One of these days, Norman Andersen's oven is going to plot his gruesome demise. You wouldn't guess its bloodthirsty intentions by studying its appearance, which Andersen fashioned by reassembling the oven from found parts. The appliance sits just outside the local sculptor's kitchen, looking voluptuously plump and complacent, its four square doors shining a cool silver. Circular windows heave up from each door's center like a ship's portholes, coaxing Andersen to peek inside. But deep in the oven's belly, a small light glows a sinister red. It's a warning: The beast within is thinking.
Leave that sleazy E-Z Bake oven and yield to my temptations, one imagines it cooing to its master. We can play Sylvia Plath together: Stick your head in. You're done.
The oven buzzer sounds. (Time's up.) Its doors open slowly, propelled by bicycle chains. Inside, there are no racks for baking arsenic-laced cookies; Andersen has scooped out its innards. Instead, it is filled with instruments: A xylophone hangs in the top right corner, clinking and plunking a music-box tune; below it, a small horn heaves in frightened gasps; organ pipes groan out a foreboding oom-pah-pah waltz; and hand bells in the bottom left-hand corner know precisely for whom they toll. It's like a funeral march calling for Julia Child's hearse.
Perhaps this menacing musical-oven imagery has been exaggerated by the overactive imagination of a journalist who needs a recipe even to cook toast and--owing to long hours of mandatory piano practice at a young age--still hears "Ebony and Ivory" as a morbid taps bugle call. Andersen--the man who birthed the oven monster and christened it "Pipes of Pandemonium"--is more of a skeptic. This ice-blue-eyed, goateed artist is also a scientist, and he cannot bring himself to interpret the oven's tick and crackle as the personified musings of a tiny electric brain.
"I'm too much of a realist to think that way," he insists. "But I do believe that technology has a kind of spirit to it. Everyone knows how [his or her] car has a certain personality. You say things like, 'She likes it when you pump the accelerator this many times, and in the winter you have to have the gauge just so.' Technology has certain demands on nonsense things that you have to do, but whatever these things are, they end up pleasing the machine and making it work. Technology trains us ultimately as much as we do it, even though we like to think we're its master."
But if Andersen's musical sculptures cannot be likened to living beings, perhaps they can be compared to dead ones. Many of the works that Andersen has constructed for the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, the Southeast Como Neighborhood Gateway project, and the Minneapolis Office of Cultural Affairs are examples of defunct machinery that he has rescued, reassembled, and resurrected from the scrap metal carcasses that line our everyday trash. These pieces embody a troubled double identity, existing somewhere between human and technological worlds. Their controls are reconstructed from an old coffee and soup vending machine, a ballistic missile, a broken musical instrument--the zombies left over from a pre-computer age.
The two-story house where Andersen now lives in east Minneapolis is a virtual cemetery of this ominous junk that, once resurrected, composes its own swan song. In his living room is "Sound Off," a line of long, thin pipes, salvaged from an old church organ, propelled by a simple metronome device that sets them swaying back and forth together, whining a mournful tune like a galley of slaves in a ship. Above his sink is "The Last Supper"--a dinner set consisting of Oldenburgesque cherry-topped spoons, plastic fruit-lined plates with butter knives plunking against them, a spinning wine glass with a marble inside, and a rotating Jell-O mold propped against a serrated knife--which creates a riotous dissonance whenever a visitor rings Andersen's doorbell. Below his stairs is "Time Piece," his onetime MIA installation in which some old glass containers mounted on a rotating spit clink with the sand and lentils that shift around within them like tiny accountants melodically marking each passing moment. An army of empty Mrs. Butterworth's syrup bottles lines a shelf spanning two of the walls in Andersen's living room. These matronly soldiers stand stoically, their glass noggins bisected, eagerly awaiting the next spontaneous concert to fill their empty skulls with song.
Most of these musical sculptures play their various components at random intervals, fueled by simple motors that are programmed to index in random positions and "improvise" their somber cacophonies each time. When a musical composition starts up suddenly and catches you off guard--which they often do--it's enough to make you envision Andersen's creations as guerrilla warriors. They'll set themselves off precisely at the point when they can startle me! you end up thinking. Then they'll join the maple brigade and conspire to rise up against me in revolt! Or maybe I've been reading too much Thomas Pynchon!
And even though Andersen doesn't fear the wrath of his creations, he understands that since these pieces "make their own decisions" about when to play, and can technically "improvise" material with the help of simple (and often erroneously functioning) machines, they have more human characteristics than any streamlined artificial intelligence.