at the museums grow long each time The Tut visits. Cell phones are shut off and cameras are put away. I stand in one of those lines and enter the world created by a dead child. There are kids everywhere. They ask their parents questions about death. I take notes on a pad of paper. We reach the end together and look into the glass box. The kids are disappointed he is not real. Everyone checks their phone for messages they may have just missed.

At home that night a woman writes a post for her blog titled “Just My World." She has a name but she doesn’t use it. She writes that she went to the King Tut exhibit but there were 250 kids that crowded her out of seeing his replica in the glass box. She was thankful that the ticket price was affordable. She shares with the world that she saw the Buddha as well. She had no idea the Buddha would be there, nor how beautiful he would be. It made the trip to the museum worth it. She signs off in peace. No one comments.

Sarah Wambold is a writer living in Austin.

"Candles" - Beth Orton (mp3)

"Something More Beautiful" - Beth Orton (mp3)