The Day the Man Came to Burning Man | Public Spectacle | Los Angeles | Los Angeles News and Events | LA Weekly
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A Considerable Town

The Day the Man Came to Burning Man

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Thu, Sep 12, 2013 at 4:00 AM
click to enlarge A long line of officers stands at attention as Kelly Reynolds approaches the Temple. - L.J. WILLIAMSON
  • L.J. Williamson
  • A long line of officers stands at attention as Kelly Reynolds approaches the Temple.

Burning Man's reputation for bacchanalian revelry is well deserved. The festival is one of the planet's biggest parties, famously crescendoing in the immolation of a towering wooden stick figure on Saturday night, accompanied by a chaotic, high-firepower pyrotechnics display that, unlike most fireworks shows, feels all grand finale, all of the time.

Traditional Fourth of July shows go pop ... pop ... pop on a slow build to a short-lived frenzy. By contrast, when the Man burns, it's frenzy from the instant of ignition — and when he finally collapses into an immense, searing orange mass, a whole new frenzy begins, as audience members leap to their feet and rush toward the flames, running, circling, dancing, laughing, shielding their faces from the heat even as they push ever closer to it.

The entire weeklong event is noise, heat, dust, lights, chaos, color, cacophony. With the sole exception of the Temple.

See also: Photos of Burning Man's Temple

This too is built to be burned, on the final night of the event. The structure's design differs from year to year — 2013's Temple was pyramid-shaped; previous years' Temples have evoked Asian or European architecture — but the feeling is always the same. It's the only place in all of Black Rock City, population 68,000, where there is intentional silence. The thumping bass from DJs who spin around the clock, the random shouts and catcalls, the music, silliness and laughter seem far away here.

This is the place Burners come to mourn their dead.

When the Temple is lit afire on Sunday night, after half the revelers have already packed up and headed for home, this fire too will be immense. But it's watched in hushed reverence, its flames casting a glow on tear-streaked faces.

The Temple is an oasis of sadness in the relentless desert merriment. Punctuated by softly echoing gongs that only gradually come into the visitor's awareness, the silence here is unifying, an unspoken agreement among all present, among everyone who has ever experienced the pain of loss. Tucked into the beveled wood partitions and tacked onto the wooden walls are tokens of remembrance: photos, letters, collages, books, pieces of jewelry, smooth stones. There are Sharpies here, too, for scrawling messages. One says, "We miss you Taylor." Another says, "Grandma, you would have loved this."

Though few words are spoken, there is an air of understanding around the Temple, because most are here for the same reason: to grieve.

Late on Thursday afternoon of this year's fest, as the fierce Nevada sun had begun its descent toward the mountains and the winds, mostly calm to that point, began to whip up the week's first dust storm, those gathered at the Temple looked up to the sound of sirens.

Lifting bandannas to their faces, sliding goggles over their eyes to look through the murky, dust-swirled air, the scattered crowd began to thicken around the Temple's entrance, craning their necks to see a line of about 30 Bureau of Land Management vehicles slowly rolling toward the Temple.

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