Robert Smithson. Spiral Jetty, 1970. Image copyright Danielle Sommer.

It’s true. The state of Utah now owns Spiral Jetty. For the last decade, the Dia Foundation has paid Utah’s Department of Natural Resources $250 a year to maintain the 20-year lease on the land surrounding the earthwork. In February, the Dia received and paid its annual invoice, only to have the payment returned in June with a note that the lease had expired—a fact that had somehow escaped everyone’s attention, including the DNR’s. According to an article by Jennifer Dobner of the Associated Press, the oversight may have occurred due to the fact that the DNR’s Sovereign Lands coordinator, Dave Grierson—the man who should have sent Dia a notice about the lease renewal—passed away last year.  Conspiracy theories about drilling aside, the Dia maintains that it has a “collegial” working relationship with the DNR and that they are in the process of renegotiating the lease.  But for the moment, the Jetty belongs to Utah, a fact that has the art community unsettled.

I first visited Spiral Jetty in August 2007, thirty-seven years after Robert Smithson installed it and thirty-four years after his death. I’d heard that the water level was low enough that the jetty was visible again, so I made a point to visit it on my way from Portland, Oregon, to Chicago, Illinois. I’d seen photographs, as well as the film of the construction that Smithson had made with his wife, Nancy Holt, but the physical experience caught me unprepared. Visiting Spiral Jetty in the flesh provides an experience of time unlike any other. Everything seems to halt, even as it remains in motion.

Robert Smithson. Spiral Jetty, 1970. Image copyright Danielle Sommer.

My approach via the long dirt road was almost exactly the same as what Smithson depicts in his film: the loud noise of a metal carriage on a washboard road, the horizon line of Wasatch Range, the dust pouring out from behind me. For a long while the lake maintains its distance, and then all of a sudden you are upon it. I expected to see Spiral Jetty immediately, but this is not actually the case; first you need to pass a half-submerged fence, and then a derelict oil rig. After seeing so many pictures where the Jetty fills the frame, its smallness compared to its surroundings was a little startling, but not nearly as startling as the color palette: The sky was blue, the lake was pink, and the jetty a bright, bright white. Whereas in Smithson’s photos and film, the Jetty is the brown and gray of newly excavated dirt and rock, the Jetty I saw that day was encrusted with salt. Gleamingly white. Sunglasses white.

Robert Smithson. Spiral Jetty, 1970. Image copyright Danielle Sommer.

What was most striking, however, was the silence. Obviously, the sounds of the city were missing. But so were the sounds of things like birds and insects. Finally, after five or so moments of standing, listening to the vast and deep nothing, I could hear a splish-splash, like a tiny, passive kid waving his hands around in the bathtub. I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from, mostly because my sense of how far sound could travel in this area was drastically off. That is, until I heard a swish-swoosh, swish-swoosh that turned out to be scores of pelican wings flapping in unison. There are rookeries nearby, and if you’re visiting at the right time of year, you can see—and hear—the pelicans passing back and forth overhead as they search out food, or just paddling about in the water. I heard them coming for over a minute before I actually saw them.

Robert Smithson on the Spiral Jetty, 1970. Photograph by Gianfranco Gorgoni.

After the silence welled up again, I spent an hour or so walking Spiral Jetty, the sound of my feet crunching against salt crystals occupying the silence. From the jetty’s center, you see the earthwork from an entirely different perspective, losing any synthesized, overall view. There are a few angles available in the story of the Dia’s kerfuffle, including a level of bureaucracy that many of us find chafing. Then again, most of us wouldn’t be able to manage the kinds of projects that Smithson and his ilk pulled off, which often involved negotiation with all varieties of publics. There’s also the awkwardness of having to put one’s faith in a gentleman’s handshake, which is where the fate of the Jetty currently sits. I’d like to believe that Robert Smithson would find the whole situation at least a little humorous. After all, his number-one articulated interest was the disintegration of systems. Then again, what a man articulates to be his main intellectual purpose and what he chooses to do when his livelihood is threatened rarely match up.

Robert Smithson, Spiral Jetty (1970). Image copyright Danielle Sommer.

I first visited Spiral Jetty in August 2007, thirty-seven years after Robert Smithson installed it and thirty-four years after his death. I’d heard that the water level was low enough that the jetty was visible again, so I made a point to visit it on my way from Portland, Oregon, to Chicago, Illinois. I’d seen photographs, as well as the film of the construction that Smithson had made with his wife, Nancy Holt, but the physical experience caught me unprepared. Visiting Spiral Jetty in the flesh provides an experience of time unlike any other. Everything seems to halt, even as it remains in motion.

Robert Smithson, Spiral Jetty (1970). Image copyright Danielle Sommer.

My approach via the long dirt road was almost exactly the same as what Smithson depicts in his film: the loud noise of a metal carriage on a washboard road, the horizon line of Wasatch Range, the dust pouring out from behind me. For a long while the lake maintains its distance, and then all of a sudden you are upon it. I expected to see Spiral Jetty immediately, but this is not actually the case; first you need to pass a half-submerged fence, and then a derelict oilrig.  After seeing so many pictures where the Jetty fills the frame, its smallness compared to its surroundings was a little startling, but not nearly as startling as the color palette: the sky was blue, the lake was pink, and the jetty, a bright, bright white. Whereas in Smithson’s photos and film, the Jetty is the brown and gray of newly excavated dirt and rock, the Jetty I saw that day was encrusted with salt. Gleamingly white. Sunglasses white.

Robert Smithson, Spiral Jetty (1970). Image copyright Danielle Sommer.

What was most striking, however, was the silence.  Obviously, the sounds of the city were missing.  But so were the sounds of things like birds and insects.  Finally, after five or so moments of standing, listening to the vast and deep nothing, I could hear a splish-splash, like a tiny, passive kid waving his hands around in the bathtub. I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from, mostly because my sense of how far sound could travel in this area was drastically off. That is, until I heard a swish-swoosh, swish-swoosh that turned out to be scores of pelican wings flapping in unison.  There are rookeries nearby, and if you’re visiting at the right time of year, you can see—and hear—the pelicans passing back and forth overhead as they search out food, or just paddling about in the water. I heard them coming for over a minute before I actually saw them.

Robert Smithson on the Spiral Jetty (1970). Photograph by Gianfranco Gorgoni.

After the silence welled up again, I spent an hour or so walking Spiral Jetty, the sound of my feet crunching against salt crystals occupying the silence. From the jetty’s center, you see the earthwork from an entirely different perspective, losing any synthesized, overall view.  There are a few angles available in the story of Dia’s kerfuffle, including a level of bureaucracy that many of us find chafing.  Then again, most of us wouldn’t be able to manage the kinds of projects that Smithson and his ilk pulled off, which often involved negotiation with all varieties of publics. There’s also the awkwardness of having to put one’s faith in a gentleman’s handshake, which is where the fate of the Jetty currently sits.  I’d like to believe that Robert Smithson would find the whole situation at least a little humorous.  After all, his number-one articulated interest was the disintegration of systems. Then again, what a man articulates to be his main intellectual purpose and what he chooses to do when his livelihood is threatened rarely match up.

I arrived to Park City for the first time, lost in the reflective mounds of snow. Straight off the plane to New Frontier, where I was to participate in a test run of A Machine to See With, before it opened to the public the next day.  Knowing nothing more than the description above, I gave Nick Tandavanitj and John Hunter, the Blast Theorists, my cell phone number and anxiously waited for my first call.

Sound Bite: “This is A Machine to See With…”

The mysterious deep toned Brit instructed me to ignore any other incoming calls or messages.  What if I get a call from my— FORGET IT. As I began to walk around following the instructions, The Voice knew what I was looking at. It knew what I was passing. It sensed the fear in my eyes as the camera zoomed in closer. It was talking so overwhelmingly fast, I was afraid I would miss something. My paranoia excelled along with my pace. Everyone was in on it. It was The Truman Show with an evil twist.

Could I actually get away with a bank robbery in Park City? Did I really have the guts to do it? If the words “scavenger hunt” come to mind, erase them. No, this was not a “scavenger hunt”, for there were too many emotions attached to the experience.  It was not a search for objects but a search for courage within. The first major task forced me to lock myself in a bathroom stall, take out all my money from my wallet, and examine it.

Sound Bite: “Now hide the money… somewhere they’re not going to find it…”

I could have easily pretended to hide the money, but what if something happened? What if someone was watching? I decided not to use the bathroom even though I really needed to go.

The car in the empty lot was the next obstacle.  As the voice instructed, I opened the door and sat inside, as if it was my own.  And now was the time to Choose My Own Adventure. “A person will approach the car and knock three times. If you trust them, open the door,” instructed The Voice. A collaborator. A partner in crime. I didn’t trust her at all, but was too afraid to do this on my own. We devised our plan… I’m stashing the money. She’s distracting the teller.  Then, The Voice separately asked a series of questions about what we thought of each other. No, I did not think she would remember to smash the bank’s video footage and steer off plan before running away with the money. She seemed by the book. Were my answers the reason we were asked to split up again? We were instructed to go off in different directions and avoid each other as we approached the bank. The countdown began.  “Your hand should reach the door of the bank in 5… 4… 3… 2…”

This project is an example of Locative Cinema, taking the traditional cinematic viewing experience outside of the black box. A Machine to See With was selected for the Locative Cinema Commission, a joint project of ZERO1: The Art and Technology Network, The Banff New Media Institute at The Banff Centre, and the New Frontier program at the Sundance Institute. For me, the interweaving of reality and fantasy was the most interesting part. The spontaneity and uncertainty of this project was fresh and exciting and kept me on my feet, with an over awareness that a film from my sofa could never evoke.

Over 400 people participated over a nine day run. Out of those 400+, only one outraged participant cursed out the Blast Theorists for not being able to locate the bank. Only one person misunderstood the directions and hid their money with the toilet seat covers, giving a New Frontier staff member a bonus while in the loo.  At least 4 reported participants returned to the film’s locations after their initial run, to heighten the experience for other participants… Three of them entered the back seat of the car yelling “We’ve REALLY  gotta go through with this!” Another called out “Get in the van” as their unmarked vehicle crept alongside.  One gal even returned to the Blast Theorists unable to find the money she had hidden in her shoe. At that moment, she realized that an anonymous man had approached her friend moments earlier when they were asked to split up and said “ I think you dropped something.” $100 to be exact. “Is it part of the film?” she asked. Only in Park City… I thought.

Stay tuned for Blast Theory’s A Machine to See With in your hometown.  Next stop: Walker Art Center in Minneapolis.

Other Blast Theory Projects shown at New Frontier 2011

Kidnap lottery / 1998:
http://www.blasttheory.co.uk/bt/work_kidnap.html

Online virtual game with gps on live players / 2003:
http://www.blasttheory.co.uk/bt/work_uncleroy.html

Historical reinactment / 2009:
http://www.blasttheory.co.uk/bt/work_ulrikeandeamoncompliant.html