Resolution

Resolution

Another year, another long list of things I'd like to achieve or change.  My New Year's resolutions always seem to weigh so more than a piece of paper should. 

I've been thinking a lot about about change, and particularly about the relationship between the process and the outcome.  As points of reference I've been re-reading Anne Lamott's fantastic book, "Bird by Bird:  Some Instructions on Writing and Life"--which I heartily recommend to anyone who is either writing or living--and I've been looking at a lot of pictures of what often amounts to an egg with eyes, or Daruma. 

Although contemporary depictions of this Japanese spiritual icon are often Hello Kitty-esque, the Daruma stories are anything but cute.  The basic plot:  Daruma sat down to meditate his way to enlightenment.  Some colorful variations:  to keep himself from nodding off Daruma tore off his own eyelids and threw them down on the ground where they sprout into the first tea plants; Daruma meditated for so long that his arms and legs atrophied, which is why he often looks like an egg swaddled in a robe; Daruma meditated for so long that his arms and legs atrophy fell off completely--but in some stories an itinerant painting restorer who paints him new limbs.  

So Daruma has become an inspiration and a yardstick for anyone who sets out to achieve a goal.  In Japan people who are starting something new like a course of study will often acquire a Daruma figure, which comes with blank, staring eyes.  You paint in the pupil of one eye when you start your efforts and paint in the other when they are complete.  

Like all of my sculptural molds, this rendition of Daruma plays on the implied idea of limitless reproduction, evoking boundless reserves of resolve.  Nestled one inside another like Russian dolls, the alternating positive and negative figures are also meant to remind me that there can be many unseen layers of resolution involved in any achievement, and that some of these, although essential to the whole, can feel at the time like a move in the wrong direction.   

New Year 2014

For my card this year I used Mum, a carved mold based on one used to make formal Japanese confectionery.  It is, of course, a wish for a bloomin' great year to come, but it's also a reminder to myself that when it comes to making flowers, shadow is as much a part of the recipe as sunlight.  That's exactly the kind of thing I have to tell myself when it's high noon on a Seattle winter day and I can't see my hand in front of my face without turning on all of the lights.  

Iris Mold

Just a slight shift of light can make an image on a carved mold appear shallow, deep, or even three-dimensional.  Here, both images are of the same iris mold carved in scrap plywood, but they were taken in different lighting conditions.  

Molds constantly remind me that perception is largely a matter of perspective! 

Midden

Midden

Ah, the satisfaction of finishing a piece! Especially when it's been in progress as long as this one has. I started this over a year ago, sporadically whipping out a rib or tibia now and then whenever I had a free afternoon.

It's about 28" long, carved from the spalted boxwood I salvaged out of a neighbor's yard (same as I used for last year's Messenger). The assorted anatomical-ish bones are joined by tiny sterling links and anchored at each end by skull and pelvis. It could be a necklace or a sculptural piece, but as usual I find it most satisfying as a thing to play with.

Work-in-progress: Iris

As I've mentioned before, in the interest of being a better teacher I am trying to be more diligent about recording my work in different stages of development, and less squeamish about sharing those "before" pictures. Here's a current work-in-progress, an iris carved from home-cured boxwood...

While there are plenty of flowers that I like the looks of, irises have always exerted a special pull. As a mythology-obsessed little kid I learned that the flower borrows it's name from Iris, the Greek gods' errand-girl. The iris is the state flower of Tennessee, where I grew up, and around this time every year, gardens bulge with everything from waist-high ruffled and bearded versions to absurdly delicate miniature varietals native to Siberia. The flowers are a startling rainbow: from every shade of purple, to green, yellow, peach, black, and the twinging red of a skinned knee. Along with unicorns and rainbows, they were one of my favorite things to draw, with that fascinating arrangement of opposed and off-set petals that seem to do-si-do each other around in some botanical take on square dancing.

When I moved to Japan, the irises came out around the same time that homesickness hit me, and I took a therapeutic trip out to the country to see a famous flooded garden that boasts--if I remember right--upwards of 400,000 blooms. It was an amazing sight, and so very Japanese; I got into line with hundreds of other tourists and we wound a slow conga around a mile-long wooden boardwalk, stopping every three feet for photos.

Irises are endemic to Japan, but they have also been cultivated for centuries, and the three main types (Hanashōbu, Kakitsubata, Ayame) are a staple of traditional poetry and visual arts. Because the leaves resemble swords, the iris is also a key symbol of the Japanese holiday that is now Children's Day, but used to be Boys' Day (May 5th).

My carved iris is equal parts therapy and homework. Over recent years, I've set myself various carving assignments based on old forms or masters in order to build my skills (like my holly chain). While most of my own work is figurative, I find super-carver Grinling Gibbons' limewood carvings of flowers and foliage both intimidating and inspirational. I decided I would give flowers a try and somehow a single flower seemed a more reasonable starting point than an entire garland. For my material I chose a twisted branch of boxwood that's been seasoning in my closet since one of my neighbors chopped down the bushes in his yard about 18 months ago. Typically used for Medieval rosary beads and Japanese netsuke, boxwood holds crisp details and begs to be touched; it starts out the color of old cream or fresh butter, and darkens to caramel after years of human contact and soaking up skin oils.

And of course, it had to be an iris. In the aftermath of the disasters in Japan, irises were on my mind, as a comforting symbol of the tenacious and adaptive beauty of a country than means so much to me. And as I worked to find the ghost of the form inside the rough branch, tornadoes and then flood waters ripped through the South, giving me even more to think about.

So it's not a glossy calendar iris that I'm carving. It's twisted, drenched, and bedraggled, but most importantly, it just is. Or it will be, in another twenty or thirty hours.

Here are a few of the things I've been mulling over during the long hours of carving:
-The absurdity of making stuff
-The absurdity of "growing" a flower inside a tree branch
-How different cultures accommodate natural forces and cycles
-Individual fragility and group resiliency
-How misleading our perceptions of safety and vulnerability can be
-Borrowing concepts of seasonality and "locavorism" from food and applying them to art

My intention was to cut off the rough ends and mount the flower as a large brooch, but now I'm not so sure. Does everything I make really need to be wearable? I think for now I'll keep it as it is.

I take a picture more or less every time I change CDs (listening to Alan Hollinghurst's novel Line of Beauty). I'll keep adding pictures below until I decide to leave well enough alone.

Bellevue Art Museum Display

I currently have three pieces on display at the Bellevue Art Museum as part of the Pratt Scholarship Exhibition in the Community Gallery. My pieces include a wood carving from 2009, my cast glass hand from 2010, and a new ivory carving, "Eye of the Needle" (below), that I finished this January, about 10 seconds before it went into the box bound for BAM. I attended the opening reception last Thursday and it was a real thrill to see my little group among the stunning pieces from the 4 other artists participating in the show.

The Scholarship Exhibtion runs through through April 23.

Upcoming PONCHO Lecture

This week at Seattle's Pratt Fine Arts Center, the 2009-10 PONCHO Artists-in-Residence & Gregory M. Robinson Pathways Scholars will present slides and discuss how they've been affected by their scholarship year. The presenters are Adele Eustis, Crista Matteson, Arun Sharma, Pete Singleton, and myself. I've had the opportunity to get to know some of the others this year, and I can't wait to see what they've come up with!

The talk takes place on Thursday, September 16, from 6:30 to 8pm, at 1902 S Main St in Seattle.

The PONCHO/Pathways show is on view at the Pratt Gallery in the Tashiro Kaplan Building (306 S Washington St, Ste 102) through October 1. A piece from each artist is also on display in Pratt's main building.

Noh Mask Carving Demonstration

One Saturday last month visitors to the Wing Luke Museum had the rare opportunity to see a live Noh performance by Nagoya's Chuuden Yuugakukai theater troupe. Noh is a type of traditional Japanese drama that features wooden masks. The intricately carved and lacquered masks transform male actors into stock characters ranging from heroes and maidens (above) to drunken sprites and vengeful crones.

Before the show, there was an even rarer opportunity to see how those masks are created. Since my entire MFA thesis work was based on Noh masks, I wasn't about to let the fact that I was scheduled to work that morning stand between me and seeing the real deal (thanks again for the shift switch, Roxanne!).

Two carvers set up shop in a small conference room for a brief demonstration of their tools and techniques. As they worked on rough but already recognizable masks, the carvers fielded questions from the crowd. As someone who got into carving relatively late in life, I was especially cheered to learn that before their second careers in Noh, both men were co-workers at an electric company.

Their masks-in-progress were the ones that most people would probably think of if challenged to imagine a Noh mask, idealized female features on a smooth, oval-shaped face. Although these faces appear simple (particularly when compared to some other masks that have horns or wrinkles or crazy expressions), their clean, refined symmetry makes them devilishly hard to carve.

In order to stick to an accepted standard, both carvers worked from photos of particularly prized masks. They used a variety of techniques to measure their progress against the model, frequently verifying their proportions with dividers and redrawing guidemarks in pencil as soon as the old ones were carved away. They also used cut paper templates to check the masks' profiles along several key cross-sections.

I was really struck by how frequently both carvers stopped to have a good look at how things were coming along. One of the most amazing things about this character's mask is that it should express different emotions depending on the tilt of the wearer's head, so the carvers made sure to check their work from various angles and in different lighting.

The hinoki (Japanese cypress) from which the masks are carved is close-grained but relatively soft, allowing the carvers to aggressively remove large amounts of material from the back and sides.

After the mask's interior and exterior are carved, another artist will apply coats of lacquer; above, the hair texture on a red-faced Shojo mask. We didn't get to see this step, but that's probably for the best since the materials are pretty toxic.

Although I've examined many Noh masks in pictures and in person, this demonstration thoroughly enriched my understanding and appreciation of the art form. The icing on the cake was the chance to experience a Noh mask from an actor's perspective (above). Although the mask was much lighter than I expected, the eyeholes were incredibly small and difficult to see through. I can only imagine the skill and training required to navigate a spotlit stage in a heavy kimono while blinkered by one of these beautiful masks!

Ring, Ring, Ring...

Now that I feel reasonably competent at carving pieces of wood into simple forms, my attention has shifted somewhat to issues of efficiency, trying wherever possible to save time, money, or effort. For example, I'm working on a number of rings that I plan to use as blanks for a casting project. Rather than carve each from a separate block of wood, I'm working on all 8 at once. The big piece is so much easier to hang on to for drilling, sawing, and carving. The chunk of scrap maple is also tapered, so each ring is a different size than its neighbors.

Penland Auction

The annual fundraising auction for the Penland School of Crafts will take place on the weekend of August 13-14. I donated Debutante, a pearl collar with a carved and painted maple clasp and three knotted strands of cultivated pearls.

Pratt followup

Here are a few of the pieces that emerged from my recent 8-week class at Pratt in Seattle. The schedule (6-10pm on Thursdays) proved to be more of a challenge than I had anticipated, but my students were real troopers. As usual, I was amazed that a group of people could start with the same materials, resources, and instructions, and end up with such diverse and individualistic work.

Thank you to all my students, and thanks again to everyone who helped me spread the word about this class!


















Cedar necklace, plyboo earrings
Molly Simmons













Belt buckle, walnut ring
Vance Wolfe


















Plyboo and pine earrings, walnut carvings (in progress)
Emily Lubahn


















Maple ring (in progress)
Rebbecca Tomas

"Anatomy Lessons" at Taboo Studio

I have a small batch of work (including "Holler", above) in an new group show at San Diego's Taboo Studio.  "Anatomy Lessons" also includes work by Kristin Beeler, Jessica Calderwood, Diane Falkenhagen, Thomas Mann, and Christina Smith, and I'm very happy to be keeping such good company.  

The show runs through June 18, and since I won't be able to see it, I'd love feedback from anyone who does!