America

By Jon Gartner, columnist at large

Of all the things Ludwig Von Bonword isn’t, an artist is not one of them, which means, of course, that he is an artist. He began his “emotional and intellectual journey into nothingness” (his words) when he was 4: he made a giraffe out of construction paper; his aunt sold it at auction for a cool 2 million last year. His work quickly escalated into full blown installment art with international acclaim; at 11 he designed a piece dubbed the canker swhores of living(sic); it featured themes such as the holocaust, public transportation, and the systemic use of Monsanto branded GMO foods; Art and Wine magazine called it “the installment piece of a generation.”

He lives in a loft in Milwaukee, the “hipster anti-capital of the galaxy” (his words). He spends the majority of his time “involving himself in the community” (his words) which means, as far as I can gather, watching his roommates play children’s games and attempt to redefine what footwear REALLY is through edgy sandal designs.

I was fortunate enough to spend about 8 minutes with Ludwig last month, as his newest piece of art was coming to fruition. Our conversation was insightful and moving, and while most interviews seem to make someone more human, Ludwig is now less human than ever.

His loft has no parking, he posted no parking signs all around the perimeter; it symbolizes “the hatred that consumed the dictators of the early and mid 20^th century, forcing their cabinets and most trusted advisors to metaphorically park in other places” (his words).

I parked a few blocks down and walked to his loft; outside, two kids who looked no older than 12 were cutting each other’s hair; they made an effort to disregard me as much as possible.

Inside the loft were about 20 remarkably overweight people, all in attire that wouldn’t be out of place in children’s ballet recital.

The tutus seemed to be at maximum capacity; the rolls in their fatty mid sections seemed on the verge of splashing out and, like a tsunami, engulfing myself and all the roommates, laying us to rest at the bottom of an ocean of human lard (I later found out he has 131 roommates, not including family).

And there he was, sporting half of a mustache, night vision goggles propped up on his head as if they were reading glasses he may need at a moment’s notice and a thermometer as a charm on his leather necklace. It seemed he was giving these seemingly normal, albeit grossly overweight people, ballet lessons.

He noticed me and ran over, yelling some words out in what sounded like Russian to the dancers. We exchanged formalities and then he curtsied and handed me a blank piece of heavy white construction paper the size of a playboy centerfold (this, I would later learn, was his business card). He firmly commanded me to sit on an empty bean bag chair, which he insisted was “much better for my back than any silly bar stool” (he pronounced “stool” with a French “u,”).

JG: So, Ludwig, you’ve been creating art for all your life, what would you say is the most fulfilling aspect of creating art for you?

LVB: I have spent so much time all around the world, you know. I have jousted with Indonesians and spoon fed Moroccans, I have eaten acid in a slum district of Capetown, I have meditated with Siberian prisoners, I have played basketball at the Northpole. I have, Jon, done it all. The thing that keeps calling me back, though, is modern dance.

I waited, thinking this may have been the preface to his actual answer; this was, however, his actual answer, as far I know.

JG: Does this calling have something to do with the folks here learning ballet?

LVB: From now on, my art will no longer include dead things. This means no more paper or glue or plants.

I waited again, but I started realizing my questions could not be so open ended.

JG: What are these people doing here?

LVB: They are learning the great art of Russian ballet.

JG: I heard you say something in Russian, are they from overseas?

LVB: I taught them Russian, they are all from Detroit. I pay them to speak only Russian.

I was surprised at the relevance of this answer.

JG:  why do you have a group of Detroiters here in ballet garb speaking beginner Russian?

LVB: It is all the greater context of things that drives me. I am working on a new piece; its working title is “America.”

JG: How are these, um, students of yours involved in this piece?

LVB: It’s about time you asked me a real question. If you must know, they are laid off manufacturing workers, I am paying them minimum wage for 50 hours a week, and I have given them all 120 GB iPods loaded with tons of good stuff. In return they are learning to dance and speak Russian, and next week we will hit the road, beginning at the High museum in Atlanta. In this work, these strapping folks will spend their days dancing The Rite of Spring over and over again. They can only speak in broken Russian amongst each other to coordinate, and the music is played through their iPod ear buds.

He finished with a snarky little giggle; I hated him, yet I wanted his friendship and approval at the same time.

The interview was, for all intents and purposes, over though. He had planted the seed in my head, and it was sprouting into a willow that was feeding off my dura-matter and now my brain was barrel rolling in my skull.

I couldn’t ask any more questions; there was nothing more to ask. It was then I realized Ludwig isn’t just an artist, he is art himself. His loft, the tweeners aspiring to be barbers, his useless instruments he adorned as jewelry, his aggravating facial hair. Everything was dually stupid and insightful.

I thanked him for his time, and it was perhaps the most sincere thanks I have ever given someone.

I could not finish my assignment, a 6 to 8 page interview to help readers “understand the humanity of modern art” as my editor had requested.

I walked out thinking about his work, this strangely haunting installment.

America.

Maybe that’s all America really is, maybe that’s all anyone is really doing here.

Maybe we are all just desperate people, struggling through a language that isn’t really ours, trying to co-ordinate our attempts at community through near-meaningless gibberish, struggling through a profession or lifestyle that we are clearly not optimized for, looking ridiculous donning garb fit for a 6 year old, and dedicating ourselves fully to some wealthy man’s vision, all for minimum wage and an iPod full of good stuff.