essays


"Art Has Become Mute"

Jim Pomeroy interviewed in 1987 by Rene van Peer, from Interviews with Sound Artists published by Apollo Books, Eindhoven, The Netherlands, 1992

I was born in Reading, Pennsylvania, an old industrial town, from which we moved to Texas when I was three. We lived in a small town in a dry, agricultural area. My father worked there as a salesman. He sold refrigerators and washing machines and things like that to dealers. Traveled over an area about four times the size of Holland. We moved to Montana when I was sixteen. It's in the north. The winters are very cold. Very few people live there. 700,000 in a state six or seven times the size of Holland. My hobbies then were reading, making model airplanes -- I played a lot with electricity and little machines. I was encouraged to make science-projects. When I started junior high-school, the Russians launched the Sputnik and the whole American educational system -- pushed by the government -- began a very intensive science orientation. Most people who had an interest or aptitude for science and mathematics were pushed into special programs. I tried to take art then, but they said I couldn't. I had to take science and math. And that's what I did in high-school. I started college in physics. Only after I left home, did I actually understand that I myself could make a choice. And I wasn't very good at physics, really, it's a very difficult program.

So eventually I got into art. I went through art-school in Texas. Did just art, very classical, stone-carving, clay-modeling, painting, for five years. It was clear at that time that there were some interesting and important things happening in art, but they weren't happening in Texas. They were happening on the East Coast and the West Coast, and in Europe. What I did was sort of abstract expressionism, a spin-off at school of what had happened some fifteen years before. It feels like a heroic gesture, but it also began to feel very hollow, and emotional in a way that wasn't genuine. An interesting alternative to that was presented by Minimal Art. It had a cool, structural, intellectual approach. It began to question and use the architecture of a space in which art can be seen. Minimal Art came off the pedestal, onto the floor. Began to work in the public space, and then in nature, question it, and use it. Also began to use industrial processes, materials and organization. Began to look at the role of an artist, not as a solitary artisan in a studio, but as a planner in a context of the organization of the work on an industrial scale.

I saw it happening when I was in Texas. It was very different and very remote, but I was influenced by the work of people like Robert Smithson, Donald Judd, and Tony Smith. Texas didn't have a scene. There wasn't a tradition, no active artists. Everything in the art was second hand, came from books and magazines and stories, and from visiting New York or the West Coast. So I left Texas in 1968 to go to California, primarily out of financial considerations. Most of the good schools on the East Coast are private schools, like Yale or Pratt. They were still dominated by academic tradition, and they were very expensive. None of the good schools were state supported. I had gone to college in Texas because it was cheap, $200 a semester. And places like Yale wanted $6000.

My father paid a lot of my undergraduate education. And I worked. I did art related jobs, mostly. I worked for a while as a sculptor in a display company, making fake or funny animals for department stores and for parties, or things like that. Then I got jobs in museums as a preparator. I worked at different museums in Texas and California until I finished graduate school, and for about four years afterwards. All in all some eight years. That was a good job, very close to what I would call my trade. Working with installations and exhibitions, crating and packing and matting and framing. Special problems with interesting artists, doing innovative pieces and spaces. I worked with people like Alan Kaprow and Claus Oldenburg. However, apart from the money aspect I felt that what was happening on the West Coast was more interesting.

The East Coast was dealing with Minimal Art, and with ideas in mathematical orientations, or orientations drawing on physics and sociology next to the concern with Minimal Art. And in California there was music and drugs, and a strong anti-war movement, it was the time of the Vietnam war. I went to Berkeley. I carried with me -- from what I had read about New York -- a notion of Minimal Art, which didn't make much sense in California. California had a strong artists' community with ideas of a very different orientation. It was very much involved in the personal, the playful, and in mixing influences from Asia -- like Indian and Balinese music --, aboriginal cultures, and mixing forms like music and theater. Everything there was personal, and emotive, or intuitive -- which I tended to distrust.

It was very confusing. But on the other hand now I had the opportunity to work with industrial materials -- the first time I was able to work with steel, aluminum, with heavy duty, decent quality tools. And I was able to work with artists who made monumental pieces, for public. Who would use tools that you'd normally find in a machine shop or a shipyard. At the same time I was working with artists who were not concerned with objects at all. They were concerned with performance, with pranks, play, with fantasy -- with conceptual ideas.

At a certain point this Conceptual Art and Minimal Art had a relation. The idea of Tony Smith, picking up his telephone and ordering a sculpture to be fabricated to his description on the phone. That was both an industrial idea and a conceptual idea. It was seen as a landmark by both fields. It meant that the artist had left the studio and was also working with fabrication -- being done by specialists, rather than with his own hands. Minimal Art went on working with conceptual extensions, but very formularized and structural. Like it mixed some of its forms later on with dance and film, in a sterile and very formal way.

It was a good time and a good place to be a student. You could experiment, try out ideas. But not only was Berkeley a good school, it was also the center of conflict and turmoil. There was a great deal of protest against the war, and against the treatment of the blacks. The moment you walked out of the studio, you'd walk into a riot. During the time I went to graduate school, weekly the campus was filled with tear gas, and soldiers and helicopters, and police. We had a bad Governor. Ronald Reagan got his training for president as Governor of California, and much of his interest was focused on Berkeley. So when people wanted to protest against Reagan, they did it in Berkeley, because that was where he looked. He tried to change the university. He tried to fire people hired by the university. The students fought against that. But there was also a protest when the university tried to destroy open land to build offices and dormitories on it. It was a people's park. This protest became rather famous.

It also was a very good time for a potent exchange of ideas, considering the origin of ideas, how culture is derived. The context of the university and the museum, the practice of art and the practice of science were put in a very critical perspective. In 1970, when Nixon invaded Cambodia, the university -- and most other universities in the US -- were taken over by the students, and everything stopped. Universities' resources were turned to analysis of history and politics. The universities were in communication with each other. That had never existed before. It was a very brief time, but a great deal of awareness was made at that. You were made aware of the fact that the university has a role, globally, in terms of what's going on. You can be talking about art history and these remote, abstract ideas in seminar, and you walk outside on the street, and the world is right there. And the world is watching that street. Ronald Reagan knows that, and he is using the university. The warheads for all the missiles for the US are built by the University of California, Berkeley -- built in a special lab fifty miles away from the campus. Since the Manhattan Project, UC Berkeley has done that. So the responsibility of that university in global politics is very direct. But those points were already made in 1970 when Cambodia was invaded, and they've been made often again. There are constant protests, but it's thus far ineffective.

All this had a strong influence, although it took a while to sink in. I think most of the people of my age have that. And most of the students who I teach don't. I used to think that students were more radical than their teachers, that they were always willing to do innovating experiments, and to push things. But I have come to realize that it's the opposite. My students, now, actually are more conservative than myself, and a lot of other people who are of my age.

It's probably the problem of the generations gap, but it also means that they don't have the same experience, the same perspective. One thing, they don't see their relation to the world in quite the same way that we did. We were threatened. We were vulnerable. We were being drafted, being put into the army and sent to Vietnam. And there's no draft now. The same thing that was going on in Vietnam in the '60s, is going on in Central America now. It's just that up till now, Reagan has tried to get half the war carried by mercenaries and volunteers, without sending American troops. And as long as American troops aren't dying, aren't being pulled out of their domestic situation, the population doesn't seem to care.

The '60s was a very long period, and it had issues that made power relations very clear, racial issues, issues of responsibility; the personal and governmental responsibility to try and attain economic stabilization and equality. And in the Reagan years, the '80s -- and I think it happens in Europe as well -- there's much emphasis on "me," on personal success and upward mobility. That precludes the consideration of a situation based on equality. Even feminism has been compromised by ego orientation. There are a lot of women in positions of responsibility now. There are a lot of paths open to young women for getting ahead in corporations. But the women who are training in business colleges to take their positions, are not feminists. They're post-feminists, they're as conservative as Reagan. They are as self oriented as any capitalist would ever be. Those positions are available to them, because a generation ago people who thought very differently fought hard to achieve that. And now they're exploited by people with reactionary political ideas. Like most of my students they're complacent of their situation. They don't see that their position is an illusion. That it's not concrete, not stable. That they -- like everybody else -- are not only in a situation of vulnerability, but that they have a responsibility to know and see and fight and work for what they are. And most of my students --I teach in a private art school -- are there because their parents can pay a high tuition for them to not have a job and to only have to deal with learning. A career of indulgence. Making objects to be sold through elite contacts to rich people.

So you see in art schools a return to the fashion of painting. Well, actually it's kind of split. On one hand, much interest in art that is market oriented, as a commodity. But I think I'm beginning to see a new awareness. You see it mostly in punks, a very strong distrust of a status quo, very belligerent. Concern about Apartheid, and about the role of the US and American corporations in supporting that. So you see people who are very angry, but don't have much of the tools to get the word out, or to associate. But it comes out strongly in music and in other artwork. The problem is, they are part of a self-oriented ideology, which makes it difficult to work collectively. In collective activity the ego is threatened.

Part of my role is teaching people to use the tools, in a flexible, autonomous and inventive way. Part of my role is teaching people to learn to speak. That their art must say something. That if they think it doesn't, it will always say whatever anyone wants it to say. And that abstract art speaks very strongly, mostly in the voice of the existing power structure. It's interesting to look into the history of abstract expressionism, and see that it was promoted throughout the world by the American government as a symbol of personal freedom. A government that denied much of the world autonomy at the same time. So the State Department would tour exhibitions of Jackson Pollock. Rockefeller would pay for programs sent to South America, or Greece, or Japan. They spent a lot of money promoting the image of personal freedom, in this work which was considered heroic, and silent. It only appears to be artistic freedom. As a matter of fact it's mute.

In what way did you develop your own work?

By being responsive and attracted to work that had the same kind of political statements that I was after. Hans Haacke, the San Francisco Mime Troupe, the TV programs of Paper Tiger in New York. And work that was done by a group at the time of the Bicentennial. They called themselves "The Committee Meeting for Cultural Change." They analyzed an exhibition of the collection of American Art owned by the Rockefeller family that was promoted by the largest city museum of San Francisco. They looked what art was in it, and what was excluded. They studied histories of the collector families, of the museums, the membership of museums, what was being said, and what not -- and all this within the context of the Bicentennial, which was to be a reexamination and a celebration of our history. I was also influenced by ideas developed in the '30s and '40s by Bertolt Brecht. And by popular music and new-music people, like Frederic Rzewski.

I met a lot of these new-music composers at Mills College, an East Coast style, expensive cloister girl school in Oakland, California. But the music department, the Center for Contemporary Music, was set up as a public access studio. They provided synthesizers, tape recorders and a recording studio for very little money, to anyone who wanted to use it. And it was used by people who had no relation to the school, but to the community. Now Oakland is a large industrial city lying next to Berkeley, 8 or 900,000 people -- it's larger than San Francisco -- with a very large black population. And the Mills College Music studio became the cheapest studio for those people, so you had a few rock groups, and a lot of soul groups. Black groups that would use the studio in this elite little girl school up in a grove on top of a mountain above the city. So eventually it was closed down. Terry Riley taught there, and David Behrmann and Bob Ashley. I saw a lot of work that made me become aware that the same things that were going on in art were going on in music. When I started out working with sound in graduate school, they didn't encourage or help me. But I could follow this interest at Mills College.

Apart from that, I was working with people who did performance. And I was doing my own things, paintings, the music boxes that I amplified and repaired in different ways. I did large paintings with rubber stamps. When you were close to the painting you'd see a pattern, and stepping back you'd see an image. I used large recognizable images, mostly associated to what I felt to be kitsch. One of them was Mount Rushmore.

I began with that because I wanted to get involved with an image that's so popular, so much an idea of American culture, and so widely read. It's like the windmills and the tulips in Holland, or our own Statue of Liberty. They have quick, direct associations that work the same way. And it occurred to me how strange it was that no one really questioned what these images in fact said. So I started questioning, trying to figure out the use of those images. That's when I started to write. I wanted to question art in the largest context. It didn't seem to make much sense to me to work abstractly, without a context. It began with the idea of working with pieces, with titles, working with language.

It's something that came directly out of the art community on the West Coast. The art there is very playful by tradition. And it's an art that artists have always done for each other, because there was never much market, and they never got much attention. And while on the East Coast there was a lot of attention for Pop Art and Op Art, we had something called Funk Art, which got even funkier as the world's attention was being focused on pretentious and preposterous forms of gestures, heroic and important. The work on the West Coast snubbed its nose at history, museums and pretense.

That more or less links it with the work that came out of Dada, of what happened prior to the development of Surrealism. Artists would work together on a painting, would do things that were obscene and silly. They didn't care what they sold. It was made for the moment, made for your friend or your associations. An important aspect of that was the title, the pun, the joke. And there also was an element of Zen, humor, irony, inversion. Sometimes intentional, sometimes accidental. What attracted me to that was that those things were about ideas, about relations. It was easy to begin to work that way by extension -- actions and works that basically were the realization of a pun. So language and puns became more part of the work.

Another thing happened which was very important. There were a lot of young artists excited about new things that were happening everywhere. Performance and new media, video, the combination of film and music and dance and movement. At the time there was no support structure for that type of art. The commercial galleries weren't interested -- they weren't interested in much new work anyway. And the museums would only show what the galleries promoted. Then in many of the larger cities of the US places were established where you could see work which a gallery or a museum didn't show.

These places began in various ways. In some places there were people who had a studio and just opened it during the weekends and invited people over. Or they were organizations that had some money and an empty space, and invited people to program things for them. In some cases they were people who actually met, made a formal organization, raised some formal funding and got together a fairly businesslike arrangement. This was the early formation of artists' spaces in the US -- in the mid '70s. A spin-off of the politics of the time. Arising out of the mistrust of the authority, the beginning of autonomous organizations, like the whole earth movement. People starting a co-op, whether it's for food or for art. Sometimes as an outgrowth of feminism, people raising their consciousness, the idea of non-hierarchical organization.

It was those places that put performance on a professional level. Museums would pay an artist for a painting, not for a performance. Galleries just didn't understand it, they couldn't make money out of it -- you can't sell it or hang it on your wall. They saw it as something the artists had to do, like shit. A person has to shit, so an artist has to shit -- and it's called performance. So these places were the first where those artists were seen, and they were paid for what they did. So they were called artists' spaces, because that's who came to them and that's whom they were for.

Originally they were local. But as people found out about other spaces in other parts of the country, they started traveling, moving and seeing each other's work. This was the start of networks. The National Endowment for the Arts -- our Federal Art agency -- became aware of those organizations and decided to support them when they applied. It's not as big anymore as it was five years ago, but around 1980 there were probably some two hundred spaces throughout the US. And there are thousands of artists who participate in the exchange, very much like what happens in De Fabriek, Steim, and Het Apollohuis. The spaces vary a great deal in terms of the quality they're programming, budget, history, how they document, how they relate to the audience. It's a wide range, and that's okay. Everybody invented the wheel differently, but it's a fairly well established network. And it's possible for lots of things to happen. Those are the places that support new music, performances, or installations.

A lot of the work, the ideas and the spaces were about taking a responsible initiative, about a distrust of authority, of cultural institutions of power. And about saying, artists are no longer infantile, isolated people who make a few objects which are then taken by people who take half the profit of the sale of them, and then sell the work to rich people. That idea of art changed with the development of these spaces. And at the same time, since your work was no longer speaking to the mystical clientele -- like the abstract expressionists made work that was designed to speak to the Rockefellers--, it was speaking to other artists.

It began to say different things. It became much easier to express your issues. On the one hand, in terms of the materials you used, which were often fugitive, playful, impermanent or ironic. Examples of that were people like Beuys, who worked with honey and fat and felt, and Terry Fox. On the other hand they were also the first to manifest the idea of working in time, for the benefit of the people who were there with you. An old idea in music, but new in art.

Another thing the artists' spaces movement meant, was that artists also became administrators, critics, publishers and booking agents. When a catalogue was published, or when applications were written to the National Endowment, it was the artists themselves who did it. That was hard, because we hadn't learned those things in art school. But within fifteen years there has been quite a bizarre development. A class of professionals has come into being whose entire domain is the administration of art spaces. And those people aren't artists, they're professional curators, administrators.

The movement has become so sophisticated that when a space (like the one we started in 1975) advertises for a director, there will be applicants who are twenty-five years old. And they will have a master's degree in art history where they studied alternative art, and in business administration with nonprofit organizations. They're very sympathetic, and they're now a big part of it. But it's funny that what has begun clumsily by artist practitioners has now become a whole alternative industry with, unfortunately, hierarchies and specializations.

Maybe it would have been better if artists had gone on with it themselves. They tried, but many burned out. Sooner or later you either ran a space or you remained an artist. Not many people managed to do both. So after a couple of years I myself resigned from the board of our space, just because it was too much. But I still work a lot with artist organizations. It's not full-time, but I curate exhibitions or work on fund raising projects, or on committees to develop new programs. I also spend a lot of time traveling around the country working with state agencies, or going to conferences. There are many other people who do that, like Richard Lerman. And I think it's very similar to what Paul does with Het Apollohuis in relation to the community of Dutch agencies. But it's important to see that the development of the spaces and their programs has also been a development of people personally, like me, and of art in its totality.

You've spoken a lot about these organizational things, but how do they relate to your work as an artist?

Well, it was really quite late when I started doing the thing I'm doing now. And it probably wouldn't have happened if I hadn't had the feeling I was dealing with the people who I'm doing it for. You can't do work like this in a museum, because it's made for people who are making art, who are thinking about what their art says. Because, as I said, art has become mute.

I went back to the idea of the "boy mechanic" as it is sometimes referred to. In fact it's the title of a book written about 1900, and revised several times until 1950. It used articles from popular science, popular mechanics magazines and was written for boys to make things like airplanes and sleds, and science experiments. I went back to that and made work, ideas and manifestations based on science and technology, on inventiveness, improvisation, and on dealing with handmade, home brewed, garage-basement-kitchen inventions. And in them there's a degree of research, but also of the anti-formal, the anti-permanent -- in fact the things you see over and over again in new music, in performances.

I talked about it with many people I met. A lot of us had the same history of being pushed and channeled into the science orientation in our school years and then finding -- like in my case -- that they were not well suited for science, or feeling that science is being turned to social uses they couldn't agree with. And people who had been trained as engineers, who could only find jobs at corporations that assigned them to projects developing missiles and war planes or computer applications in surveillance, who didn't want to work that way, and would stumble into this -- the music and art and spectacle -- as a way of dealing with that. It's what Paul DeMarinis -- whom I met at Mills College -- pointed out, all electronic art and music as we know it today is a spin-off of the "defense industry." People didn't invent semiconductors because they wanted to make an interesting synthesizer, but because they wanted to drop a pair of warheads on top of a Russian missile silo. Modern electronics is totally a product of nuclear weaponry and surveillance. Computers were developed in the '60s for orbiting satellites and for high speed aircraft, and the sensing of remote things, whether it was the moon or the border between North and South Vietnam. It's nice that there are ploughshares' applications for swords, but the motivation of art is not enough to drive the development of these tools. It's a big irony to think about that.

In my performances I tell the same things, but then I do it in a theatrical way, playing a role. The role of the scientist, the intellectual, and the role of the artist, a composer or a musician. Both are very ambivalent roles in our culture. They're seen as marginal, but important. They're often ridiculed. They're seen as eccentric, but they're tolerated because they bring us powerful experiences. But the idea of an intellectual is distrusted. The terms "long haired composer" and "egg headed intellectual" are derisive pejoratives for people who have spent their lives developing special knowledge, and they're seen as people you go to for insight and decision, but also as people who are not considered suitable for normal social discourse. The ridicule of the intellectual is used culturally as a weapon against the development of individual intelligence.

The work that is presented in those roles is usually considered effete, it's ascetic, remote and isolated. And two prototypes in American mythology, Einstein and Stokowski, are seen partly as clowns, partly as shamans. And I would like to use that idea of a clown and a shaman to present information which is not esoteric, but in fact is important and direct, and to present it to people who are in a position of acting upon it. Especially artists, who are in a position of saying something with their work. And I would like to say to artists that their work must say something. Your work can't not-speak. Because then others make it say whatever they want it to say.

Language is important. It can be many things -- images, objects, references, or music. But to make it work like that, you must have a sense that the people you're speaking to can understand what you're saying. If you speak with a sound, the reference should be clear. I don't speak Dutch, but when they hear the Haifisch, they know who Mack the Knife is. And if they see a tank, it speaks. That's language, the message is clear. And like any language it has play, there's an ambivalence, some latitude. Which means that the work is not didactic, it's not locked. It isn't beating my ideas into yours.

Important is also what Brecht stressed -- the notion of alienating the experience, so that you as a spectator are not drawn into the emotion of a work, but keep a distance by the flatness of the characters; that the actor is different from the character. That the idea is not in here, buried in your heart manipulating your tears, but it's out there to look at and to think about. And the play ends abruptly, unresolved. It's not a package that makes you go through an emotive catharsis, flattening you out and making you feel like you've been through this enormous roller coaster ride; but you're left with a feeling of incompleteness which only you yourself can fulfill. I'm not sure whether I can do that very well, but that's what I would like to do. And I would like to do it in a way that's entertaining, that leaves those ideas there, and also makes it possible for people to see that anyone can do it. That you don't have to be an exquisite actor with lots of talent, and a special knack and years of training. But that an individual with nominal resources can do a lot.

People who come to artists' spaces may tend to agree with your point of view, and be aware of what's happening. But how about the "uninformed"?

A common charge about political art is that it should be for the uninformed, rather than the informed. Often that kind of charge comes out of a position not of critique, but of silencing. From people who don't want to hear the ideas I want to express. I most often hear that argument from reactionaries who would rather hear arpeggios in a space, than ideas. But I feel that it's very important to speak to the informed, for many different reasons. One is that in every audience you have new people. Also in every audience you will be speaking to people who speak to the larger public. And you raise a question of dialogue, of a different perspective, another way of looking at something -- which means that you get better about what you're talking about. And I don't feel at all comfortable about either my ideas or my views, or my ability to express them. I feel clumsy, very embarrassed often by what I'm doing. It doesn't seem to be sophisticated, or deeply thought out. But the only way I can really further that dialogue is to put out my part and deal with the feedback. It's important to reinforce and acknowledge to the sympathetic that their ideas really matter, and are essentially correct. And often when you present work that's considered the "uninformed", they have rigid prejudices, and not only will they reject your work, but they will even attack you. There's a difference in making a presentation to people who are open to dialogue, and to people who shut you up, and will hurt you. You can't present a sophisticated argument to a naive audience, or present the complexities of an idea to people who are just beginning with the foundations of analysis. So in different venues different work, ideas and forms of rhetoric are appropriate, as well as the ability to listen to your audience at the same time.

Another thing I'm very much interested in is spectacle, and the idea of anti-spectacle, of giving people the ability to put their ideas out in a public situation, and not only do it cheaply, but to say something with a great deal of effect to a lot of people. I teach people who are primarily painters, sculptors and photographers. I teach them the use of audio -- like tape recorders -- and video, slide projections and computers, and using those in a way which is affordable. Whereas the way film making is taught in art schools like ours, it's a hierarchical, expensive, role oriented thing -- the independent film maker is a director. And to do your work, you must raise $100,000 a film, so that you can hire sound men, you can get the right film stock, that you can do your editing in a special lab, and that you can get the distribution and have your film shown in Cannes -- and sooner or later you can become George Lucas.

When you hear painting teachers, you hear them teach blindness. You hear them stress the primacy of the ego, and at the same time they teach a bohemian lifestyle and being related to a social class. Their teaching blocks the ability of people to see that their life is abominable and competitive and capricious. They train students to be strong in will and direction, at the same time taking from them the flexibility to change, and the intelligence to speak. And what you get from that is the classic story of Jackson Pollock. He studied with an academic painter, worked on projects like painting post offices, came to New York and struggled for a few years, developed his own style. And at the same time he spent ten years in analysis, trying to deal with psychological problems. He experienced a brief period of enormous celebration, was a widely sought and, I think, over-acknowledged artist. He didn't paint the last two years of his life, was completely frozen and perplexed -- and ended up in what easily could be referred to as suicide in an alcoholic dead end. The same goes for David Smith, Klein, Rothko. All those guys died after very stressful lives ... that's the mythological career of a painter in the mid 20th century.

What I'd like to teach is that you can take two cheap slide projectors and a dissolve carousel, and if you don't have a camera, you can take overexposed negatives and scratch onto your own slides with a pin -- and with such equipment project potent images that people understand, that they can see together with the critical mass of a group. That you can speak forcefully, cheaply, and can do it with irony and with intention.

Computers, for instance, are getting cheaper and more powerful. They're easily available and will be increasingly more so. I teach that they're as important a tool for an artist as a pencil or a camera. And that if they don't learn that, they will remain exploitable. Artists must learn to be autonomous, responsible and effective. And the other thing is, again, to say something. And in order to say it well they must learn to use not only their own voice and body, but extensions of those as well. Which may be a brush and a pencil, but also a computer, a telephone, and a car.

(c) Rene Van Peer / Reproduced by permission.


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