Between the dense and the distilled...

As I've been working on these recent collages, it's come to me that as an artist, my studio practice has frequently swung between highly detailed, dense works, and very minimal, materially sensitive, distilled pieces. With these collages, with their layers of printed imagery and cut paper, things feel like I'm currently in a dense stage.

Click on images for larger view.

It's interesting, because after spending months and months making pieces like this one, or this, or this, which are basically just paper, these collages come together in a matter of hours at most. (Although, if I counted all the time that led to the waste prints and paper that went into assembling the collage, it would be much, much longer). Of course, the paper portfolios are also editions, while the collages are unique works.

I think most artists who have made minimal work that is similar to my linked examples will agree that the precision required to work on something that is so exacting and simple is often as equally challenging to produce as something complex and highly detailed. There's just no wiggle room.

However, I find myself wondering what these divergent methods mean to my overall practice. I keep coming back to the concept of distilling when I think of the paper portfolios - I had clarified my vision and ideas down to a material essence and process. Simultaneously, it's a challenge to myself - how good are my skills? (how much can I show off?) Completing such work honors the medium and its potential.

These collages are more ambiguous - multiple nonlinear narratives colliding, a burgeoning lexicon of imagery.

Right now, after all those months of meticulousness, getting to use all that lovely paper that Jerarde gave me last year, to layer, to delight in my love of pattern, it's a release to embrace complexity. It feels like an indulgence.

The Studio is operational!!

At least for printmaking. Papermaking set-up still in process. I'm actually working in the space, so that's a good sign. So far, all I've finished is the holiday present above, a woodblock portrait of my wonderful little niece Olivia. But it's a start.

Hamadawashi at Kala

Back in October, during the frenzy leading up to my move, I attended a talk and demonstration at Kala by some Japanese master papermakers - Hiranao and Osamu Hamada (pictured above). Hamadawashi Mill is known for the paper Tosa Tengucho - "Wing of the Mayfly," - handmade paper that has the distinction of being the thinnest in the world. Osamu, who apprenticed at Mino Washi, is a master of rakusui (lace paper).

Some of the talk focused on young artisans like themselves, who are choosing to take up skills such as papermaking in a modern world. They compared traditional papermakers to ghosts, saying that many printmakers never see them.

Two points in particular resonated with me - the first being the farmers and growers of kozo are just as essential as the papermakers.

The second point was that papermaking is more than just a skill set, it's a feeling from inside. Hiranao compared it to cooking, or more accurately, the desire to make delicious food.

Which made me wonder - the desire to make delicious food, for me, is about more than eating. It's about sharing. And I wonder, to them, is papermaking also about sharing? The idea that one makes a sheet, which is then transformed by another? The act of papermaking is then realized as a continuum and community act.

I think my favorite question after their talk was from someone who asked, "How long did it take to get your mastery?" to which they simply replied, "Three years." (I think the audience was expecting them to say most of their lifetimes, although when I mentioned this to Don, he just answered that it used to be seven, but they've reduced it so as not to drive young interested people away).

Following the talk was a nagashizuki demo.

Papermaking is indeed a community act, although I will argue that the community is much more extensive than those who just go on to use the paper. Cellulose, as Don likes to say, is a polymer made up of strings of grape sugar molecules, one of the most plentiful polymers on the planet. To make paper is to be interconnected to a myriad of histories, processes, art forms and sciences.

A form of mourning

A few weeks ago, I was teaching a class involving collage, and the students were using a bunch of old National Geographics. In one corner, a few students came across an article on the Red Panda. "Aren't they extinct?" I heard one of them ask. "Yeah, I think they are extinct," another agreed.

Yet...they aren't extinct. However, what struck me most was their nonchalance towards such an idea. They are so accustomed to such events, that they are barely worthy of note to them.

Last week I was part of a discussion (picture above) at the Spare Change Artist Space, as part of the OFFspace exhibition Brave New World, (pictured above). One of the questions Emmanuelle asked of the group was,"What is the role of art regarding climate change?"

Regarding the works in the exhibition, (such those by Alan, Alicia, and Andreanne), I responded that I felt that one role art can serve in this changing world is an outlet for mourning.

(I also feel strongly that art can suggest solutions, but that is another discussion.)

The discussion ranged more broadly than just the idea of mourning, but it was something I've been thinking about since. I'm not sure we as a species are psychologically capable for the losses that are predicted, such as the potential for mass extinctions, global warming refugees, even changes in the food supply. This is an overwhelming subject, one that many people feel helpless against, and would rather avoid. For my students, it's become something that is normal. Most of them have never even seen a Red Panda, or say, a Western Black Rhino, so why should they care?

It's cool not to care, to not be impressed, to not be moved (especially to teenagers). And when you do care...there is so much to care about. It's overwhelming.

Yet we will need to mourn. We should mourn the black rhino, the baiji, the golden toad. We should mourn the loss of diversity, things that will never been seen again, which is also to me, a loss of wonder and possibility. But I'm not sure we will know how. Extinctions and dramatic shifts have happened before, but not on the scale that is currently predicted, and not in such a measurable and documented fashion.

I'm not entirely comfortable with this role that art is taking on - it seems in part, a form of giving up. Yet, it seems a vital role that will be needed in the time to come. I think right now what I am witnessing in this trend is mourning, but also the looming knowledge that there will be more to come, if we let it.

Tabula Rasa

I have just signed the lease for a new studio space. Part of the reason I've been too busy to update this blog is because we're moving out of our little boatlike Richmond house to an apartment in Oakland, so my workspace will now be in a building outside of my home.

There have been so many developments in the past few months, good directions, yet I've got mental whiplash. I feel like I've reached the calm after the storm, and I'm realizing I've survived. Time to pick up the flotsam and rebuild.

At the same time, this move and a new job make me feel like I'm running away from the last two years, physically and mentally. Or maybe a better word is escaping.

I'm going to miss my basement studio with a door to a garden (with easy access to water...). Doing my best to stay rooted in the present, while looking forward to the future.

Introductory Papermaking at Magnolia Editions

While almost all my paper buddies were in St. Louis for Dard, I was teaching an Introductory Papermaking workshop at Magnolia Editions. Above is a shot I took from the new space above the beater room, where the drying box now lives.

We also went over beating fiber, showing students that paper is really made in the beater, even more so than in the vat.

My workshop included a special appearance by Don Farnsworth. Don is one of those people who can take any subject, and relate it to the whole world. For instance, when I was discussing hydrogen bonding in papermaking, he mentioned how that is the same reason that water has a meniscus, and how this related to water's behavior in both laboratory settings, but also lakes and rivers. Towards the end, Don did a quick Japanese paper demo.

I was sorry to miss Dard (although I was there in spirit), but felt so honored and grateful to teach at Magnolia. And due to popular demand, they offered a second session on November 16! I believe there is still a slot or two left, email papermagnolia@hotmail.com to reserve one of the last spots!

Too busy to blog!!

So much has been happening, and I am overdue to post so many things...and will soon. Meanwhile, I completed the print above. It's grown out of the collages I've made over the spring and summer.

On another note - due to popular demand (!!!) Magnolia Editions is offering a second Introduction to Papermaking workshop with my on November 16. For more information, or to register, please email papermagnolia@hotmail.com.