There are two kinds of laws that govern the paths we take: physical laws of science, and laws that are imposed upon us by governing bodies. While the former is quite rigid in structure, and cannot be manipulated by human means, the laws and guidelines that we impose upon ourselves (and thus upon the space in which we are in) are sometimes not as linear as one might imagine. Of course, this basic idea, the notion of challenging existing rules and regulations, and stretching their definitions, most of the time escapes us, because of our rigid programming to follow given sets of rules.

Any given area of space has its own guidelines, usually put there by some form of authority, and when we are in that space, we follow those rules, and our resulting behaviors and experiences are products of the invisibles laws that govern us.

Take for instance, a simple camping trip to one of North American's national parks, Death Valley Desert. Automatically your mind conjures up all sorts of associations and quaint little fancies about the types of outdoorsmanship that surely would await you. And why wouldn't you, even the National Park Service has written up goodly amounts of legal documents to encourage the aforementioned behavior. "The service...shall promote and regulate the use of ... national parks... [its] purpose is to conserve the scenery and the natural and historic objects and the wild life therein and to provide for the enjoyment of the same in such manner and by such means as will leave them unimpaired for the enjoyment of future generations." (16 U.S.C. 1). Clearly, the NPS has its own ideas about how visitors should interface with the park, although not without reason. But upon closer inspection, comes the realization that while these rules do enforce certain safety measures to preserve the land, they do not as strictly enforce they way in which each individual chooses to observe and assimilate the space. Additionally, it is interesting to note that these laws have the power to socially navigate us, even when they don't mean to. So on second thought, perhaps there is more to experience in Death Valley National park than just a passive hike along the beaten paths.

And so with these things in consideration, I contemplated the idea of what it would mean to challenge these grounded notions of social computation, and to reinterpret an established space within its given set of rules of navigation. And Death Valley National Park, or more specifically, Racetrack Playa, would be my performance venue. In its most basic form, Racetrack Playa is a tourist attraction, and visitors come to marvel at the much hyped "sliding rocks" (named for their apparent inexplicable ability to slide across the Racetrack surface). So what is it that makes visitors interact with the land in the manner in which they do? What is it that stops them from experiencing it the way small children would at a theme park? It's the way in which they view the landscape, or more specifically, they way in which the landscape is presented to them.

The Playa itself is a dry lake bed, surrounded by mountains and sparse vegetation. Overall, not too impressive to be honest. And the sliding rocks, these monuments of ecological wonder, are just that: rocks. The challenge here would be to rearrange the playa in such a manner that would provoke visitors to see it differently, a challenge because of the fact that rules clearly prohibit me (as a visitor as well) from physically manipulating the land. Which leaves me with but one choice: to be invasive, and challenge the rules of social computation by confronting visitors with this idea in a provocative manner.

And that's where the idea for handing out free t-shirts comes into play. Although it is prohibited to sell merchandise on park grounds, there are no restrictions to prohibit me from being generous. Not to mention I don't think anyone would pay to begin with, but that is beside the point. Normally when one takes a vacation, the ultimate form of memory preservation, picture taking and hokey souvenir shot glasses aside, is with an even hokier T-Shirt. The Playa is a very serious landscape setting: dry, hot, lonesome, which accounts for why people seem to navigate it in such a serious manner. So when it came time to design these prodigal shirts, I theorized that the more ridiculous or tourist friendly the shirts were, the more likely these people would be to break away from their pre-programmed set of rules about the playa (even if it is just a momentary break).

Merchandise in hand, I went to work. Now all I needed were willing participants. Because of the time of year, I spent a good portion of the morning in a state of lonely anticipation, and growing a tad disheartened with each passing hour. But all was not lost, and eventually, I spotted a pair of male visitors, and rushed into action. One of the men, upon seeing me and my batch of shirts, eyed me with disdain, and was quick to tell me he "wasn't interested in buying." But of course I wasn't selling anything; I was just there to give him a free shirt! And upon telling him so, he gave me and my slightly wrinkled shirts a second thought, and decided perhaps I was harmless after all. I handed the pair each a shirt, and after each of them quizzically contemplated the catchy Playa puns that decorated their chests, they seemed to accept it, and then went along their initial business. Now I can't be sure that by giving them this gift that they were each struck with a moment of clarity about what it means to be navigating a space, but at the very least, I had forced them to confront the possibility that the social context of the Racetrack could be reinterpreted; that they could enjoy the Playa for more than those silly rocks. As long as they did it within National Park Service guidelines, of course.