“And Yet…” (36 x 36 x 8 in), encaustic mixed media
Responding to a juried call for encaustic and cold wax artwork for the exhibition, “reBUILDING”, by Atlantic Gallery in NYC, I responded to the question as to how, “creativity prevails as we weather the ongoing storm” (of Covid). I was drawn to explore our land for raw materials that would provide a symbolic framework for my encaustic sculpture. Having already spent over a year sheltering in place and walking these hills—deliberately and contemplatively— I hiked as a daily practice for staying grounded and connected to the healing power of nature, which enacts the cycle of life every single day through every kind of weather, from the extremes of brutal to beautiful…
I walked down to the bottomland in search of weathered wood whose outer layers had been worn away by the force of rushing waters as the docile creek bed grew into a torrent of gushing rainwater collected from the surrounding hills, that rose until it went over the banks of the bottomland fields, taking trees and roots with it. As that cycle had just repeated days before (with 6 inches of rain in a single day and several flood waters since Spring), a tall heap of debris was discovered on a rocky lump of grass in the center of the creek that had been left behind when the waters receded. I sat and breathed in the fresh air as I soaked up the energy of this changed space, grateful to have access to nature so close to our home. When my heart rate had slowed from the walk, I began sorting through the tangled wood, leaving those whose inhabitants remained in hidden crevices and extracted only the limbs long devoid of living creatures. Over the still-rushing waters, they seemed to call out for new energy to be breathed into the grain, worn smooth by years of water’s movement, force, and flow.
My collection pile grew as the sun moved overhead and before I knew it, I had reached the limit of what my large IKEA shopping bag would hold. As my eyes wearily eyed the sizable pile, I laughed at the abundance of raw material and the accompanying awareness of the obvious task of getting the large water-logged pile back up the hill. Perhaps not longer than a half mile by the gravel road, it felt much longer as I heaved the weighty awkward bag onto my shoulders and began trekking up towards home. My heart rate did not disappoint, nor did my body’s efforts, as I transferred my load back and forth to each side of my body as I sweatily made my way up the gravel road that lay before me (“Just follow the yellow brick road” did ring in my ears :)).
As I became aware that my mind was beginning to resist finishing the task and just using my encaustic sculpture, alone, I recalled the many many afternoons of walking up this very hill with the boys as wee ones, Ian on my back in the wrap or carrier and Eli trudging up it in his own sweet time, often vacillating back and forth from fighting pretend dragons and knights to declaring that he just could not take another step and that would not be going anywhere.
Inevitably, we stopped many a time as I worked to channel their attention by looking for shapes in rocks and bark and clouds and offered water and snack remnants (until even the last bits were gone) as I encouragingly said that we were getting closer and closer to the top of the hill.
When Ian was able to walk on his own two feet, the trips uphill extended in length of time— paused as a result of his insatiable desire to pick up rock after rock and throw them, one at a time, pleased with his accomplishments (and rightly so!) and content as can be, despite his brother’s irritated report that his brother had already done that and it was time to go home. The strategy held out for the hardest push to continue was always the offering of an extra long game of, “Mother, May I?”, that I would save for this final leg of the journey.
Fond memories of watching the boys take hops, scissor-steps, baby steps, giant steps (my favorite, haha), and forward + backward steps, until I said, “Stop” (which was always quite a generous way up the hill ;)), now brought relief to my aching tired self as I inched up the hill, smiling as I remembered that the true prize for the game was reaching home before total meltdown ensued, followed by their nice long nap.
(How I miss these tender days… the boys are now 14 and 17 years old!)
As I finished up the last bit of my solo mission with their echoes of sweet play in my heart, I felt such gratitude for those experiences and for the workout for my mind in finding ways to keep going when I wanted to ditch the sticks. (My prize this time was letting my imagination start wondering what these branches would become.) When I made it to the beginning of paved road that meets our driveway, I elatedly dropped the loaded bag to the ground and took out my treasures (after guzzling about a gallon of water), scrubbing the branches down with brush and hose and laying them out in the sunshine. I then realized that they needed the hottest and driest surface available to get all of the moisture to fully evaporate…
Onto my waiting car sitting in the blistering hot sun they went, a lovely collection of curated beauties. I chuckled to myself as I realized that strangers driving by would wonder what in the world we were doing (this time), while my eyes saw them as works of art, each with their own story.
After drying, the real work began— that of composing the underlying structure of the concept seen in my mind and felt in my body. I knew that I wanted to convey the chaos and disarray that COVID so suddenly brought into the world and expressed this through a jumbled mass of sticks that had been tossed about by the flood waters, unable to remain rooted to their original place. In this reconfiguration, branches and root bits were connected and intertwined, each dependent on the other for support, despite never having been together.
I thought of the many macro and micro responses that so urgently had to emerge as the world was being upended; every single one of us had to rely on others in some way or another, in order to adjust to this devastating time and new way of being in the world. It did not take long to realize the countless number of heroes that were (and are) among us, each honorable in their own selfless way. Each of us has an ongoing opportunity to be part of changing the direction of this horrible pandemic that has taken so many lives and brought perspective that comes only by living through challenging experiences in life.
It was important for me to show this interdependence through the wood as one braced against the other or provided support for a limb, above. Inch, by inch, upward momentum grew. A ladder form materialized— a way to move forward, even in the midst of such incredible loss of human life and the lack of control over the everyday moments we are so accustomed to having (if we are fortunate)…. My spirits lifted as I watched the ladder extend off of the edge into unknown territory, hoping it would be better than what had already been traversed.
I first attached one piece to the next through sewing (yes, you read that right) and realized (after completing the entire framework of branches) that there was no way that would be guaranteed to stay integrated as a solid piece, as this number of branches had more accumulative weight than I had assembled, previously.
After a few big groans and exhales (which maybe even the neighbors heard!) and downing the last of the gummy bears, I drove into town to the hardware store and bought all kinds of screws. Coming back home and beginning again, I realized that this is the life we live— day at a time, even moment at a time, working until whatever it is we are doing does not work anymore. We have all had innumerable experiences of taking a breath and starting over, ready, or not.
That is what perseverance and the struggle for survival is about, right? We are resilient human beings and certainly, experiencing even a hint of this through making art pales so profoundly, compared to those out in the active field of COVID, coping day after day with influx of newly infected people and loss after loss, with no reprieve. I held gratitude for the breaths taken during the labor of construction and sent them out with good intentions for all those working so hard to save people, serve people, and grieve for people, both beloved and unknown.
Just as every number in the daily news holds the name of a person behind it, every pod in this piece represents lives across the globe that love, work, play and are precious to others, making a difference with their place in this world while trying to remain connected with one another through intense separation.
(fifty-three pods were created to be incorporated into the wooden structure, numbered for my sanity for placement back into the original composition)
The photographs creating the pods on the lower part of the sculpture were taken during the winter months of 2020 and into 2021— macro shots of frozen thistle, budding branches encased in a surreal large globe of ice, a pile of dried zinnia petals that radiated energy as I collected their seeds for this year’s garden.
The pods cradle small encaustic orbs covered with pigmented wax droplets, signifying the multitude of people deeply and complicatedly grieved by those who cared for and loved them, family and strangers who became family, alike.
As the pods find their way up the wooden framework, they begin their metamorphosis into leaves, seeking out the light that remains an ever-present force, even in the darkest of times. The macro photographs used as foundation for these leaves came from a nearby arboretum in early spring, cherry tree blossoms from our garden against a brilliant blue sky, and a glowing forsythia bush that connects to powerful childhood memories of learning to ride my bike. Working on this part of the sculpture reenergized me and elicited feelings of determination, compassion, resilience, gratitude, and hopefulness— emotions we all experience throughout our lives and which we can hold for others when they are overwhelmed and consumed by grief, survival, and the utter depletion that comes from caring for others.
If there is one thing that this pandemic is offering, it is endless opportunity to deepen our sense of compassion and extend that love for one another in any way possible. That is the positive part— the witness of people coming together in untold ways to sacrifice for the welfare and wellbeing of others.
Certainly, there continues to be an incredibly disappointing side of human nature that is more self-focused, but my intention in this space is to speak for those working hard to protect, serve, and courageously continue on the front lines, whether through job or direct care by family or friends for those who have contracted the virus or are grieving their losses, or are just struggling to provide for their families. Acknowledging the truth of the division, however, is part of the whole picture, and one in which we are all reckoning as we continue facing this virus and variants.
Our family has had countless conversations as my teen boys have spent the last 17 months at home, separated from friends and experiences typical for this time in their lives. We have been fortunate as can be to have the choice to stay home in an environment that is safe, although especially lonely for them, and to now have had access to vaccines. Watching them cope with this isolation and to be creative in ways to counteract this has been both heartening and deeply painful, reinforcing the fact that none of us can get this time back, while also acknowledging the gift of time spent both together and alone, strengthening connections with each other while also diving deep into inner work on ourselves.
Watching each of the boys use this time to explore their interests and develop their talents, connections, and introspective natures has been a meaningful part of this period in our lives. We will all certainly carry with us the knowledge of what it feels like to be stopped in our tracks to deal with a threat to our very existence and I can only hope that it will continue to move us to be more mindful, grateful, and giving than we previously could imagine. May we carry one another, as needed, as we continue to make it through to the other side of this pandemic and move forward in caring for our Earth. This sentiment is reflected in the title, “And Yet”— that the beauty of spring comes even in the midst of the darkest times.
I send my best to each of you, here, and thank you for reading this very long blog entry. There is much to share about what has transpired over this pandemic and continues to unfold. I hold space for all of you and hope you are surrounded by light and love and support, always.