The Art of Craft

Small craft advisory

As an artist, I aspire to be crafty.

Forget the misguided, and tragically oppressive Western narrative of ‘high art’ as somehow ‘enlightened’ and more valuable than the exquisite beauty found across all creative expression labeled as ‘craft’. 

If you can translate an idea from mind to hand, the material is immaterial – you are an artist - plain and simple.

My creative curiosity has led me down a crafty path or two, and I’m now enamored with one diversion so often associated with handiwork:  natural dyeing.

Some of my kitchen favorites for natural dye: avocado, turmeric, red cabbage and black bean.

While I could fight against the notion that this diminishes the value of my art, why would I entertain such a silly thought?

Nope.  I choose to celebrate, my artist friends, so let’s get crafting with natural color!

Color classics

Focusing on colors from nature in #The100DayProject has filled my fridge with an incredible rainbow of botanical dyes.

Dyes brewed from foraged plants and food scraps during #The100DayProject.

Every time I find a new plant to brew, I add to my collection.  When I see a color missing, I go searching for a plant.  It is a never-ending exploratory cycle.

10 dye plants foraged from Tambark Park and my garden waste to study local flora colors.

As I shared my project, and the art I created with these dyes, I could hear the buzz all around me as people became curious themselves.  Certainly interested, and maybe even inspired, to learn about natural dyes.

I get this.  I have a history of being intrigued myself.   It’s how this passion for organic color grew and how I learned what I know so far.  Ironically, it seems the more you know, the more you want to know.

Having had many of the same questions when I started my love affair with nature’s palette in 2017, I have been searching high and low for answers ever since.

When I learned from a Dutch artist that seaweed was a sustainable source of dye, I headed to Iceland to investigate.

And, because sharing is caring, I’m very excited to tell you a secret I’ve been keeping all to myself:

Starting in August 2020, I will be releasing short tutorial videos and mini-courses all about the incredible world of natural color.  My intention is to build a place where you can easily find the basics to get you inspired to add color to your life naturally.

Soon to be released YouTube channel, Cookin’ Color, with short video tutorials on organic dyes, August 2020.

The topic is HUGE.  There are so many options and different approaches to extracting color, plus a multitude of ways to use it.

For me, organic color has been an integral part of my installation practice, and more recently my mixed media work.  But a beautiful aspect of natural color is that it is available to everyone, no matter where you consider yourself on the art/craft spectrum.

Bioplastics cooked and cured with natural dyes in my kitchen studio in June 2020.

And, the botanical dye in my fridge right now is a perfect example of the countless ways we can weave natural color into almost everything.

Nature’s bounty

Finding a way to create color in an ephemeral installation without hurting an environment is how I got hooked on natural dyes.  But as my #100DaysOfNaturesColors meandered its way through botanical dyes and earth pigments, I could clearly see just how many different ways I have been exploring color from nature.  Maybe one or more of these will strike a creative chord with you too!

TEXTILE

Probably the most obvious and popular use of natural dyes is to create sumptuous hues for fabric.  With a growing interest of sustainability in fashion, botanical colors are popping up from head to toe.  If you’ve got natural fibers in your closet (cotton, hemp, silk, wool), you can dye organically – the options are endless.

Textiles of wool, silk, cotton and bamboo hand-dyed in Oaxaca exclusively with organic matter.

My first on-line workshop will be on how to create an ombre-dyed scarf from foods in your kitchen, and this fall, I will be teaching a similar technique using earth pigments.  Incorporating these rich colors into a wardrobe is a delicious way to get your art out of the house.

However, if knitting or weaving is more your speed, soaking yarn, string or ribbon in a batch of botanicals can create subtle sweetness.  Just look at the wonder of this wool I dyed in Mexico.

Wood hand-dyed in organic matter including indigo, muicle, pericon and cochineal in Oaxaca, Mexico.

While I preferred to use this fiber for installation, imagine a hat, scarf, mittens or sweater with that special colorful touch?

But who says you have to wear hand-dyed textiles?  My mom was an avid quilter which I’m certain has influenced my mixed media textile pieces and love of squares.

Naturally dyed textile piece, Blossom, created while on residency in Oaxaca, Mexico, March 2020.

How special it would have been to forage with my mom and organically dye fabric swatches for her to sew into her quilt creations.  Keep that in mind for the quilters in your life.

PAPER

Textile’s extended fiber family is paper.  The delicate translucency of paper has intrigued me for quite some time, both for sculptural and 2D applications.  In Oaxaca, I first tested how wet strength fibers like mulberry and tissue would hold the colors I had brewed, and it worked like a charm.

First time hand-dyeing paper with plant matter in Oaxaca, Mexico, March 2020.

So, one chunk of 10 days during #The100DayProject, I focused on creating collage with these dyed papers.  The variations of color, especially when layering, felt closely tied to the depth I love to create with overlays of silk in my textile pieces.

Hand-dyed paper collage backlit in Tambark Park, made exclusively from organic dyes foraged in Oaxaca, Mexico.

Feeling inspired, I foraged local ‘weeds’ in my beloved Tambark Park the last 10 days of the project and made a new rainbow stock of colorful paper from the PNW.

Paper samples of natural dyes brewed from foraged plants in my neighborhood. Only blue butterfly pea was from my kitchen!

What’s wonderful about paper is its versatility across several art disciplines, and a true staple in many craft projects.   Why not make hand-dyed paper with plants foraged from your neighborhood the next time the scissors and glue need some exercise?

INK

Dyeing paper is one way to spread some of nature’s colors around, but making ink turns just about any organic matter into a medium for drawing and watercolor fun.

I simply poured the dyes I brewed from foraged plants in Iceland and Mexico on paper, but learning how to make ink specifically was yet another way to expand my natural color wheel during the last 100 days.

Testing inks made from avocado skin and red cabbage during #The100DayProject.

I even made blue ink with my cherished blue butterfly pea blossoms for the first time, one of the most elusive colors of nature.

Watch out - lake pigments might be just around the next corner!

KITCHEN KRAFT

While all of the above may result in time at a craft table, a stovetop is still a critical element in a studio of natural dyes.  Therefore, it’s no surprise that crafts of the kitchen can also add a splash of organic color.

Much of my installation work was born in the kitchen - infused ice, mung bean and playdough have been some of my edible shining stars.

Mung bean string installation naturally dyed with kitchen scraps in Sayulita, Mexico, December 2018.

Brewing organic dyes as natural food coloring for baking, cooking and blended drinks is certainly a fun way to add color in the kitchen.  At the very least, you can start with next year’s Easter eggs having that natural color vibe.

This year’s Easter Eggs were dyed au naturel in turmeric, red beet, red cabbage, avocado and blue butterfly pea.

Plus, the kitchen is the perfect place to start playing with natural dyes in general.   So many fruits/veggies, spices and even food scraps can make wonderful colors with very simple recipes. 

In case you missed it this spring, download a copy of my Cookin’ Color brew booklet with a few of my favorite kitchen dye recipes, or better yet, sign up here for my 5 Days of Dye short video tutorial series releasing soon in a kitchen near you!

HEADING

Go ahead – call me crafty.  I don’t mind at all.

To be honest, I question why any negative association became attached to a word that honors the vision and skill it takes to create beauty with your hands.  To be an accomplished craftsperson is a lofty goal for any artist, and certainly one I aim for in my daily practice.

So, let’s keep spreading the art of craft in the world today!

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.

The colorful Mr. Biv

The stuff of rainbows

Don’t know about you, but I have a handful of tricks up my sleeve to remember trivial bits of information.  I am the maven of mnemonics:

• Need to know how many days there are in April?  Got my knuckles for that.

• That 5 letter Great Lake messing up your crossword puzzle? Try H.O.M.E.S. on for size.

• Pulling out the crayons to draw your sweetheart a rainbow?  I’d like you to meet Mr. Roy G. Biv

I think it was my grade school art teacher, Mr. Malley, who taught us how to remember the seven colors of the rainbow.  (Yes, I had a full time art teacher with a dedicated art room when I was a kid!).

Mr. Biv has been a tool in my paint caddy ever since.

The organic colors of the rainbow hand-dyed on paper in my residency studio in Oaxaca, Mexico.

So, of course, Mr. Biv was my travel companion to my artist residency in Oaxaca, Mexico, last month as I continued my quest to find the rainbow in nature’s palette.  Let’s just say, we found all seven of his colorful letters and then some! 

Red

The color of love (among many other things) is a highly sought after hue that has a history connected to imperialism and revolution.  Minerals of hematite and cinnabar, the root of madder and several parasitic creatures have been foraged and crushed so we can bathe in red.

One insect in particular has become the darling in the wide world of dye:  cochineal. 

I had only bumped into cochineal about a year ago when I was preparing for my residency in Iceland.  Visiting a dye master in the countryside two hours north of Reykjavik, Guðrún Bjarnadóttir shared the secret sauce of her scarlet wool yarn.

The gorgeous hand-dyed Icelandic wool of Hespa Iceland. Looks like a neutral cochineal soak to me with those bright fuchsias peeking through.

She had a large jar of cochineal that she imported to Iceland as her ancestors had done before.  You see, red and its variations are not natural colors found in Iceland.

Cochineal is a parasite that lives on the nopales cactus indigenous to present day Mexico and Peru.

The white powder of the cochineal insect dusting nopales cacti before harvest.

Contrary to what you may think, the red comes from carminic acid, not blood, which acts as a deterrent against predators.  Or, if you are human, it seems you are wildly attracted to it!

Working for three weeks on a cochineal farm in Santa Maria Colotepec in Oaxaca, Mexico, the secrets of its beauty were slowly revealed to me.

All the lovely shades of cochineal hanging out in wool yarn on the farm near Oaxaca, Mexico.

But, not only did this tiny insect produce the most amazing carmine color, it played a starring role in many of Mr. Biv’s letters.

Orange

Beyond the measurements I wrote about in last month’s Trail Tale, dyeing incorporates some elements of chemistry. 

Who remembers those little litmus strips from your high school lab?  Well, turns out cochineal is sensitive to the pH level in the dye bath.  Add a bunch of lemon juice, aka. acid, and mira - orange!

Shifting cochineal neutral by squeezing lemons. The secret of playing with pH!

Makes me chuckle to think that adding yellow to red actually makes orange in this corner of the dye world.  Trust me, that isn’t a hard and fast rule in dye chemistry, but cochineal happily plays along.

Yellow

I know what you’re thinking:  lemon juice must be a key ingredient in yellow dye.  Nope.  I have recently seen Sasha Duerr, a natural dye specialist, create yellow from citrus skins, but in Oaxaca, we used pericon.

You may know this native herb as Mexican tarragon or marigold, both of which are used as dye in other parts of the world.  The pericon grown and harvested on the cochineal farm, however, produced a gloriously vibrant yellow that demanded visual attention.

The green leaves of pericon cooking up some instense yellow on silk strips I used for installation in Oaxaca.

Move over marigold – you may have a rival nipping at your heels, but pericon may be tough to find in my local PNW nursery.

Green

When it comes to the plant world, it’s not easy being green.

Both, Guðrún Bjarnadóttir and Manuel, my Oaxacan dye master, utilize the primary color theory to achieve green.  First you dye with yellow (pericon or another yellow source), and then you over-dye with blue (indigo), another elusive color rarely found in nature. Voila - green!

Although I attempted this on the farm with my wool yarn samples, I struggled with the indigo (more on that below).  That didn’t stop me from experimenting in my own dye studio on days away from the farm, and I had some success.

Who knew the cold sludge of fermenting black beans could tease out such gorgeous greens?

No over-dye step required here.  Just a 2 day cold soak in fermented black beans! 

I was expecting a grayish blue dye result when I bought the dried beans in the Mercado 20 de Noviembre.  You just never know with natural dye - the surprise element is one of its sweetest characteristics. 

Blue

If you think red is tough, you haven’t met blue yet.  Treasured minerals of lapis lazuli and azurite are pigments of royalty.  In the plant kingdom, indigo is queen.

The cochineal farm is an educational venue exclusively focused on the natural dyes of the region, and indigo has roots in the tropical climate of the Oaxacan coastline.  Manuel grows every plant we used on the farm, but his indigo suffers in the dry heat.  So, as traders have done for centuries, Manuel brings his indigo crystals from the coast.

Grinding indigo with mortar and pestle before adding it to the dye pot.

Extracting color from indigo is a labor intensive process and one that requires humility and reverence. I was quickly humbled by the mystery of blue.

Indigo

With all the work that went into making 12 dye pots to create 40 unique colors over three weeks, saving indigo for last didn’t surprise me.  However, I soon realized that rushing indigo at the end did not honor its spirit, and so it did not fully share its color with me.

The many shades of indigo from an ignored dye pot hanging out with no-fuss cochineal orange.

When I explained how tough my day with indigo had been, a local artist told me the secret of the blue goddess: one must be fully present without distraction or haste.

I love this thought.  It rings true across so many aspects of life, and so now indigo is yet another gentle reminder of the beauty of presence.

Violet

The last letter in Mr. Biv’s name was a dual effort in the organic realm.  That sneaky, chameleon of a dye, cochineal, can be shifted to a yummy color of the violet persuasion.  All the alchemist has to do is sprinkle in minerals (various recipe options) which can shift the pH balance to alter the hue.

Cochineal neutral plus 15% alum working its violet magic!

No minerals to be had – no problem:  muicle to the rescue!  Picking the leaves of this medicinal shrub on the farm produced a lovely violet dye as well.  I doubt these leaves are sold in my local farmer’s market, so they may be a color treat solely for the Oaxacan palette.

Dye me a river

The colorful experience I was so lucky to have in Oaxaca is not soon to be forgotten. Just ask Mr. Biv.

But, that hasn’t stopped me from building my own mnemonic device to capture some of the amazing tips I learned, and a few of the easy kitchen recipes that can produce a rainbow.

Feeling inspired to get your dye on now? Click here for the Cookin’ Color Brew Booklet to see if you can catch Roy G. Biv just like I did!

xoxo - Byrdie

Beyond Measure

For good measure

One of my new favorite sayings is ‘you can’t manage what you don’t measure’.  It is a gem of Peter Drucker’s thought that I’ve applied to just about everything in my life recently:

• The food I’m eating, particularly the sugar (cause of most evil in the world!)

• The growing number on my email list (many, many thanks to all of you!)

• The distance and length of time of my daily walk (finally a habit!)

I’m sure I’ve annoyed my closest friends by spewing this wisdom a few too many times.

Funny enough, measurement is strangely absent from much of my creative practice.  My tendency is to eye it, guesstimate, and just plain wing it most of the time.  The result is an inexplicable delight of the unknown.

Will it work?  I never know, but I trust the surprise I may stumble upon is often better than any measured steps I could have meticulously planned.

Bob Ross calls these happy accidents, and I’m perfectly content crashing into some of my most beloved creations.

Bumping into the one and only Bob Ross at the Funko headquarters in Everett, WA 2019.

Drastic measures

Having a happy accident in art school may have started this trend of semi-controlled spontaneity.  It is an example I speak of often, and I believe I may have even mentioned it in a Trail Tales blog of yore.  Forgive the repetition, but I suppose that is how what we learn can truly sink in.

At the University of Montana, the Ceramics Department is world-renowned, many thanks to the unique work of Rudy Autio that pushed the conventional boundaries of clay.  As a BFA student, everyone is required to take Ceramics 101 at the very minimum.

One of the beautiful slices of U of M art school is that it was the most welcoming, inclusive, non-competitive and encouraging environments I have ever experienced.  I count myself extraordinarily lucky as I understand this experience is not always shared among other BFA programs.

Walking in as a complete newbie, I was wowed by the amazing work being produced by the graduate students, and incredibly inspired to bumble my way through an art form that has its roots in measurement.  My professor, Beth Lo, was kind and generous in sharing her knowledge of this ancient art form, and I honestly tried to follow all the steps on each project we were assigned.

Honest.

Our final project was a chance to design anything we wanted to be saggar-fired in a vessel we built ourselves.  As my 3D intrigue was beginning to bubble, as well as my installation curiosity and unexplained love of all things square, I knew exactly what mixed media magic I wanted to create, and I quickly sketched the design and built a board to describe my vision.

One of my BFA thesis mixed media pieces used in an installation. This was the vision I had for my ceramics project.

When Professor Lo pulled the vessel from the fire, she warned me that I would be extremely disappointed in the result because it was nothing like what I had planned.

The center piece of the biggest mistake in my art career, 1995.

True, the 5 cube forms were not the smooth porcelain surface I was after, nor the rusty colors of the earth.  They were a bubbly mess of grays and blues with ashen edges.  My idea of embedding polaroid transfers into the center square was quickly washed away by residual globules of mis-measured glazes that had an unexpected combustion soirée in the kiln.

I was blown away, smiling from ear to ear, because I could never have planned such surprising beauty.  At that moment, my professor told me I would be well-suited in the wild world of art.

Measure up

For the past two years, I have become passionate about extracting color from nature.  Much of this was driven by a desire to use only organic matter in my installation practice, particularly when leaving a piece of art to dissipate into the earth.

Starting in my kitchen, I began brewing colors from spices and vegetables I found in my cabinets and fridge.  From there, I became curious about foraging for botanicals and experimented by creating dyes from seaweed and lichen.  My longstanding love of stone lead me to the world of minerals and earth pigments.  Yes, I am officially addicted to the quest for a natural palette.

The colors of the rainbow courtesy of Moonstone Beach in Cambria, CA.

And, the exploration continues.  Today, I am writing from my artist residency studio in Oaxaca, Mexico, a global center for textiles and botanical dyeing.  My intention is to learn by doing with hands-on instruction from a dye master of the region, as opposed to my stand-by instructor known as the internet.

How will things measure up?

In short measure

As I’ve quietly entered the wide world of natural dyeing, I’ve become acutely aware that ratios, weights and recipes are quite important in assuring a desired color result.  I have the utmost respect for the long history of passing precise knowledge from master to pupil.  Beyond that, I am humbly grateful to have the unique opportunity to simply learn about botanical dyeing.

My master, Manuel, teaching me the Zapotec dye tradition from the Oaxacan region in Mexico, Feb 2020.

Manuel, the dye master in my residency, has shared many local practices along with some practical advice about what to avoid:

• Don’t let your dye come to a boil to avoid losing the colorant to vapor

• Don’t brew your textile with your botanical material to avoid splotching

• Don’t let the textile touch the bottom of the dye pot to avoid color variation

• Don’t stray far from the ratio of plant-to-water-to-textile to avoid weak color saturation

• Don’t dry your fabric in the direct sunlight to avoid quick color fading

All of this makes perfect sense in the world of order and consistency, but as Manuel noted, none of it is a guarantee of color perfection to match your mind’s eye. It’s Mother Nature’s job to figure that out for you.

With this wisdom, I believe I’m perfectly suited for organic dyeing.   The joy I experience is in the unique variation of color that nature chooses to surprise me with every single time.

First color swatches in my residency studio with textiles brought from the US and NL. Excited for the wool yarn soon to dye at the farm with Manuel!

In fact, I hope to never dye the same color twice, and splotches – bring ‘em on!

In equal measures

On my mantle, I lovingly display the biggest mistake of my BFA program, and my most cherished piece of art.  These explosive cubes of clay are a constant reminder that although measurement is important, celebrating the unexpected is the spark of life.

Wonder what color surprises Oaxaca holds for me the next few weeks? Stick around for the big reveal in next month’s Trail Tales!

Listless No More

Paper cut

For someone who claims to be an artist, I have a problem with paper.  Don’t get me wrong, I have it strewn everywhere, and I think handmade papers are sumptuous.  But, I recently realized that I am a total tight wad with it.  Not sure where I picked up this thrifty habit, but I’m actually afraid to use it.

This bizarre quirk certainly didn’t come from my mom.  She was famous for having stacks of legal pads all over the house with her chore lists on them.  You know, things like ‘dung bathroom’ and ‘H2O plants’.

Now…my aversion to list making definitely sprung from those piles of yellow paper.  I became a master of tactile tricks to access all those lists I kept cluttered in my mind.  I mean, writing lists meant using paper – duh!

So, as I sat down this month, for the first time in my life, to review 2019 in great creative detail, I had to face two of my weirdest demons:  consuming copious amounts of paper to create extremely long lists!

All good intentions 

The first time I heard about writing down yearly intentions was while on a creative business retreat in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico in 2018.  My coach, the amazing Desha Peacock of Sweet Spot Style, gave me a journal and told me to sit quietly and write.

Thank you, Desha Peacock, for standing by my side on this creative journey, San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, March 2019.

Not only did I not want to ruin the beautiful custom journal she gave me by…gulp….writing in it, I also had no clue what I would actually write.

Funny enough, with a few guiding prompts, one of which was to write in the present tense, I let the ink smudge all over the pages of that journal.

And did I write!  Once I started, it seemed to flow out of me with wild abandon, and I didn’t even flinch when I turned the 3rd page of that journal and just kept writing.

The page in my journal where it all began: setting intentions in 2018.

It felt decadent - so many words, and even some lists.

It felt reckless -  didn’t even stay in the lines and my handwriting got really messy.

It felt amazing!

Watch, rinse, repeat

You can imagine my surprise when two months later, in Nicholas Wilton’s Creative Visionary Program (CVP), I was asked to set my intentions all over again.  Having recently decided to chase my creative dream, I did exactly as I was told.  I figured, if I had heard it from two people I trusted and admired for building successful creative businesses, it must be a worthwhile activity.

Plus, this time, the paper got a whole lot bigger (24”x36”) and I could mix up the words with some pictures!

The extremely cluttered Desire Board of 2018. Thank you for all the visualization, CVP!

Once the intentions were set in my journal and the dream board was up in my office/studio, my only job was to read them over and over again.

I should have known something was going to happen.  But it would take hindsight and that old standby of 20/20 vision to really understand the magic of it all.

Color outside the lines

Fast forward to today as I sit with my 2020 Leonie Dawson’s coloring book of a creative planner.  As a first timer to this whole ‘plan a year in advance’ stuff, and with my strange aversion to writing paper and lists, Leonie’s planner is a perfect place to feel like I’m playing and creating, instead of being so darn serious.  I don’t mind doodling, crossing words out or using as much or little of the pages as I like.

It’s actually quite fun.

The first planner of my creative business should be bright and colorful, no?

So, what about this magic outside of the tattered pages of my 2020 workbook?  And what, if anything, did my intention setting and dream boarding from 2018 have to do with what I saw in my 2019 year in review?

Very simply:  Everything.

First rate

2019 was a year of firsts in my creative practice and newly built business.  Seems while scribbling in that journal and pasting cut-outs on that board in 2018, I predicted many of those firsts:

A few of my 2018 intentions that came to life in 2019.

• Fully funded art residencies:  My very first artist residency happened in February 2019 in the Westfjords of Iceland.  Although it wasn’t fully-funded, I was a finalist for the Mary Olson Farm Residency in April 2019 which is a paid program.  I wasn’t ultimately selected, but I got my eye on the prize this year.

• Large scale global installations:  My very first gallery sponsored installation was in March 2019 in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.  Global – check.  Large scale – for me, yes.  I created a hanging abaca installation of 100+ pieces that was 13’ high and two 5’ tall exterior installations.  Thank you, Galeria Manuk, for letting my swizzle sticks sizzle.

• New mediums – glass and wax:  Dabbled a bit in wax in 2018, but the new medium in 2019 was bioplastic.  Sure has a glass-like vibe.

Bioplastic urns made from gelatin, glycerol and organic dye soaking up the surf on Cannon Beach, Oregon, Nov 2019.

• Clutter-free:  2019 saw some huge life changing events, one of which was a serious drive to release as much clutter, both physical and mental, as I possibly could.  This process of simplifying has brought about more creative abundance, and I couldn’t be happier.
  
  

• Healthy mind, body and spirit:  I suppose this intention is a life-long desire for most of us, but I experienced a surge of passion and focus on making these 3 pieces a priority.  It’s a work in progress and high on the list for 2020.
  
  

• Full-time artist:  Funny – I now see I’ve been doing that my whole life.

I plan to keep the rest for now.  Reviewing them today, I wouldn’t change a thing, but I’m excited to work on adding to it with 20/20 vision.

Bucket list

Maybe building lists is not so bad after all.  I may still need to work on my paper chase, but I’m not afraid to use a few more pages in my journal to continue setting intentions.

And as I do so, I’m going to refer back to one of the first lists I wrote in 2018.  It’s simply a list of the feelings I’d like to surround myself with as I walk towards my goals in 2020:

Follow the feelings to find the experience.

No need to cross anything off of that list.

Cheers to 2020! Please share a word from your list in the comments below…

Kisses - Margaret

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!

It's a jungle out there

Fizzy pop

I got bubbles on the brain.  Maybe it’s the sound of a cork popping at the strike of midnight on New Year’s Eve.  Could be the bubble bread Zsofi lovingly baked for our family at Christmas last week (it’s not just for Thanksgiving anymore!).  Or perhaps it’s the thought of soaking in a steaming hot bubble bath to shake off the holiday blitz and quietly wind down on the last day of the year.

Bubbles can make you fly!

Whatever the reason, the amazing creative bubble I’ve floated in this year has bounced me across the globe experiencing a perfect balance of art and nature.  From eucalyptus to ponderosa, boreal to rain, the forests I’ve smelled have been as varied as the installations I’ve placed.  And this month, I was lucky enough to add a vegetation variation to the tropical climate category – the jungle.

Deep in the jungle of Haramara Retreat in Sayulita, Mexico.

Rustic roots

Signing up for a week long Art2Life painting workshop at Haramara Retreat in Sayulita, Mexico was a treat I gifted myself to continue my pursuit of all things acrylic.

The open air studio of Haramara. A perfect place to paint for a week!

Described as eco-rustic, the property has kept its promise to provide a quiet sanctuary among the wildly pristine terrain of the dry forest entrenched in the coastal mountain range.  Open-air cabanas tucked away in the groves of coconut palms and paper bark trees have no electricity, only candlelight to flicker as the sun sets over the Pacific.

Living among the tropical elements in Moldavite cabana.

Not exactly roughing it with the personalized service, fresh organic food and spa amenities, but the jungle’s heart beats steadily in the tangled thicket all around.

And over one week of creating in this lush environment, the jungle showed me just how strong of a pulse it has.

Bio-diversity

Although painting brought me to Haramara, I could not ignore the pull of installation, particularly in such a wild terrain.  Kindly requested by the owner of the property to place only 100% organic material, I spent weeks experimenting with new substrates in my studio/kitchen that could absorb home-brewed organic dyes.

Homemade organic dye cooked up from hibiscus, paprika, turmeric, parsley, blue pea and red cabbage.

Mung bean and rice paper met the challenge as I found a way to recreate bio-degradable forms that kept the translucency I adore.

Mung bean infused with organic dyes hanging in the Mexican sun.

Dough was an obvious choice, but I also dreamed of making paper pulp bricks to stack or embed in the forest floor.  How to keep those blocks colorfully eco-friendly?  Earth pigments, naturally!

Nothing better than color from the earth!

Even in the tropical heat, my love affair with ice was on the planning list, so new mold shapes were discovered and a bond with the Haramara kitchen staff (and freezer!) was cultivated.

Freezing and melting tubes of ice wedged between young palms.

I could not have been better prepared, but as I soon found out, the law of the jungle has its own set of rules, and I was far from its queen.

Jungle fever

Born from the Hindi word jangal, to call this place a wasteland seems a tad severe.  However, in the metaphorical sense, I truly experienced the uncontrollable nature and isolation of the jungle every time I tried to install.

A jungle tree opening up for organic dough. One of the few installations I placed with limited difficulty.

Granted, every installation journey is filled with challenges, but I felt each one of the emotions often associated with the word jungle:  confusion, powerlessness, disorientation and immobilization.

Perhaps it was the heat playing tricks on me, but you cannot ignore the signs of the wild for long.  Every day, the organic artwork would fight its placement in some way:

1.     The terrain would swallow it whole – pieces plunged to their fate through thorned bushes and tumbled down rocky ravines.

2.     The canopy played with the light, diffusing it across the artwork so it disappeared against a back drop of the most comprehensive palette of green known to the human eye.

3.     Sand and dirt refused to play second fiddle to the vibrant flower petals I had collected to embed in ice, so the crushed earth clung to every single piece I touched.

4.     Ants ate everything else.

Lesson plans

As with any good struggle, a lesson is always intertwined in its fiber.  Perhaps the easiest explanation was a gentle reminder from the universe that my Haramara trip was meant to expand my painting practice.  Noted.

Finding my abstract language in acrylic paint. Getting closer to quiet simplicity.

Or maybe, my ephemeral darling, ice, should be kept for polar excursions where the pressure to place lasts longer than 318 seconds.  Hmmm.

Ice infused with organic dye and installed on the beach at Haramara for mere seconds. Ephemeral work at its finest.

Valid thoughts for sure, but neither one rang true in my heart, and certainly would not keep me from such creative exploration in the future.

 No, it was much simpler than that, and yet, so much more profound:

The jungle is abundance personified.  Bursting with life, it creates beautiful harmony all on its own.  It has exactly what it needs – nothing more, nothing less.

The essence of things to come

A bumpy trek in the jungle could have burst my creative bubble, but I’ve returned from the wild side of installation a tiny bit wiser…once again.  Each journey brings its own surprises, all of which provide just enough sparkling effervescence to fuel the next adventure.

Ice infused with organic dyes installed on a dried coconut palm piece found along the beach. Guess how many times it tumbled into the sand?

Cheers to 2018, and let’s clink our glasses to 2019!  I’m so honored and grateful to share this journey with you, no matter how bumpy the creative road may be…

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!