The Tambark Ten

Frozen

The itch to travel runs deep in my veins.  Funny enough, I’m also strangely content to hole up in my home for long stretches of time.  Perhaps the balance for me is having an alternating pulse of movement and stillness.

With travel at a standstill, walking has become my movement of choice this spring, and as luck would have it, a small forested land sits opposite my house – Tambark Park.  Daily excursions into the lush greenery spurred inspiration that translated into a surprisingly abundant creative surge starring two of my art darlings:  ice and installation.

Shot glass ice installations popping up all over the place!

Boy, have I missed you two!

100 steps

Heading into the fourth 10-day chapter in #The100DayProject, I committed to placing installation right outside my front door.  Until now, I had connected my installation practice solely to the exploration of distant lands – a way for me to personally interact with a landscape that provided wonder and inspiration.

One of many ice installations inspired by the breathtaking beauty of Iceland, December 2017.

You don’t have to go far in the PNW to have this sensory experience of marvel.   Slowing down and opening up to my local surroundings brought me simple joy, loads of chuckles and some pretty sweet photos.

Organic dyes of avocado, turmeric and red cabbage melting in all their glory.

Let’s meander through these 10 days together.

Spark

Full disclosure - I stole the idea to place installation in Tambark Park.

As the world shut down in March, a beautiful trend of leaving small gifts of love and hope emerged.  Walking the trails, I started noticing flowering plants that were not indigenous to the undergrowth.

Did forest elves plant these colorful treats amongst the cedars?

It took the brightly colored blooms at the base of several looming evergreens to notice a pattern:  Someone was planting these in the darkest corners of the forest to offer light.

Another sweet offering scattered across the property were colorfully painted rocks.  Spying the hidden stones became a visual treasure hunt I looked forward to playing every day.

Some of the painted treasures even had messages of hope.

These acts of kindness poked at my creativity, and so bloomed 10 days of installation.

Icy roads

Colors from nature first appeared in my art as a non-toxic way to tint the ice pieces I placed in Iceland in 2017 – the launching point for my installation practice.

Winter sunset through blue butterfly pea and red cabbage in the Westfjords of Iceland, December 2017.

Frozen climates eventually graduated to balmy locations to push the limits of ice as an ephemeral medium.

From tiny rental refrigerators to mobile coolers meant for chilling wine and travel snacks, I froze all kinds of shapes and sizes of water infused with plant-based organic dyes I brewed.  I took some crazy pride in the lengths I went to transport my frozen works of art to their installation destination.

The ice cooler is a must-have on installation road trips, Maui June 2018.

Ice was an obvious choice for Tambark Park to stay true to my project of #100DaysOfNaturalColor.  And to be honest, I never had it so easy!  Using my full-sized freezer, packing a thermal lunch bag and walking no more than 10 minutes to place installation was an absolute dream.

The beauty of ombre dyes frozen in a full size freezer is pure magic.

Note to self:  it doesn’t always have to be so difficult!

Secret garden

Tambark Park has a network of trails that meander through a mixed woodland.  The search for more pristine locations, however, had me traipsing off the beaten path where I found some amazing nooks and crannies in the greenery.

Ice stack placed where few have ventured except for fallen trees.

I may have been only 20 feet from the footpath I walked every day, but it transported me back to the days of my childhood where we spent muggy summer days hunting for hidden places in the brush to build forts and play hide-n-seek.

Bumping into fellow hikers in Tambark Park while reemerging from the secret spaces always garnered a curious look and sometimes even a smile.

The green light

Blazing my way through the thicket meant I stumbled into some of the PNW iconic vegetation:  erupting ferns, fuzzy tufts of moss, horsetail reed and skunk cabbage.  Such variations of green allowed for creative play that produced a visual tension with the vivid colors of the frozen botanical dyes.

A colorful shoot of ice in the midst of fern fronds.

The woody stumps of fallen trees provided sumptuous textures in a wonderfully neutral palette that also allowed the ice to shine.

Ice marbles wedged into weathered wood.

Possibly the second most exciting discovery was bumping into stinging nettles.  Yes, they left their painful mark on my hand, but without this accidental collision, I would not have been able to identify this weedy herb.

The stinging nettle that bit me during installation will be a welcome addition to my dye pot.

Soon I will head back to collect the leaves because they make the most incredible gray-green dye, a color not easy to find in nature ironically.

Creature comfort

And what would the flora be without the fauna?  Hiding among all of this incredible foliage, I was treated to chance encounters with all kinds of animals:

• Rabbits flourish here and spring is the time of baby bunnies.

• One lone squirrel would rustle in the trees in the same spot almost every day

• A bat swooshed just above my head on a twilight installation.

• Even a snake slithered its way across my path!

But, the ultimate treat, and yes, THE MOST exciting discovery was a tiny friend who joined me on the very first installation.

The first ice installation in Tambark Park had an unexpected spectator (see below photo).

Thanks to patiently waiting for the streams of sunlight to hit just the right spot, I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse, and a photo, of this sweet tree frog.

The tree frog who sat quietly for more than an hour while I placed ice and returned to its melted remains.

She didn’t dash away, and even when I returned an hour later to check on the ice melt, she was still cozy in her hole, taking in the afternoon rays.

Ice flow

Where there are frogs, there is water, and Tambark Park has a lowland marshy vibe trickling everywhere.  Many a day was spent mucking through spongey ground to install, but I also examined how a stream’s gentle current would dance with my ice pieces.

Mother’s Day ice installation in honor of my mom, Maia, who passed away May 31, 2019.

I’ve played with kinetic energy in my installation work, and certainly the simple act of melting is an inherent trait of mobility in ice. 

However, running water provided many more layers of movement to explore:  Releasing, floating, bobbing, flowing, dissolving, and ultimately, disappearing.

Frozen floats of organic dyes in Tambark Creek gone within minutes of placing this installation.

Movement, in fact, may be implicit in the ephemeral – an idea I am just now realizing.

Micro-living

Ten tiny days of micro-travel has had a macro-impact on a deeper understanding of my creative practice.  Slowing down to open the senses to my immediate surroundings has brought wide open space for reflection.  Yet again, I’m reminded that movement can be a collective effort of small steps, as long as I actively nurture its momentum.

Pacific Passion

Empirical data

Growing up in the 70s, the Earth had four oceans and our solar system had nine planets.

Somewhere along the way, Pluto was downgraded to a dwarf planet while Antarctica’s icy waters became the Southern Ocean to make five. Although I have never been to Pluto, I have had the good fortune of dipping my hand into each of the 70s’ four oceans.

What I remember of the Indian Ocean was trying to keep my mouth closed as we splashed our way at high speeds out of the Maputo harbor.  The grayish oil-slicked water turned to a crystal clear azure as we jumped fully clothed into its surf to swim to our sandy beach destination.

My tummy ached from all the laughing we did that day.

The crashing waves and windswept moments frozen along the Arctic Ocean have a stronger pull for me to return.  From Northern Iceland to Lofoten, Norway, my polar curiosity is headed further into this frigid sea as Svalbard now beckons me north.

Abaca swirls installed on Uttakleiv Beach in Lofoten, Norway, October 2018.

Both sides of the Atlantic Ocean have provided countless memories from north to south: the rocky coves of Maine to the beaches of Ipanema in Brazil, all the way to the red sand of Angola and to the edge of the Irish Cliffs of Moher.

Everyone needs a travel buddy! Pre-installation times with Chris at the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland, March 2016.

Simply put, I love the ocean, all four of them, but the Pacific is the one I call home.

And, in the past two years of travel in pursuit of creative inspiration, the Pacific has called me home time and time again.

Piece of peace

Being born in Oregon and living much of my adult life in California and Washington, I can safely call myself a west coaster, the rugged home to one tiny slice of the Pacific. 

As with the Atlantic, I have stood on the edges of the largest ocean from north to south and east to west. 

However, my creative journey along this shoreline has kept me nestled on the western side of the Americas.

The memories are many, but in an effort to quietly honor the Pacific, I’d like to share my gratitude with one simple installation photo from each of six sandy destinations, as well as one lesson I’ve learned at each beautiful seascape.

Join me as we head from north to south…

Washington

I adore beach combing and will spend much of my time on the coast with my head down, fixated on the treasures in the sand.  The Washington beaches are wide and hit hard by wind and rain which brings incredible gifts from the sea.

Lesson 1:  The beach covered with thousands of deep blue Velella, the sailor’s jellyfish, is a rare phenomenon that I was lucky enough to stumble upon, and install within, much to my creative delight in April 2018.

Oregon

My mom instilled my love of walking along the rugged beaches of the PNW in the off-season.  Hunting for agates or sand dollars on the Oregon coast filled many stormy winter holidays in my childhood.  The harder the wind and rain pelted our faces, the further we walked.

Bioplastic swirls in all their translucent glory, sun-drenched on Cannon Beach, Oregon, November 2019.

Lesson 2:  The sun can shine with clear blue skies even at Thanksgiving on the beach in Oregon.  I could not have asked for more perfect weather to explore the translucency with the first installation of bioplastics in November 2019.

California

The further south you venture does not change the temperament of the Pacific.  The beaches of California are equally as wild as those of the Northwest.

Although my daughters may don a wetsuit to surf the Central Coast, I can honestly say I have rarely, if ever, spent time frolicking in its waters.

It’s too darn cold!

Paper pulp sticks installed in black iron oxide along a vein of red ochre on Tamarack Beach in Carlsbad, CA, October 2019.

Lesson 3:  Learning about earth pigments and how to spot minerals in cliffs along the watershed has enhanced my creative beach experiences immensely.  The red lines of ochre running through the weathered sandstone looks amazing next to the black iron oxide glittering as magnetite in the California sand.

Thanks to you, Golden State, for making such installation dreams come true.

Maui x 2

To visit Maui is a beach bum’s dream come true, but to return unexpectedly within a year is where manifestation blooms.  Blending a perfect mix of tropical and arid landscapes with warm crashing surf makes Maui the hot climate version of the wild Pacific.

Threaded orbs installed in lava rock in Makena, Maui, June 2018.

Lesson 4:  From lava rock to pure white sand, finding sites for installation in Maui is always made easier with the sparkling blue seas as a backdrop no matter when you visit.

Paper pulp stack installation on driftwood at Ukumehame Beach, West Maui, April 2019.

June 2018 or April 2019 equals installation inspiration all the time!

Mexico

The west coast of Mexico has treated me to some wonderful times splashing in the waves.  Similar to Hawaii, but without the wide open Pacific pounding from all sides, the water in Mexico is deliciously warm with the perfect hint of swell.

Ice shots infused with botanical dyes and stacked on dried fronds at Haramara in Sayulita, Mexico, December 2018.

Lesson 5:  And from swell, I really mean sweltering, particularly in the dry tropics of Sayulita in December 2018.  If you want a creative challenge, ice installation on this coastline will test your patience and your sandy limits.

Blink once, and it is gone.

Peru

If the Pacific of North America has taught me anything, she keeps true to her mission of creating stunning beauty wherever she makes landfall.  Peru is no exception, and as luck would have it once again, we walked alone on some of the most beautifully wild beaches you could imagine in June 2019.

Wheat paste paper stack installation in the sands of Playa Supay in Paracas, Peru, June 2019.

Lesson 6:  The plight of plastic runs deep in the Pacific, and sadly, I experienced this in spades in Peru.  We picked up as much plastic as we could carry from this seemingly pristine beach that blessed me with multiple installation sites.

Safe to say, my discovery of bioplastic was bred from Peruvian sand.

From the depths

So, darlin’ Pacific, thank you...

Your vast beauty will stir at my creative soul forever, even with the magnetic pull of the Poles. And, although I have my sites in 2020 on the North Pole of the Arctic Ocean, I’m coming for you too, Southern Ocean.

We shall meet one day on the 7th continent for an installation this artist is destined to place, because let’s be honest:  you are simply the wild cold cousin of the mighty Pacific.

Into the biodome

For the love of lava

Flying between the Pacific coastline and the Cascade range is a visual treat on a clear day.  Making this trip up and down the west coast is all in a day’s work for this technical sales person turned traveling artist.  If you’re extra lucky, the plane may even fly directly over some of my favorite volcanic peaks like Crater Lake or Mt. St. Helens. Living near Seattle, we are almost always greeted by the giant of them all, Mt. Rainier.

Even on a cloudy day, Mt. Rainier always pops out to say hello. Portland bound, October 2019.

As you know, I’ve got a thing for volcanoes and all things lava.  Many of my dream destinations are volcanic hotspots – Iceland, Hawaii, Mexico, Peru and my home turf in the PNW.

What I didn’t know was that one of the most incredible architectural designs, the dome, was also a natural phenomenon in the world of lava.  Just inside of Mt. St. Helens crater, for example, is a beautiful lava dome, all perfectly rounded from hot magma.

A tiny peek of the lava dome in Mt. St. Helens from 30K feet. Still Portland bound, October 2019.

Somehow knowing this, makes my pursuit of the dome shape in my installation work much more interesting.  Rather than connecting it to the architectural design feats of Dome of the Rock or Taj Mahal, I’d like to connect my inspiration back to the greatest artist of all – Mother Nature.

All that glitters

The dome shape came to my creative practice because of a simple craft kit I saw in a department store during a Christmas shopping blitz: glitter bowls.  You just never know where your next idea might pop up, so keep your eyes and mind wide open!

Glitter bowl’s brother from another mother - the thread bowl.

Eager to explore new shapes, the kit came with the first materials I would test:  glue, glitter and three sizes of plastic molds.  The kit was intended to make small sparkly jewelry bowls, but I saw everything upside down. 

The first of the upside-down glitter bowl, aka. dome, all sparkly in blue, January 2018.

These molds would become my architectural ‘crutch’ to defy gravity and build my first dome.  Rushing from store to store to gobble up as many holiday glitter bowl kits as possible, while supplies lasted, I managed to collect an army of molds so volume production could begin.

Crumbling down

Glue is pretty amazing while glitter is just plain pretty.  Combine the two and some visual magic can happen.

For six months, I feverishly built domes, and they had a starring role in my installation work in Mexico, California, Hawaii and Oregon.

A spruce bush in San Miguel de Allende all spruced up with glitter domes, February 2018.

I loved them so much, I began searching for a way to display them for an interior installation that could be submitted for art shows.  The inverted domes, aka bowls (haha), could be nested with various sizes and colors, and adhered to a flat surface of wood or canvas.

Upside-down domes all nailed down and ready to show, March 2018.

There was one major problem with the design:  glue is no friend to climate change.  Everything I designed inside, and certainly those that traveled long distances, had no chance of ever surviving.

The domes became a brittle pile of shards or a melted glob of goo.

The dome remains after a long, and obviously hot, flight from Maui, June 2018.

Back to the drawing board.

Pro Biotic

One aspect of the glitter dome that I loved was its translucency.  I’ve been chasing this in my work forever (hello ice!).  One major characteristic I was less in love with was the inorganic material used to make glitter today – plastic.  While I tested mica as a sparkly organic substitute, it did not provide the same binding properties as glitter.

Mica plays the sparkling role in these gold domes, Black Butte Ranch, Oregon, August 2018.

As my installation practice developed, my search for organic material has expanded:

·      Brewing vegetable and spice dyes from my kitchen to color my first ice installation in Iceland

·      Foraging plants like lichen and seaweed to dye textiles for my mixed media canvases

·      Hunting for mineral deposits to create earth pigments as a material for paper studies

My quest to create ephemeral sculpture that can dissolve cleanly into the soil has become an integral part of my artistic world.

But how to find a translucent material made from botanicals that could hold a dome shape?

Hello mung bean!

Hibiscus dyed mung bean all domed out in Aguas Calientes, Peru, June 2019.

Biodiversity

Ahhhh….the short-lived life of a mung bean dome.  Yes, it can drape across a form and hold its translucent shape, but again, travel and the elements are not kind to mung bean.  Even more delicate than ice, the mung bean dome could barely handle a five hour flight.

Ode to a mung bean dome after many an installation flight.

Yes, I could sleep peacefully knowing the organically dyed mung bean would return quietly to the earth.   But, if it can’t be transported to the installation site, it’s burnished glimmer is lost before it’s ever seen.

While repeated material disappointment might stop some in their tracks, not this artist.  Every single iteration of my dome has been an informed failure for the next discovery.  Without each of these stumbles, I would never have found the newest material I’m so excited to explore – bioplastics.

Oh, let the light shine in, you gorgeous bioplastics, you! Bothell, Washington, November 2019.

Dome 3.0 is born!

 

Biosphere

This weekend, I cooked up my first batch of bioplastics.  Built from organics of agar, glycerol, gelatin and water, the quick and toxic free recipes were easily brewed on my kitchen stove.  Adding dye steeped from the blue butterfly pea and hibiscus flowers created subtle shades of grayish blue and purple.

Beyond the dome: molding square bioplastics in my Bothell kitchen, November 2019.

As they quickly hardened in various molds, translucent forms emerged as the water evaporated during the curing progress.  Shrinking and contorting, every day a new shape has appeared.

Agar bioplastics morphing back to algae, November 2019.

Now, it’s time to test the dome.  Only problem is I have no idea where those molds are in my new garage, soon-to-be studio.

No worries – I have time.  The bioplastics are sure to stick around.

Beyond the biodome

Finding a name for a shape before it’s even been built, I just know the biodome is going to be a success.  Beyond the lava field, some of the most beautiful ‘biodomes’ constructed by humans have been igloos, wigwams and beehive houses.  Anything built of ice, bark, reed and mud is an inspiration for an installation artist like me.

Into the biodome I go…

Head into the comments to join me!

3's company

Three me please

Three is a magic number.  From the micro (protons, neutrons and electrons) to the cosmic (planets, stars and galaxies), nature bundles it’s wonders in three.  I suppose it is no surprise, then, that humans do exactly the same within their world:

• Storytelling and the trilogy

• Religion and the trinity

• Art and the tryptych

Our brains are hard-wired to seek out patterns and relationships, and we are drawn to clusters of three as the simplest way to connect thoughts.  We see it used in speech-writing, classroom learning and comedy skits.  Simply put: three rules.

So, perhaps it isn’t a coincidence that I too have a trifecta of sorts, at least as it relates to my creative world.  Today, it seems these three elements are intertwined more than I had imagined:

•  My job

• My travel

• My installation

Mung bean installation on Maui will melt with the rising tide, Kaanapali Beach, April 2019.

Triangulation

To be a full-time working artist is a dream of mine.  My guess is it’s the dream of most creatives, and unlike popular myth, it is completely attainable.  However, most of us have had other jobs to support ourselves at one point or another, and sadly, many feel ashamed of this.

Not me.  The work that has sustained me and my family for decades is not art-related, but it is the foundation that I stand on, and it has taken me around the globe.  Through this travel, I became so deeply inspired by the landscapes I roamed, my installation practice was reignited.  Now, my installation is sprouting new opportunity for work, but this time in the art world.

The perfect art world, high above the clouds on Haleakalā, deserves an abaca swirl installation, April 2019.

See how that rolls?  Job—>travel—>installation—>job - and the power of three is born.

USD 3.3M

I had an exceptionally good sales year in 2018, as did many of my colleagues.  As a gift to our team, my company hosted our annual sales meeting in Maui this year.  As a bonus, a few extra days to explore the island and an invitation for our loved ones to join was extended.

My guy, Chris, and yours truly, finding amazing new vistas in West Maui.

Mahalo, Opticon, bon voyage, and aloha installation!

Funny enough, this trip was my third visit to Maui, and it’s said, the 3rd time’s the charm.

No small trifle

One very delightful piece of this voyage was a treasure hunt I hosted for all the creative travel enthusiasts I had to leave behind.  The beauty of our digital world allowed me to stay engaged while installing almost 3000 miles from home.  Working remotely never felt so connected.

In the midst of meetings and Power Point presentations, I managed to sneak away for six installations over six days.   With a virtual family of travelers in tow, I shared a map of Maui and posted visual clues on social media about each piece.  Nothing like playing a game at work!

Vertical stack of paper pulp bricks painted with earth pigments and installed in drift wood.

So, what was the real treasure in this hunt?   The amazing community I’m so lucky to have found along the way!

Triple threat

As rewarding as this trip was, installation always has it’s difficulties.  Add work and children to the mix, plus a healthy dose of wind, and new challenges were bound to bubble up:

Challenge 1:  Business meetings always spill into the evening, and the sun sets relatively quickly the closer you are to the equator.  How do you photograph an installation in the dark?

Threaded orbs installed on a banyan tree with the glow of darkness, Lahaina, April 2019.

Same orbs but with a flash of delight! Which one do you prefer?

Challenge 2:  Teenagers have slightly less patience when it comes to tagging along on an installation trek.  How quickly can you find a site before your child gets bored?

My son, Mason, chillin’ at 10,000 feet, while I was a few hundred feet higher installing. Thanks for waiting!

Challenge 3:  Maui is in the middle of the ocean, so it is very windy.  How do you keep paper pulp from blowing away?

Wind whipping is one of the many dangers of installation at 10000 feet.

3, 2, 1…

Three has been a lucky number in my life (just look at those amazing three people I call my kids!).  So, I won’t dismiss the power of 3 and the critical part my job plays in today’s creative triangle.  Without it, I would not have traveled to Maui’s paradise to create yet another set of installations, trying fresh materials and finding new beaches of inspiration.

Wheat pasted paper rolls embedded in a rocky beach in West Maui, April 2019.

So, as a typical human being, I suppose I also look for patterns and relationships in the world around me.  While pondering the impact of my day job on my creative practice, a few more connections popped up, which I leave for you to chew on:

•  Without the 3 primary colors, we would have no rainbow

• Without the 3 legs of a tripod, a camera would struggle to capture the aurora borealis,

  and perhaps most importantly…

• Without AAA’s TripTik, we would all be lost.

Don’t worry -  I got you covered on the last one.  If you’d like your own copy of the Maui treasure map, click, click, click!  Let me know what treasures you find in the comments below…

Kisses - Margaret

Not too frail to fail

On the rise

Bubble bread is a buttery ball of doughy goodness that bakes in our oven every holiday season.  Although I don’t recall when or where it melted its way into our family’s feast, my children have gobbled it up every Thanksgiving since they could rip it from the loaf.

The famous Bubble Bread in all of it’s risen glory!

As much as this seasonal treat brings smiles and happy tummies, bubble bread has a history of being an epic failure in my kitchen.

Rise yeast, rise!  This mantra screams in my head as I hold my breath waiting for the single-celled fungi to wake up and eat the sugar I’ve lovingly fed it.  I’ve learned to have several packets of yeast in the wings after too many holiday attempts left me scrambling to find a grocery store that was miraculously open on Thanksgiving or Christmas.  No longer a problem in today’s commercial world, I still feel a tiny nervous pang every time the yeast hits the tepid milk.

Baking is truly an artform, and frankly, I have struggled with it my whole life.  Here’s the thing, though:  without every failed attempt, and the push to try, try again, there would be no tradition of bubble bread in our family.  Honestly, it is the process of kneading the dough, watching it rise, punching it down and rolling tiny morsels of yum that keeps me coming back, even when the yeast decides to take its own holiday.

Dough of the installation kind, organic and placed on a beach in Maui, June 2018. No yeast required.

Basically, bubble bread is exactly how my art practice tastes.  It is the product of failed attempts that has allowed me the humility to stumble, the courage to get back up and the sweet reward at the end of a winding road of discovery.

 I think it’s time I share some of my failed ingredients.  Move over yeast!

There is an egg in bubble bread, but frankly, there should be no eggs in installation! Maui, June 2018.

Mounds of trouble

Reflecting on the past year, I am not only grateful for some incredible creative opportunities that have bubbled up, but also thankful for all of the bumps along the way.  And, let me tell you, there have been more than a few.

Torturing a Bird of Paradise for the sake of art….if you can call it that! San Diego, CA, April 2018.

To read the definition of failure, you often see it referred to as the ‘opposite of success’.  But, if you dig a bit further, failure can be described as simply a condition of not meeting an intended objective (thanks, Wikipedia!).  Sounds pretty benign to me, and it is predicated on the assumption that there is a goal, which in my book means you got your ‘stuff’ together.

As an artist, each one of us knows the complexity of translating vision to action, from mind to hand to paper (or substrate of your choice).  Most of my creative musings are never realized in a final piece, and what I’ve discovered is what I see in my head and heart is only a tiny sliver of the artistic puzzle.  I have to try every piece out, move them around, see if something links together, and use every ‘failure’ as guidance for the next step.

Note to self

One year ago, I decided to throw a few of those puzzle pieces around.  To be exact, I chucked a bunch of ice across the elfin land of Iceland.  My intended objective was somewhat fuzzy, but I knew it was time to see what that gnawing creative vision was all about.  Let’s just say the first pitch was a curve ball.

The very first documented installation attempt, rough at best, Blue Lagoon, Iceland, Nov 2017.

But what specifically did I learn from that icy first day?

• It’s cold, wet and windy so pack the right clothes, and don’t forget to wear them.

• Not all installation locations are equal, so be prepared to lie face down in snow, dirt, mud, and sand, or better yet, look for placement at eye level!

• It’s okay to feel scared, stupid and foolish because you are stumbling (and most likely slipping and falling) into the unknown.

First attempt saved by trial and error, contemplation, experimentation and the incredible arctic light of the autumn sun in Iceland, Nov 2017. Lava rocks and lichen certainly didn’t hurt.

The perfect storm

One of the warped puzzle pieces of social media is that I can choose to create a façade of perfection.  No need to show the 17 attempts to capture one decent photograph of an installation gone sideways or the stack of rejection letters from galleries, grants and publications.

Trust me, the heap is huge on this artist’s studio table.  However, without crawling through each one of those failures, I would not have pushed through to secure my first international gallery installation in Mexico next year. If at first you don’t succeed…

Cactus garden at Fabrica la Aurora in San Miguel de Allende where I will have a large scale installation in March, 2019. Hope to see you there!

We should celebrate it all, the good, the bad and the ugly, and wear each one proudly like a badge of honor for all to see.

Tangled webs

In the spring of 2018, I applied to an artist residency on a local farm in a big leap of faith to honor a newly revealed intention so proudly displayed on my first vision board.  My proposal was to gather natural materials from the farm and create woven installations throughout the property.

A tree on the Mary Olson Farm as a potential installation site, Auburn, WA. Little did I know that lichen would play a starring role in my next residency attempt.

Although I landed in the Top 10, I was not selected for the next round of interviews because there was no history of weaving in my background.  The ‘rejection’ did not keep me from requesting feedback which I would not have otherwise received.

Nope, it was this critique that allowed me to strengthen my next residency proposal:  forage natural materials from the wild land of Iceland to make natural dyes for installation. 

Testing pigment extraction from Evernia prunastri, a lichen foraged from a fallen tree in my neighborhood. If successful, might have deep purple dye in 2 months.

Guess where I will be in February?  Hello Westfjords, Iceland….

The long and wild drive to the Westfjords, Iceland, Nov 2017. It ain’t a road for the faint of heart!

Over-cooked

Two weeks ago, my daughter Zsofi made bubble bread twice for the holiday, and only once, did I mess around with the yeast.  Maybe I stirred it too vigorously or it was that ‘back-up’ pack from last year, but it just didn’t rise to its doughy potential.

Reaching into my bag of tricks, lessons learned from every botched job of yore, I placed it into the microwave above the toasty-warm oven working overtime to cook our Thanksgiving feast.  No…I did not turn the microwave on…but left the dough, knowing maybe, just maybe, the ambient heat would give the yeast the gentle nudge it needed to rise.

Guess what?  Success.

Tell me about your recipe for success?  The box below needs a new trick or two!

About face

Masking Taped

Wedged between Halloween and the Day of the Dead, most ghouls ringing my doorbell this past week were hiding behind a mask.  Some scary, a few goofy and others just plain sweet. My front porch has always welcomed the masquerade parade with an equal mixture of carved expressions.

We take our jack-o’-lanterns very seriously at my house on Halloween.

Masks have a rich history of varied cultural significance, used to protect, disguise or transform those they adorn.  Mask-making is a highly revered art form in many societies, practiced by the artisan and passed to the apprentice.  In classrooms across the globe, our children learn tradition, ritual and myth as they create masks with their own hands.

But, in the season of costume, I wonder more about the mask so many artists feel compelled to wear.  Why do we hide?  I say it’s time to take off the mask and reveal the ugly truth.

Oh so serious at a stick installation in San Antonio, March 2018.

 Yes, this is the face of an artist.

Dead calm

When in the midst of creating an installation, I am lost in the moment.  Concentration and problem-solving are core to the creative process, but I believe it is the hand-mind connection that brings me the most satisfaction.  The world’s problems disappear and I find a quiet peace that I wish could be sustained forever.

So tell me, why such a sour face?

Watching out for that sneaker wave on Pacific Beach, Washington, July 2018.

It was shocking to see myself as others would if they stumbled upon me during an installation.  My heart is singing, my fingers are dancing and my mind is in a calming meditative state.  The mask I’m wearing does not reflect the sheer joy I’m experiencing as a working artist.

Moss, moss everywhere and not a spot to place, Lodingen, Norway, October 2018.

Who is this imposter?

Wafer thin

The psychology of imposter syndrome is a very real affliction for many and seems to be rampant among the artist community.  Reflecting back over my 50 years, there is no doubt I am an artist and have been traveling a creative path, no matter how winding.  Technical sales in the auto-id and telecommunications world may be the mask I wear in my ‘day job’, but it’s the creative spirit beneath that defines me.

So, stand tall, fellow creative, hiding behind a veil of self-doubt, afraid to utter these words:  I am an artist.  We can see you through the transparent material because an artistic soul is impossible to shroud.

And, while you rise up, I will be routing for all things creative from down below.

Getting a dose of hot lava rock during an ice installation on the black sands of Maui, June 2018.

Truth or dare

As I bumble my way through the landscape of social media, I’ve seen just how much the world wants to see the face of the artist behind the creations.  The overwhelming positive response when posting an image of myself in my element, particularly lying face down in the sand, has been touching and extremely encouraging.

The balancing act of a blue pea ice stack on Vikten Beach, Lofoten, Norway, October 2018

It is the real, raw authenticity of the journey that we can all relate to.  We feel connected by the passion to do exactly what we are meant to, no matter how ridiculous we may feel.  Truth be told, as soon as we reveal our heart, absurdity vanishes into thin air.

Likin’ the lichen during a heart-red ice installation on Sør Arnøy, Norway, October 2018

But, I didn’t see this on my own. Deep in creative thought and high on installation wanderlust, I was completely oblivious to the face I wore or the lengths I might go for my art.   It took the love of another to show me how others might see me when I’m being true to myself.  The gift of this mirror has helped me see my face behind the mask.

The man in the mirror, Chris, getting a piece of the installation action in San Antonio, March 2018.

Eye scream

As scary as a Scream mask might appear on your doorstep this time of year, let it be a reminder that we as artists need to shout out loud.  The world is waiting to hear our voices and see the sparkle in our eyes and the smile on our faces.

Why not take off your mask and let me hear your voice in the comments below?

Take charge of living large

The stuff of dreams

Nestled in the sand among sea-weathered driftwood in La Push, Washington, my daughter, Zsofi, dazzles us with tales of the universe.  As the stars above begin to twinkle, wild statistics of relativity bounce around our banter like the sparks of our campfire:

• All of the planets from our solar system can fit between the Earth and the Moon.
• Jupiter is approximately 318 times as massive as Earth.
• 1.3 million Earths can fit inside our Sun, but 9.3 billion Suns would be needed to fill VY Canis Majoris, the largest known star in the universe.

How many grains of sand can you hold in your hand?  Only the La Push jellyfish really knows...

And to bring us right back to the very beach we are huddled on, famed astrophysicist, Carl Sagan’s timeless quote drifts by:

• “The total number of stars in the universe is greater than all the grains of sand on all the beaches of the planet Earth.”

So, as we sit in awe of the cosmic vastness around us, a very simple truth emerges:

We are small.

Zsofi sizing up the largest piece of driftwood I've ever seen.  The magic of La Push, July 2015.

 

Major Minor

The notion of small, and it’s more expressive cousins of compact, tiny, petite and wee, are often celebrated in our culture.  All things technological are shrinking while becoming more robust and efficient.  Micro-living and tiny houses are infiltrating both our consciousness and our neighborhoods.  Even our planet, in its itsy-bitsy place in the Milky Way, is dwindling as globalization becomes the norm.

In the creative world, miniature art has been thriving for centuries with dozens of active societies across the continents.  Who isn’t intrigued by the artist who has the patience, focus and unparalleled fine-motor skills to create the minute?

That artist is not me….or so I thought.

Teeny tiny Ice embedded with pea and berry atop a lichen covered lava rock near Stykkishólmur, Iceland, December 2017.

Under the microscope

Building a sculptural piece for my installation practice has been dictated by the space it is created in - studio, kitchen, freezer, silicone mold – all relatively small.  However, the proximity I have to the work in vision, creation and documentation magnifies its size in my mind’s eye.  Nevertheless, like moving from sketchbook to canvas, I can see that my installation’s substrate is actually massive...

Welcome to Planet Earth!

I spy with my little eye a teeny tiny ice installation.  Can you find it?

Lights, Camera, Action

The Hawaiian Islands are a tiny ripple in the Pacific Ocean.  Iceland is an elf in the shadow of Greenland.  The expansive beach of the rugged Olympic Peninsula is a milli-fraction of North America’s coastline.  Yet, each of these wonderlands have elicited vastness in contrast to the tiny installations I have placed. 

Ice embedded with leaves at the base of Dynjandi waterfall in Iceland, frozen above at 330 feet tall, November 2017.

Through the lens of a camera, I’m pulled magnetically towards the details of the artwork starring in my play, but the setting is an integral part of the plot.  The locations have been carefully selected by a visceral energy, their draw magically nipping at my wanderlust.

Simply put, I travel to these sites because of their immense beauty.

Blue butterfly pea infused ice installation melting fast on the black sand beach at Waianapanapa in Maui, June 2018.

Placing an installation within a sweeping environment does not make me feel small, but rather fills me with limitless creativity.

You see, it’s all relative.

Acres of ranunculus blooming in Carlsbad, California, made a perfect site for an installation, March 2018.

Blink of an eye

Beyond the miniscule nature of being alive and kicking in this teeny twirling orb called Earth, our time here is nothing more than a blip.  How about that for making you feel small?

In my artwork, people often wonder why I make ethereal pieces that will be gobbled up by the world around them.  All of the time and effort, heart and soul, to be snatched away in a matter of moments?

Organically dyed dough (or Fruity Pebbles!) installed between lava and coral in Maui, June 2018.

Placing tenuous work allows me to experience the now.  It is the nano-second of time that I can create my own unique mark and marvel at its micro-impact.

Standing in the massive lava flow on the MacKenzie Pass in the Oregon Cascades, a spectacle that belched its way across the landscape close to 3000 years ago, I see a few scattered trees.  They have no business being there, but it is their wee mark in time and space that captures my heart and my artist's eye.

So, get out there and plant your creative sapling now.

Glitter infused resin cubes installed in a Lodgepole pine setting up shop in a lava field on MacKenzie Pass in Oregon, August 2018.

Bigsy Small

For many of us, the idea of being small is crippling.  Comparing ourselves to those around us can foster fear and produce feelings of inadequacy.  Artists have this affliction in spades, all wrapped up in limiting beliefs that keep us from making our mark, even though the world is anxiously waiting for it.

Installation of acrylic painted paper sticks installed along the River Walk in San Antonio, Texas, March 2018.  I had more people stop to talk to me about the installation than ever before, all curious about what kind of mark I was making.

Funny enough, the best way to move beyond this fear is by taking the tiniest of steps.  Just one unique speck today creates a growing momentum and informs the splotch of tomorrow.  We’ve been graced with space, so fill it up, buttercup!

The granular level

The next time you are laying in the sand, imagining the grains you hold in your hand are only a snippet of the stars you see in the sky above, remember this:

Living large and making a mark on Pacific Beach in Seabrook, Washington, April 2018.

• There are more atoms in a human than stars in the universe.

Guess that means we truly are larger than life!

How about leaving your mark in the comments below?

The square root of pie

Creative Blocks

A bat, a moth and a butterfly flit into a bar…

Might seem like a strange visual, but these are the most common images (sans bar!) that people see when they examine the first of Rorschach’s ink blots.  Known as Klecks at University, the Swiss artist-turned-psychiatrist developed his love of Klecksography into one of the most widely known psychoanalytical evaluations of our time.

Two Peas, 2018, my first attempt at painting with the organic blue dye of butterfly pea blossoms.

So, here is my question:  what is the fascination of finding the reality in abstract art?

As humans, we have an inherent need to understand what we see and connect it to the world around us.  The figure, the landscape, the dogs playing poker - we get that and it makes sense.  It's exactly why puffy cumulus clouds have a tendency to channel Mickey Mouse.

Seems Mickey Mouse was absent this day.  What do you see?

But, when someone says your work reminds her of dried fish swim bladder, what does that say about you, or more importantly, your art?

Mawther Nature's candy

Building and installing abaca sculpture, a fiber made from a native Philippine plant in the banana tree family, has garnered lots of ink blot banter.  The swirls have been lovingly compared to Dr. Suess’ fantasy world, Chihuly’s glass work and unicorn horns.

Abaca swirls installed on Black Butte Ranch in Oregon, August 2018.

However, when Cherry, my Thai sister-in-law, feverishly helped me slather adhesive on the abaca to prepare for a festival installation this month, she saw fish maw.

How does a fish float and sink in water?  Swim bladder of course!

And you know what?  I get it.

Not because the dried seafood delicacy Cherry was forced to eat as a child actually does resemble my abaca swirls.  Nope.  It’s because, for some reason, the number one recurring connection people make to my artwork is food.

Fish out of water

Merging my love of global travel with art installation, I never imagined I would learn about the foods of distant lands by sticking art in the ground.

Hibiscus infused ice installed on quicksand in Seabrook, Washington, July 2018.  Beach ice pops!

Although my sculptures have seen international waters, none of these tasty treats have influenced my work.  In fact, some of these morsels and their homelands I’ve never even experienced.

Let’s make a shopping list:

• Borrachitos – the little drunk filled with sweet jelly
• Lokum - the Turkish delight meant for royalty
• Khanom Chan - the nine layer dessert of Thai prosperity

Who says you can’t have dessert first?

 

Punch Drunk Love

I love everything about Mexican food, but I must admit, I’m not one for the sweets of this scrumptious country.  While on Desha Peacock's Sweet Spot Style creative retreat in San Miguel de Allende in January this year, an artist friend, Melissa Partridge surprised me with a gift of borrachitos.

Not a shabby place to create some adhesive domes while on retreat in Mexico.  Don't eat the art!

Melissa was not appealing to my sweet tooth. She saw the crystallized jelly cubes and immediately thought of the resin work I was installing in San Miguel. 

You might get a little drunk munching on these sweeties in Mexico.

These sugary squares were originally created by nuns to give to their patrons in appreciation for support.  Eventually, the sisters found their entrepreneurial spirit and began selling the delicacy to the public.

Glitter infused resin cubes stacked and good enough to eat in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, January 2018.

Love it!  Artisans realizing the value of their work – something we all need to embrace!

 

The turkey trot

Unlike damar resin, an organic substance drained from trees in East Asia, the resin in my current work is 100% man-made polymer.  Nothing you want to gobble down with a tall glass of milk.  I would venture to guess eating tape, paper and glue would also not sit well on an empty stomach.

Don't pop this cube in your mouth please!

Not so apparently.  The Pop Cubes I’ve created have recently been compared to the wildly sweet Turkish Delight of the spice markets in Istanbul.

Lokum love to share with family and friends.

Although I would not recommend munching on my adhesive treats, the process of making lokum reminds me of the delicate nature of working with resin.  The ingredients are simple, but you have to make sure you follow the directions and have everything at your fingertips before you start cooking.

As you can see, I follow the directions perfectly, including the precise measurements and appropriate equipment for handling resin polymer.

 

Thai spice drops

The kitchen is the heart of the home.  It is where we create food to nurture ourselves, body and beyond.  We gather around the table to connect, celebrate and commune.  Therefore, having my resin cubes compared to khanom chan in Thailand is an honor, and apparently quite lucky.

Glitter infused resin cube at Pacific Beach in Seabrook, Washington, April 2018.

Butterfly pea jelly dessert Thai style.

Making the jump from my sculptures to fodder was not an obvious leap for me.  However, if I reflect on the past year of installation, much of my work incorporates organic material and requires the kitchen as my studio.

I mean, isn't the artist's apron borrowed from a chef?

Dough nuts

Organic dyes first entered my practice when I built frozen pieces to install in Iceland.  I spent weeks in the kitchen researching dyes derived from plants.  Even the elusive blue was found in a magical tea brewed from the blossoms of the butterfly pea.

Nothing more beautiful than a gradient study of blue thanks to butterfly pea blossoms.

Planning my installation trip to Maui in June, the stove-top became my drafting table once again.  In a stretch to move from cubes to a spherical form, I opted for an easy solution – dough.  Funny enough, it was actually edible art!

Organic dough is more salty than sweet - beware.

Placing organic dough on the beaches of Hawaii elicited a kid-in-a-candy-store list from spectators:

• Skittles
• Pop Rocks
• Nerds
• Sprinkles
• Fruity Pebbles
• Easter eggs
• Potatoes (ok – this one isn’t very sugary, but sweet in thought)

A little sand never hurt.  Organic dough on Hamoa Beach, Maui, June 2018.

Connecting my art to the confections of Mexico, Turkey and Thailand fits my Bohemian soul.  That said, I love that my organic work has crossed into the mass-media influenced candy industry of the United States.

Andy Warhol was definitely on to something.

Pop psychology

I’d like to think that Rorschach would be proud to know he had reached cultural iconic fame with his ink blot artwork.  Being immortalized by Andy Warhol in the art world is no small honor.  

Rorschach by Andy Warhol, 1984.

Interestingly, the ink blot was eventually used to test for creative thinking.

When I look, I don’t see a butterfly or a delicious dessert.  My ink blot always looks like an island I need to visit one day.

So, tell me, Artist, what do you see in your life's ink blot?  I promise not to analyze anything you might say in the comments below...

Barefoot in a Sneaker Wave

Better get your trench coat

From 16,000 feet deep in an under-water ravine to the crest of an 8-story thundering wave, the coast of Nazaré, Portugal has a magnetic pull.  In the churning Atlantic water of Praia do Norte, hard-core surfers, and spectators alike, plunge into the wild world of big wave surfing.  In fact, in November 2017, Brazilian surfer, Rodrigo Koxa, broke the world’s record by flawlessly riding this massive 80 foot wave, honoring a life-long passion.

First and last time on a surfboard in 8 inch surf at Praia do Madeiro, Brazil, 2010.

Northern exposure

Later that same month, 25 degrees north of this famous breaker, lying face down on a rocky beach along the Strandir coastline, I encountered my own booming breaker.  Fingers numb in the gusting wind, I howled, “never turn your back on the ocean” -  a saying my kids have heard me utter many times.  Placing my second ice installation within feet of crashing waves, my travel mate, Chris, kept eye for any monster swell that could sweep us away.

Dried leaves embedded in ice installed on the Strandir coast in the Westfjords, Iceland.  The tiny black thread near the top left side of the ice is my glove, sticking relentlessly to the frozen piece. Thus, bare hands were required to install!

In absolutely no way were we facing the danger of Nazaré, but chasing my creative dream pulls me back to the ocean time and time again.  What power do these wild waves have over my journey, and how do I make sure I’m not turning my back on the surf in front of me?

Facing the churning sea in Djúpalónssandur, Iceland to install blue pea infused ice.

The Big Kahuna

Duke Kahanamoku, the father of modern surfing, is credited with coining the famous phrase that keeps us facing seaward.  Both practical and philosophical, this saying teaches us two important life lessons about the power of the ocean:

1.     There are significant physical dangers of being hit by a wave.

2.     Mankind needs to show deep respect for the sea.

Humbly, I’d like to offer one additional lesson to be learned:

3.     The wave coming could be the ride of your life!

Rising temperatures and rising tide at Kirkjufell, Iceland means melting ice...fast!

 

v = f x λ

Waves as a metaphor for artistic creativity is perfectly suited.  Many of us have had times brimming with unbridled imagination and surging productivity.  For each crest, however, there is a trough, a quiet time…the lull.  Without one, we can’t have the other, so I’ve gingerly embraced both, experiencing the drought before the flood.

Silk thread orb installed at the driest place on Maui:  Haleakala Crater.

Roll with it

Today, facing an expressive tsunami, however, I am feverishly grabbing at each medium that pokes out of the rushing water.  Ice, resin, paper, fiber, adhesive, wax, paint and canvas are all bobbing about my studio.  While I could be drowning, each one plays an integral part in this wild ride, one supporting the other in ways I can’t begin to understand.  But, that is okay – I trust the process.

Glitter infused adhesive domes melting in the Hawaiian heat.

I have to - these are my life-saving floaties.

Making waves

So, if today's story is about ‘The Big One’, let’s dive more deeply into some of the ways we choose to describe a tidal wave, creative or otherwise:

• Sneaker Wave:  Well, as we already determined in my last blog, sneaking has its perks.  With creativity, it can pop up at any time, without warning, and pinch us hard.  I say it's better to laugh than cry.

Abaca installation turned upside-down in San Antonio, Texas.

• Killer Wave:  Yet another negative description, but how many times have you used it to describe something extraordinary?  If you get out there, showing up every day, I guarantee you will be killing it.
• Rogue Wave:  When creativity hits, I urge you to ‘go rogue’ in the full Urban Dictionary sense.  Don’t follow the rules.  Let your heart lead and do what feeds your soul.

Nobody gave me permission to do this installation.  The only formal invitation I received was from Mother Nature.

• Freak Wave:  So, Rogue, go listen to the lyrics of ‘Come from the Heart’ and dance like nobody is watching!  As one of my favorite contemporary artists, Nicholas Wilton, would coach:  create art in exactly the same way.  Flying your freak flag is what makes your art uniquely yours.
• Extreme Wave:  Not for the faint at heart, when creativity comes calling, push yourself as far as you can, all the way to the edges of your comfort zone.  I promise, you won’t fall off.  That’s where the good stuff hides.

Blue pea and red cabbage infused ice installed near the outer edge of Ögur, Iceland.

I met a Cyclops in Ghost Trees

If the names for waves weren't scary enough, what about swells being creatively called Jaws, Dungeons and Mavericks?  What do these mega-wave meccas have in common with Praia do Norte, or the crazy 'artist' who chooses to play in the 'surf'?  At these beaches, to ride the Big One, tow-in surfing is not a luxury, but a technological necessity.

Yes, it means having a partner in crime, someone who understands the fierce power of the ocean and pull of passion, and is there to help propel you safely through the choppy waters.

Guess we should add one more life lesson to The Big Kahuna list above:

4.  Never swim alone.

Chris, partner in crime, soaking seaside after a long day of ice installation in Drangsnes, Iceland.

On the very same island as Jaws, Chris stood watch with the surf pounding against the lava field at La Perouse Bay while I swiftly placed the last of my Maui installations.  Mouthing the words that have become my mantra, my partner in crime faced the waves by my side, keeping me safe while I dove in.

Feeling the ocean spray in my face while installing organically dyed dough at La Perouse Bay in Maui.

Passion Fish

My sleep is often filled with dreams of crystal clear tidal surges that I manage to negotiate perfectly with a surfer’s ease.  The trick I've learned is this:

Dive straight into the face of the wave before the crest crashes.  Passion is on the other side.

Tell me, what do you dream about?  Jump into the comments below - the water is perfect!