Rust Lust
Today is a very good day. After five long years of searching for a used copy of the infamous Complete Bill Evans On Verve box set, I finally found one for my record library.
The Complete Bill Evans was, and still is, one of the most exhaustive retrospectives of any jazz musician in history. 18 CDs filled with the pianist's entire commercial output for the label, plus a 160 page book full of rare photos, essays and interviews. For fans of Evans' emotive, masterful style on the piano, the collection was a watershed event for the artistry of Evans. Very few musicians ever receive a treatment as lavish or thorough as this, and fans were thrilled. That is, until they saw the box.
Created by art director Patricia Lie, the box containing the discs and book was made out of unfinished steel. The official Verve press release explained that the boxes were "designed to be a unique, collectible object which will change in color, texture and appearance over time." That's a clever way of saying that the box, like patio furniture left out in the rain, would rust.
Fans of Evans were outraged. The thought of spending $300 on collection of music most consider to be timeless contained in an imperfect, organic box that if left untreated, would eventually corrode into a pulp of orange dust, was idiotic and an insult to Evans.
I wish I had saved the print articles I read in '97 where Lie defended the design, for the interviews tackled the explosive intersection of concept, commerce, and consumer nostalgia. Lie explained the rust as a metaphor for the organic, evolving nature of Evans' work, long after his death. If fans were upset about the rust, and the need to "take care" of the steel box over time, then they needed to reevaluate their own perceptions about nature and the permanence of art. Besides, if the rust really bothered buyers, they could just spray a sealer on the box to prevent future rusting.
But it was the impermanence, and dare say arrogance of the design that polarized music critics and fans. Is it fair to treat the memory of deceased musician as an objet d'art for the designer? Where is the line drawn for a designer's conceptual representation of another artist's medium of which they had no involvement?
Fans unconsciously expect the gatekeepers (in this case a record company) to protect an artist's creative contribution and legacy, not reinterpret or distort their efforts. For Lie, the designer of the Evans box, she was providing positive respect, yet in an abstract, symbolic way that simply flew way over the heads of most of Evans' fans.
I have remained fascinated by the box, the controversy, and the creative liberties Verve took with the collection to this day. Whenever I go record shopping, I often find myself wandering into the jazz section, looking to see how far along their in-store copy is on the road to its own demise. I have found spit-shined, highly polished copies undoubtedly maintained by the store clerks, and others left alone, sitting in a fine ring of orange dust. The recorded content is digital, permanent, and easy to reproduce in endless quantity, but each box is unique; only revealing its personality to those who wait.
Someone must have grown tired of their adopted box, for I picked one up for less than half what a new one costs. And in this unique case, a used copy is preferable. I'll be more than happy to break out the WD-40 from time to time just to remind myself of Evans, the emotion he poured into his playing, and the imperfect nature of life and art.
