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Pif Magazine
Pif Magazine |
Burning Man 2000 ( final day ) : Page 1, 2, 3, 4 Black Rock City, Friday.
The physical labor has stopped. The structure is done, but David is not. For parts of the day Friday, and continuously through Friday evening, he lives on or near the site, retelling the story of the temple’s genesis and Michael Hefflin’s death to all who will listen. As David’s close friend, Jack Haye, says, "David can’t help but be creative." With physical work complete, David is now busy filling his work with spirit and feeling. Through his stories and the force of his personality, people are induced to leave names, words, and other offerings on the temple’s altar. By dusk, the structure becomes a shrine to the memories and feelings for those we have loved and lost. David puts a lighter spin on the work, consoling us to "[at midnight] think of all our friends rising up in flames together." I myself return throughout the day to the temple–partly to savor its beauty and partly to compare others’ reactions with mine. Mine are strong and visceral, but I question whether they are in response to the work itself or are in some part a sentimental reaction based on my involvement with the project. Of the dozens of works on the Playa, only one other has moved me as much: the copper-sheathed woman’s face on the Promenade that at night weeps tears of fire.
On paper and on blocks of wood scattered underneath the altar, people use pencils, pens–even burnt match heads–to write messages, prayers and poems to lost friends and family. Even some of those who come only to observe leave the temple wiping tears from their eyes (putting to rest my doubts concerning the source of my own feelings). In the evening, I listen to David address groups of people in and around the temple with the story, now embellished with his reflections on his experience of building the temple. "As I was helping build the structure, people kept asking me if I was the artist," says David with a pause. "After a while I realized that it was no longer my piece but belonged to you, the community of Burning Man, and I was the church carpenter working on a new building for the congregation." A woman stands by the entrance silently weeping. David approaches and greets her. "It’s so beautiful," she says and brings her hands to her face. She whispers something I cannot hear. David puts an arm around her. "Would you come outside with me please," he says gently. "I’d like to talk to you." As they walk away, I cannot help but think that his final role in the life of this work is that of temple priest The evening Playa sky is thick with fast-moving, dark clouds. Night falls quickly. I set up two flood lights and a generator by the temple’s entrance. Word of the structure has spread throughout Black Rock City, and a continuous crowd of fresh faces circulates past the altar; flowers, photographs, oranges, and other mementos now share the altar with Michael’s picture. At eleven o’clock, several volunteer firemen arrive and final preparations begin. We clear the area of spectators and bring two cans of diesel fuel and twenty small bottles of gasoline to the site. With the grand finale burning of the Man not taking place until Saturday night, ours is the main pyrotechnic event on the Playa. A cheery crowd of several thousand has gathered around the perimeter. By midnight, however, no one has located the ladder needed to place the gasoline in the structure’s upper levels and the crowd grows impatient. Their chants of "Burn it! Burn it! Burn it!" have at times a menacing tone that adds to the anxiety of those locked within the circular wall of bodies.
The wind is not favorable, and despite ten gallons of diesel fuel, the fire sputters. A member of our camp, Patrick, risks third-degree burns or worse to dash in the back side of the structure and set a second fire. It too sputters. Suddenly the wind changes to the east and flames leap through the structure’s ceiling, igniting several bottles of gasoline. Within fifteen seconds, half the structure is ablaze; the temperature gets so hot that I cannot face the fire for more than a second or two. Those of us on the line closest to the fire cannot get away fast enough, but the crowd impedes our escape. The retreat of the crowd is slowed by their large numbers and the dozens of bicycle booby-traps laid helter-skelter on the ground. In minutes, the temple is completely ablaze. As planned, preplaced pyrotechnics erupt from the roof of the temple, but then a box of fireworks on the ground too close to the temple spontaneously ignite, shooting exploding balls into the sky and into the crowd, miraculously injuring none. The walls soon collapse inward, drawing a cheer from the fire-hyped crowd–then a cold rain begins. As the fire loses intensity, the crowd presses back towards the heat of the blaze. I gather up the smoking floodlights and an empty jerry can of diesel and head back to camp for a celebratory margarita and some much-needed sleep. Waking to a clear, cold Saturday morning, the remnants of the temple are still burning, kept alive by a small group of all-night revelers. We break camp, and by mid-afternoon, we have erased all traces of the temple from the Playa. Our camp plans to watch the burning of the Man that night and leave Sunday at daybreak. But I’m sated; as participant, witness, and chronicler I have what I came for—not just a taste, but a banquet, a groaning board of the artistic delights and dares of Burning Man. As darkness falls, I say my good-byes and leave Black Rock City, wondering how I can apply the freedom and generosity of creative spirit of Burning Man to my own work. There is no shortage of ideas. One of them involves returning to the Black Rock Desert and Burning Man next year.
See more pictures from Burning Man 2000. Tell us what you think. Email talkback@pifmagazine.com George Carver is a freelance and technical writer who lives in Kentfield, CA.
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Rising from the ash-gray dust of the Playa like the phoenix, David Best’s "Temple of the Mind" will live for little more than a day before returning to dust and ash.
Within the temple’s brownish-purple interior, there is the hushed and reverential feeling of a sanctuary. Some people gasp or exclaim when they enter while others glance around and leave. Of those who linger, some sit in contemplation on benches along the walls; others stand by the altar reading the messages and names left there, at the center of which hangs a photograph of Michael Hefflin. 
At last, a ladder is found; the bottles are placed. David has asked a young man who lost his wife three months ago to light the fire. The man tries to speak to the crowd, but his words are drowned out by the rising clamor for fire. He shouts a few words and enters the temple to light the pyre. 
