Lye had started making kinetic constructions in the 1920s, animating shapes based on Aboriginal boomerangs and shields by using the parts of a hand-cranked gramophone. Over the years he had continued to experiment with motion gadgets of one sort or another, and in the early 1950s his interest intensified. One of the reasons for the Lyes’ move to 41 Bethune Street in 1954 was to provide Lye with a larger workroom. While still devoting his best energies to film making and writing, he created objects such as ‘Eye of the Storm’, a tribal mask with eyeballs protruding on long springy stalks that swivelled on a bent shaft,1 and ‘Pineal Flutter’, a motorised construction that dangled from the ceiling and shivered madly when touched by black (ultraviolet) light.2 He played with pieces of metal in much the same way he doodled with a pencil or scriber: ‘Once I’m impelled to mess around I don’t know what’s going to happen. I pick up a band of steel, one end — the rest lying on the floor — and just whip it, whip it up and down [until] it undulates like a snake.’3 When pieces of flexible steel were shaken vigorously, they produced a variety of wave-like patterns. A handsaw, for example, produced an elliptical shape that reminded him of the streamlined fish sculptures of Brancusi.4 He also liked the complex sounds and light reflections associated with metal; he had first experienced these as a child kicking a kerosene can.
Constantly experimenting with different forms of metal he became a connoisseur of their characteristic figures of motion. Having spent a lifetime studying how things moved, he saw a piece of metal as no different from a tree or an animal in having a unique physical personality. He would observe the metal’s weight, tensility, and bounce, together with its sound and reflective properties. He had always been interested in patterns of vibration and oscillation. His direct films had taken full advantage of the way hand-painted lines quivered with tension,5 and he had studied vibration in all its forms from the strings of guitars to the muscles of athletes. He had also focused on repetitive movement like the ‘perpetual motion machine’ which had first given him the idea of kinetic sculpture, or the rhythms of pistons, clock pendulums, rocking chairs, swings, seesaws, and boats at sea. Cyclical movement created form and rhythm, although — as chaos theory acknowledged — nature always added some surprises and syncopations. Friends used to joke about the similarity between Lye’s favourite figures of motion in his art and the bouncy, quirky rhythms of his own walking and dancing.
When he needed metal for his experiments he would wander downtown to Canal Street where manufacturing coexisted with a crowded marketplace of shops and tables selling cheap goods. He would go ‘looking for metals and springs and motors and mechanical tools and gadgets galore which are stalled out on the pavement for all the young Einsteins and Edisons to pick and choose and put two and two together and make a wonderful press-button affair out of scraps and rejects’. His most valuable purchase was a sanding machine with a flat plate for sandpaper which moved back and forth in a reciprocating stroke.6 This eight-dollar motor could shake a strip of metal more rapidly than his hand, releasing from the metal an astonishing amount of energy and noise and a new range of wave-like patterns. The smallness of the motor was appropriate since Lye wanted to reveal the character of the metal rather than to force it into unnatural shapes. A Veriac motor connected to the sanding machine allowed Lye to vary the current and modulate the speed so that he could work like an animator, controlling the sequence of events. At certain speeds there were dramatic changes in the behaviour of the metal, which would for example suddenly assume an S or double-S shape.
Once he had identified a particularly striking figure of motion — ‘something that looks kind of magical, that keeps fascinating me’ — he would spend many days figuring out how best to develop it into a work of kinetic sculpture. His relaxed approach to doodling had always been complemented by his perfectionism in finalising the details. He would decide on the size and shape of the steel and plan the sequence of speeds. He would gradually increase the speed to the point at which a change of shape occurred, and hover there for a few seconds, before accelerating to the limits of what the metal could sustain. He would experiment with different ways of ending the sequence, bringing the metal shuddering to a halt or leaving it to coast under its own momentum. His aim would be both to hold a viewer’s interest and to explore a figure of motion thoroughly. Although he regarded the visual dimension as primary, he also saw himself as composing a sequence of sounds.7
Two of the first sculptures he completed were ‘Storm King’ and ‘Blade’, which grew out of his doodling with a handsaw. In both sculptures a long strip of very flexible stainless steel was held by a clamp and shaken vigorously at various speeds, but whereas ‘Blade’ rose up from the floor ‘Storm King’ hung down from the ceiling. The original ‘Storm King’ was approximately 9 feet long, 9 inches wide, and about 1/32nd of an inch thick. Lye concealed the motor in a wooden mounting because it might distract a viewer from what the sculpture was really about — the patterns of movement and sound it generated. Like Lye’s other sculptures, ‘Storm King’ looked rather simple, even a little bland, when it was stationary. But then the hanging strip of metal would start to shake, creating various curves and ripples, together with various pitches of metallic sound.8 As the speed increased the metal would bend into S shapes and shower the spectator with light reflections. Because the steel was very resonant it produced eerie swishing and flapping sounds as though a storm were brewing.9 In developing the sculpture Lye decided to attach two smaller pieces of steel as a counterpoint — a small strip at the top shaped like an S, and a slightly thicker strip in the middle shaped like a 6.10 Parts of these strips hung free and as the work gathered speed they shook like the clothes of a dancer. As the climax approached, the movements and light effects became less predictable and the sounds more urgent as the ‘storm king’ danced to its self-generated metallic music. The noise rose to a terrifying crescendo and then the energy was suddenly withdrawn and the quivering of the metal subsided. The title ‘Storm King’ was added as an afterthought, and with a touch of humour. While Lye did not want viewers to respond to the sculpture in a literary way, what interested him was not technology but nature and natural energies. Despite his growing interest in science and mechanics, his imagination still harked back to the ancient world of pantheism.
‘Blade’ was a shiny, upright strip of cold rolled steel standing 5 feet 4 inches high, just under 8 inches wide, and 1/14th of an inch thick.11 The height was established by testing the strip of steel to see how high it could go before it bent under its own weight. The base was fixed in a clamp and then vibrated by a motor which released an astonishing display of energy. At first the strip would quiver gently, making sounds like a knife swishing through the air. Then it would develop a spring-like tautness, and when a certain speed was reached it would start to make ‘S’ shapes, flashing light in all directions. After working with this sculpture for some time, Lye decided to add a supple steel rod (about 20 inches in height) with a cork ball on top. The rod and the blade stood side by side, emerging from the same circular base (or plinth). The fun would start when the blade picked up speed, bellied out, struck the cork ball and reverberated like a gong. It would then proceed to pound the ball in a frenzied rhythm. The ball bounced back and forth so vigorously that it looked as though the rod was as active a partner as the blade.
Lye then had the idea of adding a second motor which would slowly rotate the circular base. This created a counterpoint and allowed the highly reflective surface of the blade to flash light from different angles. He choreographed a five-minute sequence of events that resembled (among other possible analogies) a strange, non-human mating dance. The dance of the blade and the striker would begin with no contact between them, then there was a first series of encounters, then the blade would slow down to stand quivering just short of the ball. After this period of tension, the blade would speed up, bending ecstatically back and forth until the ‘S’ shape became a blurred ‘8’, accompanied by shuddering sounds as though it were breaking some kind of sound barrier. The pounding rhythm of the ball would rise to an unbearable intensity and the floor would shake. Suddenly the energy would ebb and the blade would re-emerge from the blur of light, to quiver gently for a few seconds before stopping. After the climax the silence and stillness were almost tangible.
Lye gave ‘Blade’ the alternative title of ‘Plinth’ because he liked the ancient Greek associations and the interesting sound of the word. A plinth was a base supporting a statue or column, but whereas the classic examples were square, his was round. The movements of the steel strip were so violent that the work needed to be bolted to the floor. Although its size and colour were among the many finishing touches to which he devoted endless attention, his aim was not to make his sculptures more decorative and elegant but more streamlined and intense.
The year 1958 saw a major change of direction for Lye. After ‘going on strike’ he had transferred his best energies from film to kinetic sculpture, and the result was an immediate explosion of ideas. Withdrawing from film-making did not leave him bitter and frustrated — he simply created a new vehicle for his skills as an artist, a new way to apply his lifetime study of motion. In Ann’s words: ‘It was a thrilling time. He was working out the feasibility and we all got into the act with suggestions, and he would listen very patiently and then do exactly his own thing! With sculpture I felt that a lot of things had come together in Len.’12 He himself was not happy with the term sculpture because its history and aesthetics were based on static objects. The look of a kinetic work at rest was of little importance. Lye sometimes used the term ‘kinetic steel’ but his favourite at this stage was ‘tangible motion sculptures’ or ‘tangibles’. He thought of his constructions as ways to make motion (and energy) tangible. ‘Tangible’ did not imply that the metal was to be touched — rather, it encouraged viewers to make sense of it in physical or kinaesthetic rather than intellectual terms.
To many of the people who knew his films, Lye’s shift to tangibles was a surprising change of direction but he saw it simply as another aspect of his art of motion. Typically his tangibles had a programme — a composed sequence of motion and sound — similar in length to his films, and his work in both media suggested dance analogies. Some friends continued to prefer his films but others found the tangibles more dramatic. Although the basic sequence or master pattern was choreographed, each time the motor was switched on there was an element of unpredictability, like a piece of music receiving a live performance.13 Even a small motor produced feedback effects that could add up to a happy accident or a disaster — small variations and nuances of movement that kept the works fresh even for their creator.14 Standing close to them could be both exhilarating and alarming. (Lye’s description of ‘Blade’ as ‘an Aztec ritual to the sun’ was hardly reassuring.) Unfortunately, performance also involved a great deal of strain and there was a frequent need to repair motors and replace metal. If Lye were working on something new he might have a very precise idea of the effect he wanted to achieve but lack the equipment or technical skills to realise it. Since money was scarce he relied on finding an electrician or mechanic sympathetic to the problems of an artist.15 Paul Barnes remembers Lye searching the whole city: ‘He’d get a motor from some little company down in SoHo, he’d get the steel from a little company in the West Village — the pieces came from all over, which was partly a money-saving device and partly a social thing on Len’s part. He’d run across these individuals, old machinists who could modify the motors for his needs, there’d be some sort of crazy interchange and amusing relationships would develop. They looked on Len as an oddball, an alien from outer space, but as much as they thought he was crazy it was the event of their day when he came to see them. And he really loved these people, he had such respect for the work they could do, it was amazing the rapport that could develop.’16
On 11th Street Lye found a particularly important ally who combined technical expertise with creative imagination. This was Louis Adler who ran a radio and television repair business. In his words: ‘It was a small shop with a small apartment above it. There was little chance of becoming rich, but it gave me a lot of freedom and I got to know the rich human theatre known as Greenwich Village. It was here, one quiet morning, that this man came in…. He asked, “Do you repair electric things?” “Well,” I said, “that has been going on for some time in this shop.” He was standing it seemed on one foot, vibrating with something unsaid, something very urgent, he was always dancing, and laughing.’17 Discovering that this modest repairman had wide-ranging interests in music and philosophy as well as electronics, Lye invited him to his studio for a demonstration of ‘Plinth’ and ‘Storm King’. Adler was attracted to the work immediately, recognising that the artist had found ways ‘to get the material into motion so as to express its inner nature and character’. He astonished Lye by supplying a scientific explanation of the patterns he had been working with. Many forms of energy moved in wave patterns called ‘harmonics’. Musical instruments vibrated in that way, as did the sound waves they produced. There were certain points or plateaus where a qualitative change occurred — for example, increasing vibration added a second harmonic curve (or fish shape) exactly at the point at which the frequency became double the first or fundamental frequency. Lye had intuitively worked out the programmes for his tangibles in terms of those progressions but he lacked a vocabulary for them. In Adler’s words: ‘When I told him that his “Plinth” was vibrating and producing a second harmonic, he laughed in the delight of a man who is not enclosed in the tight concepts of classical physics. The thing was a joy to him whether it obeyed the laws of wave mechanics or any other laws. He laughed — that was Len’s secret. I felt he understood wave mechanics better than my oscilloscope.’
Adler was the ideal person to talk to the artist about science because of his poetic approach to harmonics, his belief that a principle of harmony informed all things natural or well-made.18 Lye took Adler’s physics seriously enough to begin using the term harmonic in the titles of sculptures. The term was in accord with his conception of nature as a shapely force and his sense of a strong affinity between music and visual motion. Adler made frequent visits to the studio: ‘I became aware of this man’s enormous creative force and knew it was a privilege to work with him. I knew I was present at the birth of a new art form. And when he told me he could not pay on time, I said, “It’s all right, Len. We’ll get around to it”.’ He was amazed by the artist’s discipline — his ability to become totally absorbed in a project — and by his energy. ‘Len had the most expressive body I’ve ever seen. He had a dancing vibrating way of standing still. After our day’s work, we usually sat down before the huge wood-burning fireplace and roasted huge chunks of beef and drank mulled wine from ancient mugs. And all accompanied by his ebullient talk and the acting of his expressive body. Sometimes he jumped up to try a new idea. He was impatient with the human slowness to implement an idea. If only the action were as fast as the thought. And when he did complete a mechanism successfully, he chuckled at having outmanoeuvred the fates and wrested one of nature’s secrets from her.’
One day when they were working in the studio, two NBC researchers came to the house hoping to talk Lye into appearing on a television programme devoted to ‘surrealist artists’. He had never liked ostentatious forms of surrealism and was exasperated by the media’s inability to deal with art except through labels and ‘isms’. Adler was astonished by the speed of Lye’s reaction: ‘Len was so incensed at being categorised in this way that he shouted and almost physically escorted the two young men downstairs and out of the house. It was the only time I saw him in such an angry mood.’ The one topic on which Lye disagreed with Adler was spiritualism. Adler, drawn to discussions of mysticism and life after death, was surprised by the intensity of his friend’s suspicion of anything religious, particularly as Lye had always seemed to him in other respects a priestly figure with a ‘spiritual power’.
The artist would often drop in to Adler’s shop. On one occasion he placed a projector and rear projection screen in the window so that he could see how the man in the street responded to his films. With a devilish grin Lye sat watching the pedestrians along 11th Street stopping to view the abstract films, providing Adler with a running commentary: ‘Look, that’s a truck driver. I know him. Look at him laughing, isn’t that great.’ The two men thrived on each other’s company, and when Adler emigrated to Israel (to teach electronics at a university), Lye sent him a warm letter: ‘I think of your presence often and the many voluble talks we have had, and I use your teachings about energy and harmonics in my descriptions of my kinetic stuff. I want to give you credit for all your ideas.’19