IN PRAISE OF JANKY
Here are the first five definitions of “janky,” according to urbandictionary.com:
“of inferior quality, held in low social regard, old and delapidated [sic]; refers almost exclusively to inanimate material objects, not to people”
“poorly constructed or of poor quality”
“poorly constructed or put together, and does not seem like it should function at all, although it may perform beyond expectations”
“an undesirable item that has both bad taste in style and quality”
“undesirable; less than optimum”
Well! I guess I’m not surprised to see so many negative connotations, because to be “janky” is certainly to be nonfunctioning in some crucial way. Like the car my dad drove me to elementary school in: no latch over the gas cap, a glove compartment that hung all the way open and housed a small family of mice, a tape deck with a Roy Orbison/Buddy Holly tape permanently stuck in there, which, if you wanted to not listen to it you’d have to press the eject button and jam a piece of cardboard in there to keep the deck from sucking it in again: that was one janky car. And truly, many things about it were non-ideal. But I think there was some aura around that car, some lovable quality that wouldn’t exist if it had been in perfect working order.
Janky is the result of fixing broken shit inexpertly, often for cheap. Janky is not readymade or out-of-the-box. It is a world in which objects are repurposed by the people who use them. Janky is kind of frustrating, but kind of gratifying, too. Janky is doing the best you can with what you’ve got, which is probably where that aura comes from.
Maybe the key is in that third definition provided by urbandictionary.com. It’s when a janky thing “performs beyond expectations” that we feel some kind of victory for ourselves. Because hey, it’s saving us the trouble of buying a new car or paying an “expert” to fix something. Janky is a hack. Which does not mean that all hacks are inherently janky; indeed they can be sleek and elegant, beyond reproach. Janky is a hack that falls short, but in a pleasing way.
The ACTlab seems pretty receptive to the Tao of Jank. It’s a place where we often work outside of received wisdom about what’s worth doing or how we ought to do it. Materials that conventionally exist in fixed relationships bounce around like free atoms, new configurations are explored. Shocking things may happen. Things may not work. But that’s why we’re here.
The way I put baby powder in my hair so I don’t have to shower for a few more days: janky. The way I have to pull inward on my driver’s side window while rolling it up to get it to close: janky. (I’ve apparently inherited my father’s creation/love of janky automobiles.) Toasting bread by holding it over the stovetop burner on a fork because you don’t have a toaster: janky. Searching out the aesthetic value of the lo-fi: janky. Putting cardboard stilts under the turntable so its self-balancing mechanism will work, even though it’s set up on an uneven surface: janky. Covering up a pillow fight-inflicted bruise with a new and daring hairstyle: janky.
Janky, c’est moi.
FROM THE PSYCHO BEAUTY SHOP
The trouble with the uncanny: it doesn’t respond to overly analytical prodding. Or, more accurately, that’s the trouble with making something that engages the uncanny. The response I have to the uncanny is visceral and immediate. I don’t have to stop and ask myself whether the 1969 Peggy Lee hit “Is That All There Is?” counts as uncanny; it is, is, is. But why? Is it the familiar vaudevillian chord progression, the nihilism, or something a little off about Peggy herself? If I wanted to make something that achieved the same effects, I wouldn’t really know where to start or which crucial ingredients to include.
Still, even if the process is mysterious, I think it’s worth having some good sources at hand, so here’s a starter list of the things I find fascinating, unsettling, and rich with possibility.
+The work of David Lynch, especially “Twin Peaks:” a pretty obvious choice, but hey, this guy is the King of Uncanny, and seems to engage it effortlessly. David Foster Wallace’s essay in “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again” shrewdly parses Lynchian terrain.
+The Beach Boys: I get weird looks when I tell people that the Beach Boys creep me the fuck out. Everybody thinks, “Oh, the Beach Boys, they just did a lot of sweet songs about girls and surfing.” No way, man. A lot of those earlier songs are so pathologically naive they seem unreal, especially “Don’t Worry Baby,” “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” and “God Only Knows.” I’ve considered the possibility that my appreciation for David Lynch’s aesthetic (in which showing the darkness behind a stereotypically cookie-cutter American image is a hallmark) has developed this response, but I’ve also considered the possibility that my inherent response to guileless 1950s and 1960s music predisposes me to like David Lynch.
+The photography of Ralph Eugene Meatyard: something about the simplicity of putting monster masks on your family and then taking regular scrapbook snapshots of them really appeals to me.
+Tales of Hoffman: “The Sandman” is probably the best-known story in the collection (thanks to Freud’s close reading of it in his essay on the uncanny), but the rest of the stories here are worthy reading, too.
+”Is That All There Is?” as recorded by Peggy Lee and Cristina: oh, I could go on and on. But instead I’m going to quote the first verse in its entirety: “I remember when I was a little girl, our house caught on fire. I’ll never forget the look on my father’s face as he gathered me up in his arms and raced out of the burning building onto the pavement. And I stood there shivering in my pajamas and watched the whole world go up in flames. And when it was all over, I said to myself, ‘Is that all there is to a fire?’”
That’s just a quick beginning. I’ll be posting more often in this space, both relating to projects and the more general thoughts on the uncanny.