Jackson Mac Low & Tristan Tzara

Mr. Mac Low pulled up the collar of his trench coat, shielding his face from the drizzle in the air. It was cold that morning in London, overcast and rainy as usual. He walked briskly, as he was already late for his meeting with Tristan. As he neared the café, Mr. Mac Low felt a wave of nerves overcome his body. Starting with his toes, spreading to the back of his calves, up his back and neck, nervous chills struck him like lightning. Normally he didn’t become “particularly intimidated” by other artists, especially since he considered himself one-of-a-kind, sort of standing alone in his own category.
But this wasn’t just any artist or writer. This was Tristan Tzara. The creator of the Dada Manifesto, a great mind who made Mr. Mac Low’s own seem inferior, at least to himself.
All I need is some advice, thought Mr. Mac Low. I just need to push this nonintentional idea and it could be something great. Tristan can give me that extra edge. These modern poets I’m studying just aren’t enough for me.
Mr. Mac Low opened the café door, stirring a small bell at the top, alerting the barista that a new customer had entered. Though the café was dimly lit on that cold English morning, Mr. Mac Low immediately spotted Tristan, sitting alone at a small table on the far corner of the room. He made his way over nervously, noticing a sort of hesitation in his own footsteps.

“Good morning, Tristan,” Mr. Mac Low began, as he reached for one of the chairs. “May I?”

“But of course, Mr. Mac Low. Pleasure to finally meet you,” replied Tristan. “So. What ?”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Mr. Mac Low. What a peculiar question to be asked…

“I don’t know what exactly we’re going to begin speaking about, so I merely asked ‘what.’ There’s no point in trying to predict some kind of human social interaction in a setting such as this. Completely useless. So, what?” asked Tristan.

Mr. Mac Low felt his level of intimidation rise. Was this some sort of Dada exercise? Was he the prey of some new random experiment? Mr. Mac Low’s knowledge of Dada was limited, and what he had heard of it seemed rather chaotic and cryptic.

“Well Tristan, I just wanted to ask you some questions… I’ve recently become fascinated with modern poetry, and after reading your manifesto, I wanted to try t – “ began Mr. Mac Low.

“Mr. Mac Low. If you learned anything from not my own, but the DADA manifesto, you should know that each is run by his own boomboom. There is no way for me to understand yours, when I can only listen to mine.”

“Yes, Tristan, I understand that. Why don’t I re-phrase. As you may or may not know, I am a poet, inspired by modern poetry. I have just developed a new technique in which I use a single die to determine the structure and components of my poetry. What do you think? I suppose I’m a little hesitant to go through with it.”

“What do you think about jumping off of a five-story building? It’s a novel idea, but there’s no telling what kind of results will occur unless you try it. Plus it doesn’t really matter anyway.”

“Should I accept that as an approval of my idea? Not that I actually need your approval to create my art, but I hold your philosophies in high regard. I only strive to improve myself as an artist and explore language itself.”

Tristan was no longer focused on Mr. Mac Low. His eyes drifted to the window they were sitting by, watching the random patterns of water droplets on the glass. He spoke wistfully to Mr. Mac Low, as if he were caught in a day dream.

“My darling Mr. Mac Low, the universe is a funny place. As artists, we are a part of this organization, more like… an organized collection of creative minds. But are we really creative? Is there really a purpose to asking questions? Art is not some logical approach to everyday living that you can ask advice for. I believe art is a state of mind. Dada is a state of mind.”
And the moment he spoke the last syllable of his sentence, Tristan stood up and walked out of the café. Mr. Mac Low was left speechless, unsure of what to make of his meeting with this Dada master. He remained in his seat, processing the short encounter. Like Tristan, he let his eyes wander to the window’s water droplets. Perhaps there was a method to the madness, a message behind all of the philosophical jargon.
Mr. Mac Low left the café after he decided he had recovered from Tristan’s “advice,” wandering around the streets of London. As he watched the cobblestones pass under his feet, he stopped. Maybe Tristan really did have advice for him – maybe he really did want to push Mr. Mac Low’s idea of randomness, a new awareness of language through chaos. It occurred to him that maybe Dada wasn’t some cryptic, nonsensical philosophy about the destruction of everything in order. Maybe Dada really was a state of mind, a freedom that truly releases the mind, allowing an artist to do what he has the potential to do. Maybe Dada was a system itself.