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Republic

Current Issue • January 17 2008 to January 30 2008   •  No 180

Art

A funny place for an unfunny sculpture

What do the denizens of the Terminal City Club know about the regularities of the work day?

By Kevin Potvin

Beside the Terminal City Club on Hastings Street sits an odd public sculpture. “Working Landscape,” by Daniel Laraskin, is three large wooden discs set about with potted trees and park benches.

That accounts for the “landscape” part of the title. The “working” part derives from the fact the three discs rotate. But there’s a joke: they rotate at different rates, one completing a revolution in one hour, another in eight hours, and the third in 40 hours.

Get it? “Working,” in this work of art, has a double meaning: one, eight, and forty happen to be the key numbers regulating the lives of the working class who are paid by the hour, installed at their work stations for eight hours a day, and complete their basic unit of labour with 40 hours of work in a week.

It’s difficult to imagine anyone in the Terminal City Club peering down at the sculpture from the lofty heights atop the downy pillows of their spa’s massage quarters getting the joke. Theirs is not the 1-8-40 world, but rather the .25-18-40 world. These are the three numbers that regulate the lives of Terminal City Club members. 0.25 is both the margin of profit to kill for and the portion of a year they think ahead to,18 is the number of holes in a golf course, and 40 is the number of ounces of liquor of the finest scotch on offer in the clubhouse after a hard day on the links.

If Laraskin could have rotated the discs by these numbers instead, and made them complete their revolutions in seconds instead of days, it’s delightfully possible to imagine a few of those Terminal City Club types stepping onto that 0.25 one and getting flung clear over the sails of Canada Place and plopping with a satisfying plop into the deep dark sea beyond. I was invited there for lunch recently by a lifetime member. I went half expecting to be treated to trained kittens licking my feet, masseurs to ease my tight back, cigars all around lit with rolled-up hundred dollar bills, and a million-dollar bottle of cognac just to loosen up the tongue. No such luck. The lettuce salad was wilted and the white bread sandwich stuck to the roof of my mouth.

It’s the juxtaposition of the two installation pieces that makes for a depressing commentary at that particular corner of Vancouver. The sculpture is the working landscape indeed, captured in all its circular frustration. What do you get for one hour of work but another hour demanded? What do you get for the eight hour work day but another day at work? What does 40 hours of work in a week lead to but another week of work? Not so for the executive class right next door who have no such maddening circularity to their lives. On the other side of the wall, it’s all about growth, advancement and accumulation. Tellingly, the workers’ sculpture is a horizontal wheel while the bosses’ sculpture is a vertical. What the art piece could have done is place a fifth disc cutting through the wall of The Terminal City Club so that everyone gets time on the outside doing the work followed by a turn through the inside getting some of the treats.

But that would destroy the whole point of a private executive-class club. Just as one of the chief features of heaven is a window onto hell through which one may enjoy the endless pain subjected to all those who couldn’t join Jesus, the chief feature of private clubs like Terminal City are the windows through which one may enjoy the pointless circular scrambling of the hourly wage earners way down below who can’t join their club.

“Membership has its privileges,” says the famous credit card offered to virtually everyone on the planet. “Forward with the confidence only tradition brings,” replies the Terminal City Club in its own motto. Meanwhile, the workers outside riding that 1-8-40 set of discs are not going forward at all. So I guess they must lack confidence, huh? “Around and around with the degradation only YOUR tradition brings,” the “Working Landscape” sculpture might have posted up as its motto, on a big sign facing the Terminal City Club spa windows. They still wouldn’t get it, though.

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The Republic of East Vancouver masthead

The Republic of East Vancouver supports no party, advocates for no cause, represents no group, serves no master, and considers problems with no preconceived notions. We hope to afflict the comfortable, both materially and intellectually, and comfort the afflicted—of both kinds as well, and we are trying to do both things at the same time.

Publisher, Editor

Kevin Potvin

Managing Editor

Kara Foreman

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Janis Harper

Website

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Support

Dan Crawford, John Daigle, Jack Etkin, Janis Harper, Carl Johnson, Hilary Jones, Chris King, James Mecham, Albrecht Meyers, Peter Miller, James Pope

Contributors in this and recent issues

Bruce Alexander, Dan Adleman, Toby Alford, Kevin Annett, Santo Barbieri, Bob Broughton, Mike Bryan, Stephen Buckley, Matthew Burrows, Maria Calleja, Ron Carton, Chad Christie, Joshua Corber, Dan Crawford, Gail Davidson, Eric Doherty, Joe Donaldson, Lorena Jara Patty Ducharme, Shadia Drury, Taivo Evard, Reed Eurchuk, Farnaz Fassihi, Thomas Feakins, Anthony Fenton, Reza Fiyouyzat, Andrew Gordon Fleming, Ryan Fugger, Sasha Gagic, Matt Goody, Guy Hawkins, Spencer Herbert, John Irwin, Nick Istvaniffy, Junius, William Kay, Mike Keep, Kate Kennedy, Donald Kropp, Chris LaVigne, James Lindfield, Brian Lindgreen, Karen Litzke, Keith MacKenzie, Michael McLaughlin, Sonya McRae, Rafe Mair, Sonia Marino, Jennifer Matsui, Michael Millard, Isaebel Minty, Michael Nenonen, Wendy Nylund, Derrick O’Keefe, Stephen Osborne, Sean Orr, Evan Augustine Pederson III, Stephen Peplow, Kim Peterson, Kevin Potvin, Mary Rawson, Andrea Reimer, Erin Riley, Phil Rockstroh, Becky Scott, Jason Scott, Chris Shaw, Jeff Steudel, Alex Tegart, Scott Turner, Elbio Grosso Trentini, Patrick Vert, Chris Walker, Sean Wilkinson, Brad Zembic

 

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