Features

By Robert Strauss

Today’s Machining Archives August 2007 Volume 03 Issue 08

Fernando Orellana’s father was a civil engineer and Fernando, when he was growing up, liked art. There seemed little to connect them.

“But I saw my father tinkering when he came home, doing this and that. I watched, but with no particular interest,” said Orellana. “Then someone connected the dots for me. What my dad was doing was no less art than what I did. The idea is that he was being creative and trying to figure things out. That is art.”

What finally dawned on Orellana is what has become an exciting mini-trend inmodern art, the connection of mechanics, technology and art, primarily sculpture. Since it is primarily robotics-based, it is called ArtBots, and its advocates are positively evangelical about it.

Drawing Machine 3.1415926 v. 2 by Fernando Orellana

“The definition of robotics is not firm and, frankly, the definition of art isn’t firm either,” said Douglas Irving Repetto, whose day job is as the Director of Research at the Columbia University Computer Music Center, but whose lifeblood is as the guru of the ArtBot movement. He has been the curator of several significant ArtBot exhibitions, the most recent one this summer at the Klein Art Gallery in the University City Science Center, a research facility just off the campuses of the University of Pennsylvania and Drexel University. “It is a diverse and wide open field and full of open questions. The primary one is, ‘What does it mean for a non-human system to be creative?’ Each artist is asking different questions when he or she enters the world of robotics. There is a sense now that there is a lot here, and that we don’t really know the answers yet.”

Repetto curated the Klein Art Gallery exhibit, of which Orellana’s “Drawing Machine 2.1415926 v.2” was a part. Orellana, who is 33, has been tinkering, not unlike his civil engineer father, with the idea of a robot that can make its own art ever since he was an undergraduate at the Art Institute of Chicago.

“I enrolled with a painting and drawing focus, but by chance I took a couple of computer classes that related to art,” he said. The Art Institute of Chicago was at the forefront, he said, of the connection of technology to art. During his undergraduate years, Orellana produced what he called a “clunky” machine that he could program to make a small amount of randomly produced paintings. Then for his bachelor of fine arts show, he modified it so that certain sounds or movements around the machine would cause it to draw one way or another with its appendages, to which brushes were attached.

He heard about ArtBots in 2002 and got to show the drawing machine to Repetto. Soon, Orellana – almost now more like an agent for his robot than the artist himself – sold four of the drawing machine’s drawings through Sotheby’s ArtLink auction house, which emphasizes emerging modes of art from young artists. The Drawing Machine, under 10 years of age even then, was about as young an artist as there could be.

The Drawing Machine Orellana showed at the Philadelphia show was a more sophisticated version than that of his collegiate days. He is now a professor at Union College in Schenectady, New York, where for the last two years, he has been setting up a new electronic arts program in the computer science department. He is trying to get students to integrate all sorts of electronic and mechanical materials into their art.

He does just that with the Drawing Machine. As it sits ready to draw, the spectators can yell, hum, sing, whisper or otherwise create sounds that will affect the computerized system within the machine, changing its movements randomly.

“Once it does not hear anything interesting,” Orellana writes in his description of the piece, “it goes back to automatic drawing, slightly changing its programming by incorporating the data from the last sound it heard.” The drawings are usually a bit chaotic, not at all representational. So it isn’t a tree or a scene of bathers or a self-portrait with a damaged ear, but it is art, according to Orellana.

Wildfower Meadow Glacier (autonomous robotic sculpture that plants fowers & monitors local climate change) by James Powderly.

“Each piece it creates is different in that there is no way it can produce the same thing again. It isn’t a human being after all,” he said. “But they are also the same, like snowflakes. All are alike in that they are essentially the same shape, but different in the micro sense.” Artist Jason Van Anden grew up in an IBM-employeeinfested neighborhood in Yorktown Heights, outside of New York City.

“My parents weren’t IBMers, but there were so many around there that there was a computer lab in my middle school in 1977,” he said. He learned Basic by the time he was in grade school and even though he studied art, “I hung out with bigger computer nerds than I was, so it was natural to incorporate it in my art.”

Now, Van Anden said, he lives in what might be the first ArtBot community in the country, near Prospect Park in Brooklyn.

“There is a ragtag group of us here,” he said. “It’s the do-it-yourself crowd.” Van Anden’s signature ArtBot piece is Neil and Iona, two robots in the quasi-R2D2 mode that interact with people viewing them, and with each other. To Van Anden, they are the first step in finding out whether robots can have feelings.

Neil and Iona are about life-sized, though with television-like heads and pear-shaped bodies on a swivel at the base.

“They have a magical kind of feel to them,” said Dan Schimmel, the curator of the Klein Gallery in Philadelphia, where Neil and Iona took up residence during that Gallery’s ArtBot spring show. “They were definitely engaged with each other. They made sounds like the underwater noises during the mating rituals of whales. It was definitely more mysterious than grunting. It was definitely a happy kind of thing.”

Van Anden developed a software system that allows Neil and Iona to act out improvisational phases. There is a Mac Mini in each head with the monitor and an Ethernet connection in the neck that helps control the motion sensors inside each sculpture.

Neil and Iona have animated facial expressions that change when people – or the other sculpture – passes by cameras underneath their chins.

“When they see someone, it changes the weight for the computer system. It causes a radical shift in the behavior [of the sculpture],” Van Anden said. “Each time the robots interact, they pass information between each other and weigh the probability toward the other one.

In other words, if one is ‘happy,’ it will get sadder as the other one gets happier, until they reach parity.”

With all this going on, Neil and Iona appear, with gallery-goers around them, to be living creatures, according to Van Anden, “living puppets capable of pulling their own strings.”
The Klein Gallery show also had a young student component. Schimmel discovered that schools in both the city and suburbs of Philadelphia were interested in enhancing their technology programs with an artistic component. One school had a robot that worked underwater. It floated around a 100-gallon tub and with its underwater camera, visitors could see what it was looking at through a monitor attached above the surface.

“Another had a robot that you could fasten a brush to, with a remote control like with toy cars,” said Schimmel. “It was engineered to dip into different colors of paint and then swivel around to paint a picture. It was crude, but it was art.

“ArtBots, in this way, can excite kids not only about art, but about the practical applications of robotics and engineering,” he said. “What seems like diametrically opposed things are actually quite complementary.”

Van Anden and Orellana are already on to their next projects. Orellana is looking for ways to anthropomorphize inanimate objects. For a show in Saratoga Springs, New York, he embedded four robots in the ceiling of an elevator. Each time a person got in the elevator, the robots became curious, and that caused the dynamics of the elevator, and the people in it, to change. He embedded a couch with a robot in a living room in another piece.

“Pun intended, the room then became living – alive. I wanted to see what it would be like if a couch was sentient,” he said.

For Van Anden, his own future work may not look exactly robotic, but it will definitely be of the ArtBot genre. “It is about the motion and the gesture, that is what ArtBots is about,” he said. “As a film is to a painting, a robot– an ArtBot – is to a painting.”

by Mary Ethridge

Today’s Machining World Archives June 2010 Volume 06 Issue 05

In the shadow of the hulking Goodyear blimp hangar, on a precisely paved and paint-lined hill in south Akron, Ohio, Corbin Bernsen shakes a rolled up sheaf of papers at a dozen of his crew members. It is early April, chilly and windy, and everyone appears tense. They are about to film the first scene of 25 Hill, a family-oriented movie Bernsen was inspired to write after learning last summer in USA Today about the financial trouble and potential demise of the All American Soap Box Derby.

The scene begins but the actor’s words are swallowed by the spring wind. No matter. I know them by heart now.

I would have relished my life’s U-turn at 21, but now, at 51, I find it a little terrifying.

It all started because of a phone call I made last summer to a writer friend of mine at USA Today. I asked her if someone there would be interested in writing a story about the Derby’s financial problems. Someone was and did. Corbin Bernsen read it, and seven months later I’m helping the Hollywood actor produce the movie he says will unify Akron and help save the Derby.

I knew who Bernsen was, of course. I’m a fan of Psych, the USA Network’s longest-running original series in which the now-nearly bald Bernsen plays the main character’s father. I remember him best in those bespoke double-breasted suits as the handsome womanizer Arne Becker in the 1990s hit, L.A. Law. He’s beloved in Northeast Ohio for his role as the Cleveland Indians’ fussy third baseman Roger Dorn in Major League.

Until late last summer, I hadn’t had much to do with the Soap Box Derby, which has been headquartered in my hometown of Akron, Ohio, since 1933. As a writer for the Akron Beacon Journal for 18 years, I’d covered some of its events on occasion. And one of my personal claims to fame is that I went to high school in New Hampshire with a cousin of the Derby racer who cheated in 1972.

But last summer when I heard the Derby was heading into its third year without a title sponsor and falling deeper into debt, I felt surprisingly indignant. My civic pride was insulted. The Derby may be seen as old-fashioned by some people, a little hokey perhaps or too slow-moving in these days of turbo tweeting techies, but it has been ours—Akron’s—for decades, and it is a very good thing.

Cars race down the Derby Downs hill in Akron in 1941. The next year the event was cancelled because of the U.S. entry into World War II.

To build a Derby car—which is powered only by gravity—children work closely with an adult, usually a patient parent. During that one-on-one time, the garage becomes a place where things that might not be said otherwise are said. The children learn about math, physics, communication, teamwork and the vital lesson that if you hope to win; you have to finish what you start.

I couldn’t believe a corporation wouldn’t step up to support such a rare program. It just seems like a no-brainer for a marketing team: spend $250,000—pocket change in the multi-million dollar sponsorship world—help kids, and be associated with a wholesome bit of Americana with a 75-year legacy. Beyond that, racers come from 150 cities in 43 states and seven countries. Although its image may be local-yokel, Fourth of July and Main Street USA, its reality is far more than that. The All American Soap Box Derby is a year-round effort that requires a paid staff of engineers, machinists, marketers, secretaries and maintenance workers, as well as a board of directors, to steer it. In the spring and summer race season, its volunteers number in the thousands.

Chevrolet sponsored the All American Soap Box Derby from 1936 to 1972. In the Derby’s heyday in the 1950s, Chevrolet spent millions of dollars sponsoring and marketing the race. Chevrolet’s presence attracted smaller sponsors as well as plenty of Hollywood glamour. Celebrities including then-actor Ronald Reagan, Rock Hudson, Evel Knievel and O.J. Simpson came to mingle with corporate executives and fans. The late actor Jimmy Stewart attended six times.

Back then, crowds numbered in the 60,000s, compared to the 15,000 who’ve come in recent years. Despite the financial troubles of the Derby, it’s more popular than ever among young people. In 1975, about 100 competed in the championship race in Akron. Last year a record 603 did, although that includes a new Ultimate Racing League for competitors 18-21. (Standard races are for children 7-17.)

Corbin Bernsen addresses a group of reporters on the frst day of flming at Derby Downs in Akron, Ohio.

When I met Bernsen, he expressed other reasons to save the All American Soap Box Derby. The United States is a relatively young country, said Bernsen, and we must preserve those few traditions that have become part of the fabric of the nation. As something that sprouted from a unique time in the nation’s history—the Great Depression—the Soap Box Derby certainly qualifies as a living piece of America’s heritage. Although it has remained the same at its core, the derby has also changed with the times as its tricked-out cars attest; its history is ours. In this time of war, Bernsen believes, the American-grown Derby provides a patriotic rallying point for the country’s declared and instinctive values of family, faith and freedom.

Sadly, the world of corporate sponsorship has changed drastically, according to Roger Rydell, a public relations executive with Goodyear Tire & Rubber Co. and a new member of the Derby board.

“Corporations are looking for return on investment,” Rydell told the Wall Street Journal in a recent story about 25 Hill. “It could be that the metrics associated with that return have become a little more mercenary than in the past.”Nevertheless, I expressed my outrage to William Evans, president of the board of the Soap Box Derby. Knowing of my media background, Evans asked if I could help get the word out nationally that the Derby needed help. That’s when I called the columnist friend at USA Today, and she passed it on to her colleague, marketing writer Bruce Horovitz. In early September, USA Today published Horovitz’s story that outlined the seriousness of the Derby’s financial trouble and its efforts to modernize itself without a pile of cash.

The Derby had lost money four out of the past five years and was, according to Horovitz, “living hand to mouth.” It owed its lender, Akron-based FirstMerit Bank, more than $500,000. It had been making interest-only payments on its loan some months and the bank had cut the line of credit the Derby uses to buy materials to make car kits—a primary source of revenue. If the Derby didn’t get help soon, Horovitz wrote, it would be bankrupt within months. Our hope with the USA Today story was to attract a new national sponsor. What we got was Corbin Bernsen.

As Bernsen tells it, he had nothing to read on that September afternoon as he was stuck on a plane stranded on a tarmac. He grabbed a discarded USA Today from a nearby seat pocket and read about the Derby’s woes.

He felt so upset about the possibility of losing an American tradition; he decided to write a screenplay about it. Seven weeks later, screenplay done, he wanted to come to the Derby’s racetrack, Derby Downs, to see the place for himself.

At the Derby Downs office, Evans, Huntsman and I listened as Bernsen outlined the story for us, which incorporates the real-life troubles of the Derby. In the film, the Derby dreams of 11-year-old Trey Caldwell are threatened, first when his father is killed fighting in Afghanistan, and then when the Derby is shut down because of money troubles. Nathan Gamble, a 12-year-old whose credits include major studio films Marley & Me and The Dark Knight plays Trey. Tim Omundson, who stars with Bernsen on Psych, plays Trey’s father. Through the efforts of Trey and his peers the Derby is eventually saved.

Bernsen then told us he needed about $1 million to make the movie. He envisioned 40 investors at $25,000 each. Then, he turned his intense, blue-eyed gaze on me. “Mary, do 40 people in Akron have $25,000?” he asked. I felt the color leave my face; I could sense what was coming. Rather than turning to his usual Hollywood sources, Bernsen said, he wanted 25 Hill to be an Akron movie—funded and made possible by the people of the community that has nurtured the Derby all these decades. “If I went to L.A. for funding, they’d have only the bottom line in mind. They’d want to make it where and how it would be least expensive,” said Bernsen. “But if the project is funded by the Akron area, then it’s Akron’s movie, not L.A.’s.”

I told him that yes, more than 40 people in Akron had $25,000, but getting them to part with it to invest in a movie would be a challenge.

“Well, let’s do it, Mary. Get me a dozen or so of these people in room and we’ll just talk and I’ll tell them what I have in mind,” Bernsen told me. I wanted to run and hide but I just nodded. I knew what we were in for. Akron is a conservative community that is willing to change, but changes very slowly. Filmmaking is about as far out of Akron’s realm as tire building is out of Hollywood’s.

Two weeks later, I managed to gather a group of wealthy community leaders to listen to Bernsen speak about the Derby and the proposed movie. He gave a speech I would hear over and over, in various forms.

“Computers and televisions are great. Nothing wrong with them, but that’s not all there is to the world. Every kid has the instinct to put wheels on a piece of wood and make it go, and we need to nurture that kind of creative thinking,” Bernsen said. The Soap Box Derby is also a way of life. It’s about families coming together to make something with their hearts and hands.

“It’s spirited competition rooted in community and innovation,” Bernsen said. “We just can’t lose that. If the Derby disappears, the world won’t fall apart, but what will go next?”

Two weeks later, Corbin made the presentation to another group I put together, and two weeks later to another. After four visits to Akron, Bernsen didn’t have one check in the account for 25 Hill Akron Filmworks, the LLC we set up for the investments.

There were two primary obstacles. People wanted the Derby fixed first; then we could talk about a movie. Bernsen explained to those people that a movie would bring thousands of new “eyeballs” to the Derby, which meant a higher profile, a better chance at sponsorship and more awareness among kids. Also, potential investors had little idea how an independent movie makes money and seemed skeptical that they do. They were also tired of throwing money down Akron’s gaping booster hole. After awhile the good feelings run out.

So Bernsen gave them a mini-lesson in film industry finance, dancing painfully around statements that might get him in trouble with the Ohio Securities Commission. He talked about a “typical” independent film of the sort he wanted to make. Such films, he said, can possibly double or triple an investment over a period of 30 to 36 months, a relatively long lag time because of the post-production work that needs to be done on such a “typical” film as well as the hashing out of agreements with distributors.

Long gone are the days when movies went automatically to the theater; long gone even are the days when going straight to DVD was seen as the mark of schlock. The marketing costs associated with putting a movie in theaters across the country are so enormous now, in part because of the skyrocketing number of advertising outlets (millions of Web sites; thousands of cable stations), that even if a film does well at the box office, it may lose money for investors. Today, we can get our movie from a vending machine, on our computer, at the video store or straight from our cable company in addition to seeing it at a theater.

In a late night phone call with Bernsen—and there were dozens—he told me he’d never done anything so difficult in his life. It took two months and a lot of ups and downs to get our first check. It came from someone who wasn’t even at any of our meet-and-greets with Akron leaders and Bernsen.

An architect in an Akron suburb had happy memories of the Derby from his childhood in the 1940s and 1950s. He’d heard about the project and thought it would be “fun” to invest in it. Where were more of those people? How could I find them?

Looking back, I think I turned to the obvious choices first to find investors, which meant I was mining a tired, compassion-fatigued lot. And although we did get support from some of those traditional Akron leaders, most of the money came from sources that surprised me or of whom I’d never heard—mainly doctors, lawyers and other professionals whose names aren’t found on city buildings. These were primarily average upscale Joes, not the Fortune 500 executives and medium-sized business owners I expected. As this issue goes to press in June, we’re still seeking a few investors so we can finish up the movie the way Bernsen envisions. The filming for 25 Hill is scheduled to finish on July 24, at the real-life International Championship of the All American Soap Box Derby.

Crossing the fnish line in the 2009 Soap Box Derby

The Derby is also faring better financially. In December, Akron-based FirstMerit Bank, which held the Derby’s loan, sued the Derby for the $623,000 it was owed. It looked more and more like the Derby would be put on the auction block. But within weeks, the City of Akron stepped in with a plan to back the Derby’s loan, and the bank set up new, more favorable terms.

If the Derby failed, Akron would have to take over the $42,000 annual principal payments, which the city pointed out are less than the $60,000 a year the city has been giving the nonprofit.

“The last thing we want to see is Derby cars coasting down the hill in another city,” Akron Councilman Mike Freeman told the Beacon Journal. The Greater Akron Chamber agreed to help with a business plan and fundraising. The Derby board was remade to include more members of the corporate community, including representatives from Goodyear Tire & Rubber Co. and FedEx Custom Critical.

One thing hasn’t changed since the Derby’s early days: “You’re going to Akron,” are the sweetest words a soap box racer can hear. Having lived in Akron most of my life, I’ve suffered through every Rust Belt, Rubber and Dacron joke imaginable. It’s a bit startling and wonderful to hear my hometown’s name said with such reverence and longing.

That, to me, is a reason to save the All American Soap Box Derby.

There are plenty of them, just ask me. And bring your checkbook.