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The Sound of White Space or Pregnant Pause Parturition

As anyone who’s tried to write fiction knows, the real hurdle is not deciding what to write, it’s deciding what not to write. The empty page, like the empty score or the empty canvas, is white not because there is nothing on it but because everything’s on it—possibility, like light, is additive. The act of putting a word on a page, a note in the air, a drop of paint on the canvas removes a bit of that possibility, revealing a glimpse of what it may actually become. I know I’ve read somewhere that a block of uncarved stone contains every sculpture and that it’s only by chipping and chiseling that an artist collapses the artistic wave function into a singular reality. The result is the interface between the remaining possibility (positive space) and the absence of what has been removed (negative space).

Sometimes, though, that interface is deceptive. Foams, for instance, have voluminous contours, but pressure or heat or vigorous movement reveal their deception, reducing them to a mere puddle. Impermeability between negative and positive spaces in a work of art may well correlate to its quality and perdurance, I put that out there to the turtlenecked Barthes and Foucault-reading crowd to discuss. In any case, designers who find commercial success of the Architectural Digest sort are great fans of drawing rigid lines of Germanic severity to divide what’s there from what’s not.

While I find this hard-edged contrast alienating in architectural spaces (I much prefer the worn edges and threadbare plush of vernacular utilitarianism), I all but require it linguistically. There is no place for diaphanous prose in my bookshelf, nor will I fight you for tickets to any recent mainstream movie. Blurring the boundary between meaning and nonsense purposefully is either comedy or chicanery; accidentally, it’s the sign of mental rot.

I find political discourse in general and American political discourse in particular a perfect example of this foamy, insubstantial nonsense, a populist pastiche of pre-chewed jingoistic pablum that fills heads with bubbles that quickly deliquesce to nothing. I was curious, in exploring notions of positive and negative space, to discover how this discourse is actually constructed.

To this end, I took this year’s State of the Union address, all 69 minutes of it, and reduced it to its negative space, cutting out all of President Obama’s utterances. What remains is a strangely compelling silent dance between the beats. How we don’t speak is as idiosyncratic as how we do. In Obama’s case, the space around his words is punctuated with generous pauses and a constantly turning head (though one suspects this may have more to do with the dual teleprompters than with his oratorical style). His hands are animated while he speaks, but drop with a thud against the lectern as he pauses, fingers interlocked.

The rhythm of his silences follows the rhythm of his speech. Even without hearing a word, we can tell by watching the crowd how his rhetoric moves between introductory remarks, political self-congratulation, and exhortation, before ending on a note of overwrought patriotism. The accompanying silence in the room is mesmerizing, both for its depth and its duration. Here is a man who can hold an audience for over an hour, and, I’d argue, comes pretty close to holding an audience for half an hour without saying a damn thing.

How much of the negative space that we experience do we throw away as soon as we can see where the positive space begins and what do we lose in the process? I think it depends on what it is we’re experiencing, but my guess is regardless, it’s more than we think.

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