A visit to Stanford and the Cantor

A few weeks ago, I had a chance to visit Stanford University and see the Cantor Museum. This precedes my trip up north, and I thought I'd take a break from my irregularly scheduled programming to post about it. Stanford, if you have to ask, is a gorgeous campus. The picture above is their church, which is designed in a mixture of Romanesque and Byzantine styles, and executed in way that feels authentic rather than imitative.

The Cantor has a small but impressive collection. For instance, it was my first time ever seeing a Duane Hanson sculpture in real life.

It was positively creepy - I keep seeing the figure out of the corner of my eye and thinking there was a real person there, even after I'd read the label and with knowing who the heck Hanson was to begin with!

Get a load of the details:

Another artist I had heard of, but never experienced their work outside of photographs was Richard Serra.

I'd never been too impressed with him from photographs (C'mon, big steel things! I'm over Big/Overwhelming=Good Artist). But I'll grant that actually walking through a Serra changed my mind. Due to the tilted nature of the walls, you have to be cognizant of space, otherwise you'll hit your head.

Which I'm sure was his intention - to make the viewer uncomfortable.

However, I also found myself intrigued with the labyrinthine nature while inside it.

In front of the Cantor was their newest - installation? Acquisition? Not sure. A work by Andy Goldsworthy.

I usually love Goldsworthy, but this piece felt lacking. On one level, its winding nature speaks to the Serra a few hundred feet (and behind a high wall) away.

I wasn't sure how I felt about it being sunken. I walked down into the piece and around it, and it didn't seem to add to the piece at all.

In fact, I like the piece better in these pictures than I did when I was actually there - I'm not sure what that means. It felt to me that this piece, in this arid, sandy environment needed to engage the landscape more - like there should have been water rushing through it, and the reason for the wall's curves was to guide the water. On the Cantor's website, it states, "Set in a trough in the earth, the sculpture gives the appearance of an archaeological excavation. Over time, the land around the work will return to its natural state and animals will settle into the site. The stone has traveled full circle: quarried initially for Stanford University buildings, it now returns to the earth in another form."

I like that idea, so...maybe I'll like the piece more later.

I know I've chosen to write here about three white guys, and the museum, like many, is pretty white-guy heavy. In deference to this, I'll say I really enjoyed the exhibition of contemporary Chinese Art - particularly the Xu Bing - but out of respect for works on paper I didn't take any pictures. The collection of Native American art - both historic and contemporary, is pretty impressive and I was glad I got to see that as well. There were also statements posted by Stanford students reflecting on the work for visitors to read, which contained some pretty insightful and eye-opening revelations. It seemed to also emphasize that university museums like the Cantor really do belong to the students, as much as their libraries and classrooms should.

The Cantor has free admission, you don't have to be part of the Stanford community to go see it, and I recommend it!

Mendocino and Fort Bragg

Last weekend, Robert and I headed up the coast to visit Mendocino and Fort Bragg. It felt very spontaneous, as we decided to do and went two weeks later, which probably says more about my life and my definition of spontaneity than anything else. It wasn't just a getaway, I was part of an invitational portfolio for Lost Coast Culture Machine, which I'll write more about later. Meanwhile, here's the post on making that print.

We treated ourselves to a stay in a cute little bed and breakfast - which was basically across the street and down a short path from the cove above. Below is another part of the cove.

The village of Mendocino is on a peninsula, surrounded by the Mendocino Headlands. I took a few walks around parts of it.

I can't get over my fascination with arch rocks. Geology and negative space just enthrall me.

In "downtown" Mendocino, I was intrigued by the architecture - I'm not sure they are still in use, but several buildings seem to have their own water towers or window's walks of a sort.

I also headed up to MacKerricher State Park, which has one of the few beaches that you can walk on. Most of the Mendocino Coast is dramatic cliffs overlooking the ocean. At McKerricher, there's a seal colony, and they were whelping.

By and far my favorite thing was shown to us by Anne and Ditmar of LCCM. It was a capacious tidepool north of the city of Fort Bragg.

Viewing the waters of the North Coast was the first time I ever fully recognized the ocean as a complex living entity. Intellectually, this was something I recognized, but it was never something I felt down to the core of my being like I did on the shores of Mendocino County. The waters are so full of life there, it feels like one living thing. Its almost as if the tide is its breathing.

As we reached the tidepool above, the tide started coming in, bringing new water. Anemones, urchins,mussels, seaweed, and other things I didn't recognize woke up and started feeding.

Click on pictures for larger views.

Publications, a New Print, and other news

Maddy Rosenberg invited me to dust off my collagraph skills recently, by inviting me to write a how-to article for Central Booking Magazine (follow the link to order a copy)! The gives step-by-step instructions, which are illustrated by the making of the print above, Solace.

It's been a while since I made a collagraph outside of a classroom demonstration or print exchange with students. It was exciting to get back into experiment mode - I used to make so many collagraphs, like this one below, made while on a residency in Costa Rica.

My challenge was to fit this technique into my current work, which incorporates a more graphic punch. The final print uses the collagraph as a the first layer of color, with four more layers of linoleum on top. Since I've been back from Wyoming, I've been trying to take more walks. Still not managing to as much as I'd like, but my favorite place to go is Point Pinole, which is where I drew the inspiration for this piece.

I'm not sure what exactly draws me there, I love the panorama of the bay and Mount Tamalpais from it's western side, I love seeing the plethora of birds, I love hearing the wind blow through the grasses. Though I think what I find most comforting is the history - the park is the site of a former munitions company that made black power and dynamite. There are still a few relics on site - like this black powder press.

There is also a bunker where I believe they tested explosives, now almost completely overgrown with trees growing out of the walls. Nature has reclaimed the site, and I find this evidence, with Robert still incapacitated, as a great comfort.

As I continue with this series, I've been wondering about this recurring theme of "people looking at stuff" that seems to crop up often. Not sure where it's going, but I think I might need to break out of the static nature of it soon, though not yet...

In other publication news, Shelley Thorstensen, in other words, a catalog of prints by the woman who introduced me to printmaking is out. I've written an essay for it - and it's the first in the book! It can be ordered online or scrolled though page-by-page here.

I'm also part of a three-person show with Helen Hiebert and Sun Young Kang at MCLA's Gallery 51 in North Adams, MA, curated by Melanie Mowinski. The show is called Branching Together, and as Melanie puts it, in an almost Mary Oliver poem kind of way:

The lines, paths and ways created by fiber, paper and shadow that each of these artists create branch together as they journey from birth, through life and into death. Where are the places inside of each of us that mother, that mourn, that take a stand? How do they branch together in you? How do they branch together in me? How do they branch toward each other, bringing us together as we journey in this great community of earth? I ask you this as the curator, to think about this as you experience this exhibit, what is your path? How is it part of this greater communal journey of birth, life and death?

Image above is my piece, The Ghost Trees, on view in the space.

The idea for Solace was a moment I had at Point Pinole, standing on the eastern side looking over the water. It was early evening, low tide, and birds were feasting on what they could find along the shore. One gull flew in an arch almost directly above my head, crying out a single caw. It seemed directed at me - probably from his perspective, it was either telling me, the predator, to get lost, or warning other birds of my proximity, or some mixture of the two. Yet something about the cry, the moment, the recognition of my presence, reminded me of how interconnected I am to everything. It didn't take away the anxiety and sorrow of everything that's been going on, but it was enough.

Wyoming Dispatch: Devils Tower

Yesterday, we Jentel residents decided to take a road trip to Devils Tower. It's a two-hour drive from here, perfect for a day trip. As we were leaving, the sun was shining, rays catching the ice that had covered the trees, blinding us with a glittering display.

Devils Tower really is a surreal formation. As shown above, it rises out of nowhere. Jentel, I believe, has a higher elevation, so we passed from its blue-gray landscape into one of straw colored grass and rock formations thickly striated with red.

We arrived at the base, ate a chilly picnic lunch, and started walking the trail that circles the base of the Tower. As we walked, I realized we were going counter-clockwise from east to west, a circumnabulation much like a walking mediation. A repeated theme to our conversations was comparing the Tower to a human body part: a toe, a penis, a nipple (those last two were Dan). Despite our humor at this, I couldn't help but think that that such discussions were reflective of how we could see ourselves in this formation. Maybe it's just some form of egotistical humancentrification, but maybe it was also a reflection of how humans can see reflections in nature, and the potential therein.

The picture above doesn't communicate how many colors were in the rock, yellows, oranges, greens, pinks, all completely unexpected. As we navigated the trail, we came first to its sunny side, which offered a vista through the remains of a previous forest fire.

Proceeding, we made our way to the shady, cooler side of the Tower, where winter seemed much more evident. If this was a walking meditation, I thought, then we had descended from sun/life to a contemplation of winter/death/slumber.

We emerged back at the beginning of the circular trail. I had been continuing my thoughts on finding healing in the landscape, and even noticed a quote in the visitors' center about how certain Native Americans find renewal and rehabilitation in the Black Hills, just east of the Tower. (The Tower is also a sacred site to many of the original inhabitants of this area, and as we walked we saw the remains of offerings tied to trees).

Our good weather ran out as we neared home; we were hit with fog and snow but managed to make it back to Jentel safely. All my thoughts on healing fled that evening as I called Robert and found out he had a pretty painful day, returning me to worry, shame and confusion, and all my conflictions about being here in Wyoming. There is little over a week till I return, and whatever that might bring.

Wyoming Dispatch: 1000 Acres

Today the temperature climbed into the thirties, which is almost balmy by Wyoming winter standards. Since it looked like we have a chance of another storm at the end of this week, I took the opportunity to go for a long ramble in the 1000 Acres.

The 1000 Acres are a property that butts up against Jentel. Jentel does not have any ownership of the land, but Resident Artists have permission, as long as they do not cross any fence lines in the property, to wander about within it. I'd hiked the steep-hilled edge of it on my second day here with April and Dan, which had us laughing and talking as we went along. Today I wanted solitude, to fill myself with the silence and the panorama.

To enter the 1000 Acres, a person must climb over the contraption above. Having grown up in a rural area, I'd never seen the like of it, but I'm told they are common in places like Ireland. I can't help wondering if it is a solution to (possibly citified) people who forget to latch the gate after they go through it?

Looking past the contraption is the path up the hill. It will take a wanderer into a an exploration of a wide unpeopled, but non uninhabited, space.

My ramble turned into a three hour jaunt that left me breathless and exhilarated.  One of the things I love about being here is I haven't needed my inhaler - the air is so clear, and I can breathe without any issues.

Before leaving, I'd spoken with Robert on the phone, and as always, ended our conversation a bit frustrated and worried (not with him) that his medical condition remains unchanged. This nagging worry stayed with me as I wandered, thinking about him in pain leaves me wishing I was with him, and always worried that something will happen and I won't be there. I know that I have friends who are there for him, but part of me will always worry about him until he's all better.

I couldn't help thinking how much Robert would love being here, seeing this.  Somehow, as I walked, such thoughts led me to the idea of memories, and how wouldn't it be amazing if we could give them to each other? Right now, all I can share is the story, but I can't share the fullness of the silence, the feel of the air on my skin, the entire immensity of the landscape and how close the sky feels. Gifting a memory would be also gifting an experience, would that be as fulfilling as having the experience yourself?