Rod Malin is a Baltimore/New York City-based researcher, curator, artist, designer, and educator. Malin holds a self-accredited PhD in contextual theory and liminal cultural studies. A subset of Malin’s research examines cultural homogeneity and its impact on the contemporary artist’s studio practice. Malin coined his art practice as an Self-Accredited PhD, which focuses on intervention, curation, and contextual object making. His unique practice has transformed him to look past compartmentalizing between education, studio and profession.
The tension between failure and education has been the driving force of critique for his practice. Malin’s intervention work has been primary about the relation between access and abundance. Most of his intervention work is non-attributed and can be found among major art collections and institutions. Malin is a founder and director of Guest Spot @ THE REINSTITUTE Baltimore, MD and Co-Founder of Transmitter NYC.
GENTLEMAN FARMERS
THE REINSTITUTE PRESS
THE REINSTITUTE RESEARCH ARCHIVE & LIBRARY
GUEST SPOT @ THE REINSTITUTE FOUNDER
TRANSMITTER NYC CO-FOUNDER
MONO PRACTICE CO-DIRECTOR
In and Out of consciences:
ROD MALIN
Z.L.E.A.R P R O J E C T & iMOPCA
Zip-line Exploration Architectural Robot Invisible Museum of Post Contemporary Art
Forward:
Dear Family Friends and Colleagues.
The events disclosed in this document will hopefully explain, and clarify, the demise of
these projects and how these projects resulted in and paralleled with my own fatal situation.
For the sake of those involved I have omitted their identities.
March 4, 2009
I.
The story of an alleged naval experiment started with a photograph of a radar station in Montauk. A friendly enticement via e-mail from one knowingly aware of my intrigue with uninhabited architectural structures, lead me to think that someday a visit to Montauk would seem to render favorable. However I didn't know the extent of the situation that would ultimately present itself.
- I may be a bit reluctant to disclose certain details, however I would rather be called a loon than be called a liar…
* On October 3, 1979 a tornado struck in Connecticut. However short-lived, the intense tornado wreaked massive havoc, causing 3 deaths and hundreds of injuries, and resulting in over three hundred million dollars in property damage; it ranked one of the most expensive tornadoes in American history. I was nearly two, seeing the wind move the tree line landscape was as vivid as my hand before me now. I remember the maroon light, the intense flow of debris and the coldness of the windowpane leaving my hands as my mother pulled me away. The path of the tornado crossed the northern portion of Bradley International Airport where my father worked for the FAA, and many vintage aircraft at the nearby New England Air Museum were destroyed. * The clean-up took years and spawned major reconstruction which ended up turning the airfield into a major commercial Airport.
Years later the aftermath of the tornado still lingered in the fallen structures in the vast woods that surround my home—houses were turned instantly into fallen time capsules, with collapsed roofs that settled onto their foundations like a crushed can. * The residual structures along certain paths were picked clean over the years, while other paths led to other sites that had a few remaining treasures. With old cans, medicine bottles, burned out pots, scattered Playboy magazines covered in mildew, a half torn print of Tom Sawyer, and various other artifacts—some old, some new—it was increasingly difficult to distinguish what was brought to these sites from elsewhere and what had already been there. It seemed to change by the year. Some places were actually still used as hangouts or for criminal activities. We had names for these places: Wallet Alley, a dirt road that was a dumping grounds for pick pockets from the inner city; The Thicket, a non functioning drainage tunnel that led to a patch of grass surrounded by huge thorn bushes used as a place for sexual diversion. Among these structures existed an overgrown go cart track, remnants of a small zoo, a vast land of sand dunes surrounded by pine which glared in the sun due to the over turned reflective sea shells. This was my playscape, my childhood.
* Back when my front yard seemed like the entire world, there was a stream that divided my yard and emptied into another one by way of a waterfall that seemed like the rushing Niagara Falls. This is where and when I would venture west by creek…. Past the rocky shallow, where a few neighborhood kids and I waited for Spring to come so that we could hand catch droves of sixteen-inch suckerfish, which came up stream from the Connecticut River to spawn, past the red clay wall, the site of a little prank that ended in two childhood neighbors getting stuck in the wall of clay, along with the volunteer fireman who happened to be their father come for help, past crayfish territory, and the waste-high waters where legend had it that a two hundred pound snapper turtle hid under the tree embankment…
And finally past the golfers on the eighteenth hole. This was the trickiest part, and it was a sport that ignited mutual territorialism. The eighteenth hole was sacred, and the last thing a golfer wants to see is on the home stretch is a kid to remind him of his family obligations while out on his weekly escape.
My trip ended at Northwood cemetery at a headstone that read “Little Miss 1565”, along with five other unidentified stones that laid flat on the ground less conspicuous from the uniformed manner of the soldier’s field. If it wasn’t for all the uniformed flags during memorial day and the occasional flowers that were left way past any means of enjoyment I would think most of graves were paid no attention. What called my attention from such a distance to “Little Miss 1565” grave site was a small pile of color by a tree, resembling a recently dropped article of clothing. When I approached I saw a pink teddy bear holding a heart with a stitched “we love you” on it, a handful of daisy’s, a pink treasure troll, and a rabbit’s foot next to the grave along with some weathered cards that said something along the lines of “God be with you. You are in our hearts. In God’s eyes we are all family.”
‘Little Miss 1565’ Unknown -Jul. 6, 1944
I instantly had a gut feeling I was the same age as when she died. At a revisit a few months later, I found out from another inquisitive person exploring the grave site that the five unidentified graves in Northwood Cemetery were victims killed in the July 6, 1944 Hartford Connecticut Circus Fire, however “Little Miss” a blonde child about 8 years old was oddly never identified despite a complete lack of burns and no damage to her face. No one claimed the body, despite widespread publicity and publication of her photo in nationwide magazines. 1565 was the number that the coroner assigned the unclaimed body.
For the next few years, my interest in the little miss lay dormant. I had a paper route for the Journal Inquire. It was because of a far off client who lived on a dead end street that I had a daily glimpse of the entrance of Northwood Cemetery.
My career as a paperboy was less than profitable, due to lack of tips and a route manager that didn’t keep me informed of current subscribers. I was guessing who was on my route. Sometimes I would do a complaint-based research using an original tactic for the situation. “The reactionary test ” was where I would intentionally stop delivering to a “subscriber” just to see if they had a subscription. If a complaint was made, I would note it in my journal and keep them on my listing. Certain clients swore they were paying the J.I. and when I delivered to them I would come up short of papers to deliver, or when certain subscriptions were cancelled with out the main office I had to pay out of pocket expense. This cut deep, I received ten cents a delivery and to pay out of pocket for two papers was roughly 50% of my earnings. I had to take control of the situation. The total lack of personal responsibility the paper had with relations with the paperboys seemed exploitative and undermined the intent of the paper that was “local news for local people”. A paper route was supposed to teach a kid how to be responsible but this situation taught me that if an institution of journalism can’t get a simple monetary subscription reading on it’s subscribers, how the hell would it get a correct reading when the readers become the subject.
Troubles of my route foreshadowed the events that occurred that same year in 1991 when arson investigator Rick Davey published "A Matter of Degree: The Hartford Circus Fire and Mystery of Little Miss 1565", in which he claimed the girl's name was Eleanor Emily Cook and that she was from Massachusetts. Despite the book was disputed from all who was involved, and Davey’s work, “A Matter of degree” is considered by some to be a work of revisionist history or journalistic sensationalism, with some victims and reviewers accusing Davey of using the book to further his own career and notoriety, the body of “Little Miss 1565” was exhumed and buried in Southampton, Massachusetts, next to the body of Edward Cook, the brother of Eleanor Cook and a victim of the circus fire himself. In 1992, her death certificate was officially changed from the previous identification of "1565.”
I stopped outside the cemetery. Standing with both feet on my huffy bike, the heaviness of ink stained Journal Inquirer bag on my shoulder made it hard to balance even with the help of the wire fence pushing up against my hand. The mound of dirt next to the grave site was like a bandage of an open wound that was yet to heal. I identified not with the body, the dirt or spectacle around the disinterred past. BEFORE MY EYES LAY A HOLE, something that makes people uneasy, something that needs to be filled using what ever materials will fill it. The choking dry earth coated my mouth like dry bread, making it hard to swallow as the grave was refilled. I took in the dust as it tickled my sinuses, eyes watering as the air began getting thicker with each scoop of earth. I began to feel my lungs rub against my ribs like cement bags traveling in a wheelbarrow. The wait of my loaded shoulder carrier was too heavy to hold up. My bike twisted onto itself and my body lurched to the ground hands first to the dirt.
In 1944 when shown a photograph of Little Miss 1565, Eleanor's mother Mildred Corintha Parsons Cook immediately stated that this was not her daughter. She firmly maintained that stance until her death in 1997, age 91. Badly injured in the fire, Mrs. Cook had been unable to claim her two dead children, and was too emotionally traumatized to pursue it later.
Stewart O'Nan, who published "The Circus Fire: A True Story of an American Tragedy" in 2001, pointed to the fact that Little Miss 1565 had blonde hair, while Eleanor Cook was a brunette. The shape of Little Miss 1565's face and that of Eleanor Cook are dissimilar, and the height and age of the two girls do not match up.
II.
Patient Name: John Doe
Date: March 1, 2008
Patient Name: Rod Malin
Date: April 22, 2008
Doctor:
The patient complains of chronic headaches, even with the prescription meds. Results of the CAT scans show abnormal brain activity in parts of the __________ _____________. Shaking of the hands could be a result of postpartum stress disorder. Rash is Unknown, could be due to unknown virus. Immune test results appear to be normal.
Over several months health has deteriorated. Diagnosis unknown.
The awakening
The clouded murmurs and footsteps that don’t end grow in intensity by the moment. Trying to make sense of sounds I can discern the vast emptiness of hallways. A woman who peeps in the doorway goes almost unnoticed by the intense exposed hanging bulb that camouflages people walking past in the dim light exterior.
The feeling of numbness spreads throughout, what seemed familiar is not. I am new again.
It was suggested that a daily account of my current activities might help develop my short-term memory. It is the only thing that helps me put the small pieces together and keep me from losing touch with reality. I have stopped altogether making polite small conversations with the nurse who comes to give me my sponge bath and tends to my bandages. My physical therapist seems to be impressed with my quick recovery and says I will be strong enough to walk, possibly in a month or so.
My family and friends seem to be in place like they have been in the past with flowers, cards and visits. I don’t recall the fall; however I recall the damp rotted wood planks giving out under my feet. The initial moment that the planks gave seemed like a careless situation where one just condemns oneself with embarrassment or even stupidity, however this was not the case of such miniscule proportions. I in fact fell in a dark cavernous womb inside the earth, and could only imagine the sound of my body hitting the ground after looking at the various wounds and bandages on my person.
Sounds of snapping celery and large gym mats hitting the hardwood floor echoing in a large gymnasium come to mind when I feel the sharp pains shiver up my spine as I put forth an attempt to walk. Roberta coaxing me to go on, take another she says… another. Pain is the easy part, dealing with self pity was never a problem even when as a child I spent most my time in a wheelchair. For me “not knowing” plagued my mind, and drove paralyzing fears that in ways stopped me from my own prolific endeavors. My newest work was about taking that stigmata and making the ephemeral the definite, by way of reinventing, exploration and destruction.
However artists are always plagued by the fantastic. I just remember a thought I had a while back on escaping history by means of spatial relations. Maybe we are at a point in time where individual awareness is not merit in relation to vast population and spatial demands. I mean with overwhelming over development of the spaces around us maybe we suppress our needs spiraling us to be less inventious to means of self-destruction.
Take games for example. When the level is completed you move on, right? What if life was that game and we were stuck in the same level that would not let us complete it. What would happen if you could not move on or everything was measured by what you did “now?” Would the level merit it’s original skill set and would the rules still pertain. We are stuck building on the same history, chaos seems a mist certain things as time goes on those role get redefined.