More autonomy

The autonomous drying experiments continue. (Previously here and here). Just documented this new set, although I'm still sorting through the photos - there are more works than I'm posting here. Click on the images for a larger view.

In other news - the Rhinoceros Project continues! And check out this interview with yours truly on Art Talks Again. As an avid podcast junky, it's so thrilling!

Autonomous Progression

My autonomous drying experiments continue - here's a few shots of the progression of one piece, not exactly from start to finish, but it gives an idea of the dramatic changes that happen as the piece dries.

Many of the artists at SVP who see me working on these are completely surprised at how they end up, so I wanted to show that yes, they do start out flat. It's the fiber that warps them into their form. The finished pieces really should be viewed in the round; they look like completely different pieces from one side to another.

I'll be sharing this process, and other sculptural paper techniques in my upcoming class in January!

In other news, the Rhinoceros Project continues!

Autonomous Drying Experiments

During my residency at the School of Visual Philosophy, I've been experimenting with paper sculpture. For the past year, I've been examining my personal studio practice, and how I plan and plan and plan and then execute said plan, and then feel a certain exhaustion. And again and again I remember the idea, listen to the process. Which is a bit scary for me; unpredictability and always a struggle for time creates an environment that encourages planning and discourages experimentation and risk taking.

This came to a head for me, privately, when I was mentoring a student who was trying to do the same thing: plan out her project in its entirety from the start, because she's juggling work and school and has very little time. And, while I understand this, I was counseling her to remember to take a step back, to observe and question. Then I realized how little I do that myself.

As a installation, print and book artist, some planning and project management is necessary. Yet I realize that I wasn't doing much experimentation, that I wasn't discovering the unexpected. I was checking things off a list.

So when this opportunity was offered to me, I pushed myself to step outside of my comfort zone, and try things in which results were not guaranteed. I started with small tests like these, and, building on the tests I discussed here, I pulled out some reeds I had left over from this project to build some armature tests.

Again, it was scary, I didn't know what to expect. I'm not sure what these mean in the greater vision of typically narrative-driven work, and if the question of having one's vision adapt and grow is even scarier than the original risk.

As for what I've determined so far: all of these armatures started out relatively flat, the shapes they formed is just from the flax warping as it dried. I'm starting to notice patterns of what causes it to warp a certain way, but nothing reliable yet. I'm also still working on how I can integrate this technique into my greater body of work, and how can differentiate myself from the amazing Peter Gentenaar.

However, if you're interested in trying some of this yourself, and learning a few other things, join me for this workshop in 2017 in San Jose!

Click on the images for larger views.

Paper in Nature

This past weekend I was part of the Art In Nature festival in Redwood Regional Park. Redwood Regional Park, which is about fifteen minutes away from where I live, is one of the places I go walking. Judy had mentioned something about being part of last year's festival and how much she enjoyed it, and so I applied and was accepted to make a piece, as a chance to honor a place that fulfills me so much. The work I exhibited was developed in the cast paper street art I did recently.

(For larger images, click on the pictures.)

The park is notable for Redwood Creek; its native rainbow trout have been cross-bred with other struggling trout populations throughout the US. Redwood Creek's trout are a genetically pure population that is under critical study in order to reveal new understandings about trout populations. With California's extreme drought the creek appears to be dried up completely; I'm not sure what this means for the population. This idea was the basis for this work I'm calling Upstream.

It was an insanely hot day, and yet they clocked around 5000 visitors to the event. For me, the best part was to sit (or lay) near my piece, and listen to the musicians play, and let their songs become a soundtrack of sorts. I didn't get to photograph many of the other works and performances, but here's a few!

Geeking out

I've been unabashedly geeking out on some interesting and great papermaking stuff online. First of all, this website, Papeles con Marca al Agua (Papers with Watermarks), is a great collection of watermarks online. It's where I found the image above. Text is only in Spanish, but you can peruse the images without a fluency. Check out these!

Two great blogs on papermaking that I have been reading are Paperslurry (written by May Babcock) and The Fiber Wire: Plugged in and Turned On. Full disclosure, Paperslurry has featured my work before - most recently here (!), but previously here. Both blogs feature not only papermaking, but historic insights and contemporary roles of paper, such as this recent post on The Fiber Wire on the new $100 Bill.

May Babcock is the coiner of the word "pulptype," a form of combining pulp painting with monotypes. Very similar to what we did at Magnolia here, read her talking about her practice here.

Finally, I discovered the Youtube videos series by the Hermitage and Matanhongo Heritage Center. They have a whole series of videos on processing flax. The brothers there, Christian and Johannes Zinzendorf, are also the authors of The Big Book of Flax, which has been on my wishlist for a while now, although I haven't had the money to splurge yet.

The videos go beyond just how to process, but also some of the history and comparative methods of processing from various part of the Western world. Check out the video below on breaking flax:



Scutching:



Combing:

This is here

Some work in progress from late last year (Christmas Eve to be exact!) as I prepared for the upcoming show at ECHO Gallery. This piece above is one of two seven-foot long pulp paintings/prints (see previous post) that I'm going to be showing as part of that exhibition. Behind me, you can see my studio assistant, Izzy.

The base fiber for this piece is a combination of Andean Pampas Grass seed hair and (drumroll please) flax I grew myself! The pampas grass was harvested near Miller Knox, less than a mile away. I had a moment while making the base sheet, standing and working in my backyard a few feet away from where I grew the flax, and all I could think was, this is here. Really here, from here, grown here, made from this place.

The colored pulp is actually made from a pair of grungy overalls that I used to wear all the time in grad school - any of my Book Arts buddies will remember them. Some of it stayed straight blue, but some was pigmented green and black for other parts of the image.

When exhibiting handmade paper, it's often difficult to make a viewer, particularly a non-papermaker, understand that each sheet often has a hidden story. Here, this is flax I grew, it is a record of the sun and the soil, here, this was my overalls from a certain period of my life, when I think of them I remember school, what I learned there, the community of fellow artists I shared space with and got to know. Making paper can be like making a quilt out of old clothes, art forms that transform narratives and memories while launching new ones simultaneously.

As a final note, a reminder that the Carbon Corpus project is still looking for investors! Visit here or contact me at michelle(at)michellewilsonprojects(dot)com if you are interested in being a part.

Growing Flax

I'm growing flax! Above, you can see what it looked like just as it was sprouting.

Actually, I grew some last year, which "pond"-retted in a plastic bucket over the California "winter" (no snow-retting here) but due to other deadlines and responsibilities, I've yet to make paper from it.

Denise had originally inspired me to grow flax after giving me some that she grew. So now I'm onto a second round that I'm hoping to harvest in June/July, and then maybe get a second harvest out of 2012.

So now I'm trying to figure out what to do with it, and getting over the voice in my head that says I grew it from seed! It has to be special! I'm also at a learning stage on how to process it - I didn't have a clue of how to tell when the flax was done retting. I just sort of guessed when most of the green plant matter seemed to be gone, leaving what appeared to me inner bast fiber.

Additionally, I'm not sure if any breaking, scutching, or heckling is needed. I remember seeing a video of Helmut Becker processing his flax which included a some heckling, but I can't seem to find a copy. Menawhile, in this video, I was reassured to see Howie Clark cooking up stems that look very similar to mine.

After John's talk at CBAA, I came across this - and found the idea of a fibershed (like a watershed, but with fiber) very appealing. Not just from a localvore/sustainability perspective - I'll never forget my time at Moore, and some of the Asian students who came to study in the Fashion and now-defunct Textile programs, who had mad sewing skills, because they began learning in sweatshops when they were children.

So...growing flax. The questions that come to mind, other than being environmentally conscious, why do this? As an artist, what does it mean to me?

I'm growing flax partially because, well, I can in my current situation. As a papermaker, I felt I should give it a shot. But also because I see it as a form of Land Art, that can be transformed into a more portable form. It's grown out of the soil where I live, where I also grow some plants I eat. It ties me more closely as an artist to the soil and the sun and weather of my locality.

As a form of Land Art, I see it turning around the question of the carbon cost of making (pieces like this one are visually beautiful to me, but talk about carbon footprint!) Instead, it could be asked of this piece (when finished), how much carbon did it absorb?

I'm not sure how to calculate that. Though I'll note that according to Growing Flax, Production Management and Diagnostic Guide, from the Flax Council of Canada, it states that flax is carbon neutral in regards to burning - it releases the same amount of carbon dioxide that it absorbed while it was growing, and that same amount of carbon dioxide will be re-absorbed in the next harvest.

To me, growing the fiber will be part of the final making of the piece, though I shy away from it in a way because it seems to cast me as the Human Lording Over the Earth. I'd rather think that I collaborated with the earth to make the piece, by clearing some soil and planting seeds. Which I guess also means I collaborated with the sun and rain, though most of the "rain" came out of my hose since we received so very little this year. I also recycled some papermaking graywater into the garden, creating a sort of mobius strip of making and growing.

I'm currently reading A Sand County Almanac, and thinking of making my own record of a year and my observations. Those ideas may play into whatever these fibers become.