Cutting into Copper

Some of you may remember that one of the things I loved most about my time in Evanston was its proximity to the lake shore. I became all but obsessed with making it to the beach in time for sunrise every day and was rewarded by witnessing a panoply of the most stunning vistas imaginable. Coming from Salt Lake City--a valley edged in by mountains--I wasn't used to seeing the sun break above a flat horizon. From this vantage, sunlight travels through a substantial amount of atmosphere and is scattered into displays of brilliant color that often change from minute to minute...the deepest reds, purples, and yellows thickening one moment and then vanishing the next. 

Each morning brought new surprises... 

...especially as temperatures dropped and the water began to freeze. Though one of my biggest worries before moving to the Windy City was its legendarily harsh winter, the excitement of observing lake ice actually made me jump up and down whenever sub-zero temperatures were in the forecast...

Don't worry, there is a reason for my nostalgic indulgence.

About a month ago Rob and I were wandering through the Ginko Gallery, a local art shop and studio, and I was startled to see among a stack of random art supplies...a whole sheet of bright new COPPER! I hadn't found an opportunity to exercise my engraving muscles in quite some time, and visions of ornately scrolling designs instantly began sparking through my imagination. I asked the cashier whether this was something they regularly stocked, but apparently it was kind of a one off.

My lucky day!!!

We bought it right away. 

The 6 x 12 inch sheet, prepared and cut by Chicago based K&S Engineering, sat on my desk for a few weeks as I allowed ideas to bubble and churn. A concrete vision finally took shape for me this morning, and I spent some time today experimenting with materials in preparation for the real thing.

At the very least I first had to make sure I could still handle a graver. There is no eraser for engraving. Every line is as permanent as a tattoo. It would be so PERFECT if I started in on my masterpiece and instead just scratched the whole thing up. Fortunately, I still had an old battered piece of copper I'd picked up from a machine shop at NU...perfect for practicing! Then I gathered up my sharpies (yep, that's right...even on the copper), scrounged around for some old nail polish (I know...this is getting a little ridiculous...and by the way what am I doing with such a crazy shade of RED in my collection...I'll just let you wonder:), and finally started in.

My creative mood was helped along by a playlist of "drawing music" that included Dawn of Midi's new release "Dysnomia," and LaMonte Young's "Well Tuned Piano."  I'd only made it through the first two and a half hours of the second selection when my project was complete.

I haven't decided on a name for it yet, but the scene clearly references my morning trips to Lake Michigan's western shore. I'm planning on elaborating upon this idea in the future, and might decide on a title for the series then.

Here are some up close views. One thing I've always loved about engraving is how it shimmers with every change of light...

To help preserve the copper's ruddy sheen, I lacquered over the top of the whole thing with two coats of clear polish. I eventually hope to mount the piece, but at the moment its dimensions are 6 x 12 inches.

First Quarter Moon

The Half Moon 

The half moon shows a face of plaintive sweetness
Ready and poised to wax or wane;
A fire of pale desire in incompleteness,
Tending to pleasure or to pain:--
Lo, while we gaze she rolleth on in fleetness
To perfect loss or perfect gain. 

Half bitterness we know, we know half sweetness;
This world is all on wax, on wane:
When shall completeness round time's incompleteness,
Fulfilling joy, fulfilling pain?
Lo, while we ask, life rolleth on in fleetness
To finished loss or finished gain.  

Christina Rossetti

It is impossible to deduce whether the half moon to which Ms. Rossetti refers in this poem is in its first or last quarter. And that's probably the point. Such ambiguity lends itself well to a metaphor of life's inevitable ups and downs, and our human inclination (whether chosen or fated) to view our changing lot as either half-empty, or half-full.

I'd venture a guess that most people today wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a first and last quarter moon. Up until a few years ago I certainly couldn't. Like most, I'd look up from time to time, notice a pale moon...maybe hanging out in the afternoon sky...and think, "Huh...there's the moon...cool." And that would be about it. Of course it doesn't take a whole lot more observation before you pick out a pattern or two. And then there are helpful tricks that can save you in a pinch. "DOC" is my favorite: A waxing "D" progresses to a full "O" moon, and then slowly shrinks away into a waning "C." Of course, the pattern is reversed for southern hemisphere observers. Fortunately "COD" is a word in either direction...at least in English.

The first quarter moon is a lovely sight. With its eastern edge illuminated and the terminator running straight down the middle of its face, a telescope or pair of binoculars will reveal the shadows of great mountain ranges spilling out over vast crater-pocked lava planes. Though my latest astronomy themed drawing interprets the lunar landscape with a good deal of artistic license, I did try to reference real features made visible at first quarter.

The Sea of Rains (Mare Imbrium) is the central focus. Framing some prominent craters (Archimedes, Aristillus, Autolycus, and Cassini), this ancient volcanic plain is edged from south to north by the Appenine and Caucasus mountains and capped by an "Alpine Valley" (admittedly exaggerated in my depiction). The northern Mare Frigoris (Sea of Cold) bleeds around Aristotle's crater and into the lakes of Death and Dreams, finally bringing the eye to rest on a Sea of Serenity at lower right. Forgive my wordy indulgence here. It's easy to get carried away by such tantalizing names. Exploring the lunar surface can feel like wandering through a poem.

A Morning Walk

On advice from an informed neighbor, I altered the course of my walk this morning to incorporate a network of wood-chipped trails that surround Oberlin College's large solar power array. These well-maintained paths trek northwest of campus and lead back into a serene area of woods and meadow...meandering back forth and around a stately field of tracking solar panels.

I was already somewhat aware of the solar array (had previously caught glimpses of it way out behind some houses while exploring the neighborhood one day), but had assumed the land surrounding it was private property or otherwise off limits. Thank goodness for friendly neighbors. Without their well timed advice, I might never have seen these luscious golden fields.

I'm such a junkie for big beautiful vistas...vast quiet spaces that provoke a sense of wonder...

...and nearly always harbor lovely surprises if you take the time to look closely.

Alien shapes hidden away in an otherwise conventional lawn...

...and painterly eruptions of color...

Even things that usually inspire a disgusted cringe can reveal luscious geometries...

...fantastical interiors...

...and spritely keepers that carefully patrol their furrowed refuge...

...glinting like emerald in the sunlight.

Memory

I know enough about memory to know that it's imperfect, sporadic...that we fill in the stories of our lives with details of feeling, thought, and imagery, so that their "final" version fits well within our evolving sense of who we are...where we came from...where we are going. Though we often believe otherwise, recollections of lived experience are often fraught with fantasy: imagined facts that serve to reinforce and even enhance the personal Truths to which we cling.

As I was looking through an old box of photos this morning, I came across an image of what I still remember as one of the most beautiful moments of my life. During fall break 1999--in the first days of my first romantic relationship--I visited the Grand Canyon for the first time in my life. We'd driven through Zion National Park on the previous day, and then headed down to the Canyon's North Rim, arriving late in the afternoon with just enough time to take a first look over the edge before finding a campsite in the surrounding woods.

In contrast to the typical hubbub that is unavoidable at the more-visited South Rim, our spot on the North was all but deserted. I remember driving  down through the Kaibab National Forest listening to Strauss' Alpine Symphony...light filtered through stands of evergreens...and then sitting together at the edge of an immense chasm...furrowed ridges bathed in amber. "Wouldn't this make a great spot for a first kiss?" he coaxed. I flushed with youthful yearning, but still balked, far too shy to accept.

A picture then...

Standing alone atop the unguarded rim, my body seethed with awe and vertigo and the thrill of everything the moment seemed to promise. With feet braced to stone, I threw my hands to the sky, and the camera clicked...

The film was developed later, probably just down the hill at our local Albertson's Grocery, and came back mostly blank and overexposed (Ahhh...the days before digital!). Fortunately, this shot survived...just barely.

That relationship didn't last long...a couple of months, and then he suggested we just go back to being friends...which we did. I went off to Juilliard the following year. Loved the city. Missed the mountains. Life went on. I came back to Salt Lake, got a job, bought a condo, played my trumpet, quit my job, sold the condo, went back to grad school, and then followed Rob to Oberlin, where I'm now working to re-build and perhaps discover anew which parts of myself are most important.

In the face of unforgiving realities, ecstatic moments like the one in this photo burn all the more strongly in memory. I think of the great things I achieved in the ensuing years...the unforgettable experiences I never would have predicted for myself...all of which feel inevitably and imminently alive within this photo. I also lament what I've lately perceived as a precipitous fall from what was to be my promising future.

Of course I know how imperfect a summary this memory has become. In the same way I sometimes forget to acknowledge the good things in my life today, I know I semi-consciously edit out (or at least downplay) many of the disappointments that occurred alongside the past successes I so desperately cling to. In fact, it's likely that if I were to go back and talk to my former self, she'd admit to feeling the same insecurity, fear, and sense of defeat that I do today, while totally blind to the enchantment I now so strongly recollect.

What I know ties us together, is the desire to live a life full of creativity and adventure. I want to be healthy so my body will be able to carry me to the tops of mountains and still feel pleasure at the exertion, and my mind will remain curious and interested and seeking. I want to maintain high standards in my work...whatever it may be...to strive for achievement and be able to take pride in accomplishment. I want to work with persistence and honesty so that my leisure is restful. And I want to take every opportunity to be out in the world. To experience it firsthand. To hear live music, breathe out across the open space of wilderness, and see the stars with my own eyes.

As generalized and cliché as this all may be, I believe it is still the essence of the story I aspire to create for myself...the autobiography I hope to reconstruct from a highly imperfect memory of lived experience.

Going to the Moon

I've been thinking a lot about the moon lately. The full moon was last week. I've been planning two upcoming moon-centered programs with a naturalist at the Wellington Reservation: one in November about observing the first-quarter moon, and one in December about observing under a new-moon sky (so that one's really about the absence of the moon...but still). I went to the library and checked out a stack of books dealing with lunar observation, mythology, exploration...and one that asks the question "What if there were two moons in our sky?" 

A couple nights ago I watched a charming documentary, Lunarcy, that profiles various moon enthusiasts operating on the fringes. One character that stood out in particular to me was Christopher Carson: a man obsessed with mounting a grass-roots effort to colonize the moon. Perhaps his ideas are a bit outside the norm, but I confess that I was still inspired by his resolve, persistence, and unfailing hope in the face of monumental challenges. Toward the end of the documentary, Carson is given the opportunity to meet Alan Bean, a former astronaut turned painter, and one of his special heroes.

Here is how the scene plays out.

Carson (driving a car): Today, I am heading over to have a little chat with the great Alan Bean. The path that he took to get to the moon is not anything like the path I'm taking, and it's not a path which is open to me....Alan is kind of interesting because in a sense here's one guy from my town who went to the moon...so: how many more?  

In Bean's Studio: Carson: You can't accomplish anything just by talking about it, you've gotta go out there and get actual experience. 

Bean: You do. If something's gonna happen, people are gonna hafta actually do it. 

Carson: I suppose the question is, do you have any advice for another hometown boy who never thought of himself as being the most special person in the world, but really would like to do those great things? If you have anything, you know, you could suggest...? 

Bean: Well, I can suggest that moving history forward, which is what you're talking about, a very worthy endeavor, is difficult. Don't lose your spirit. And you've gotta get other people. And all of you working together MAY be able to achieve the dream you're talking about.  

Carson: Well, Thank you! Thank you... 

Carson (speaking excitedly soon after his visit): Every time I have contact with somebody who really has done these things, it serves, I guess, as a kind of a pick-me-up, or a booster...or just a reminder, you know, that this is not (as one in the dark of the night thinks) "is this really just a dream, is this really just a fantasy, is this truly realistic?" And I can say "NO! Look! This guy! Right here! This guy who's got his arm around my shoulder. This is a guy who's actually gone...Clop, Clop, Clop, ACROSS THE SURFACE OF THE MOON! SO, if somebody says, "Oh, that's crazy." What crazy?! What crazy?! It's not crazy. It's as real as the living flesh of the man who's hand I am shaking." 

So when you think about it, the moon, once a symbol of the utterly unattainable...of the pie-in-the-sky impossible dreams that we can only reach for and miss...might now most reasonably serve as a symbol of what IS possible...the pie-in-the-sky we could actually touch, and taste, and feel under our moon boots as we bound across its surface at a fraction of our Earthly weight.

Well...I don't know if I'll actually ever be so lucky. But some have been. And who's to say that Carson, and others like him, won't make it either? 

Anyway. As I said at the beginning of this post: I've been thinking a lot about the moon lately...and so I made this collage...

As with my last one, it's assembled from torn pieces of black construction paper, spattered and brushed with varying levels of white paint. I've enjoyed exploring this new (for me) mode of creativity. My past work hasn't always had such a prominent textural aspect. I almost feel I could come in for a landing on this surface...

Collage

When Rob and I moved into our new rental earlier this month, we were faced with a whole house-full of empty walls. In order to encourage tenants to preserve all this open plaster, our landlords had strategically drilled screws into the walls they felt were best suited for picture hanging...a fine enough idea in my opinion. So, while in Utah a few weeks ago, I gathered up a whole box full of artwork I hoped to hang and sent it out to our new Oberlin home. None of it is my own work, but mostly just a bunch of random pieces I'd purchased from New York City street artists during my student years at Juilliard.

From an African American man who painstakingly pieced together butterfly wings into beautiful figures...

...to an anonymous spray-paint artist who created sci-fi flavored landscapes in a matter of minutes using a toolkit of surprisingly simple household items...

9-11 happened soon after I began my second year at Juilliard. Though I didn't personally know anyone who'd been at the Trade Center, the experience affected me deeply. I purchased this painting a few months after the tragedy. I remember liking the portrayal of the towers beneath a sort of mythic bubble.  

...and intricately serene land and waterscapes from Chinese woodcut artist Sun Yin Sheng...

...among others.

The problem, I soon discovered, was that all the screws are located high up on the walls, while most of my artwork is fairly small and horizontally oriented. To properly fill the open space I'd instead need some large vertical pieces.

Because my funds are quite limited these days, I decided to try making something entirely new.

First off, I wanted my piece to be able to hang without needing a frame (another cost-saver)...it would have to look good rough edges and all. Second, I wanted to keep to the astronomy theme I've been exploring lately...and I'd recently bought a whole ream of black construction paper...perfect! I went downstairs to take stock of other creative supplies I already had that might prove useful. A barely-used bottle of mod-podge...some old ratty paint brushes....an inky toothbrush...and a bottle of white paint might just cost a dollar or two...hmmm...

I'd seen a beautiful origami exhibit a few weeks ago at the Oberlin Arts Center, and had recently thought a lot about collages. An idea began to take shape. It would involve folding, cutting, tearing, and flicking of white paint onto a black background.

After a few days of experimentation, here's what I came up with...

At first I tried to do a somewhat accurate star field. You might recognize a hint of Sagittarius...and a bit of Aquila...but then I messed up on Scorpius and sort of figured I'd fill in the rest at random. In the future I think I'll plan out that aspect a little better. Still, I rather like the piece. It measures roughly 14 x 33 inches and takes up a nice chunk of open wall right in the front room. It's the texture (which doesn't really come out well in the photo) that features most strongly...an aspect I haven't explored much in the past, but may do so more in the future.

Perseids on Killdeer Mound

On the night of August 11th atop the Killdeer Observation Mound at the Wellington Reservation, a large group gathered last to watch for Perseid meteors.

Earlier in the week I'd volunteered to do a night sky program for the occasion and had been studying up in preparation. When Rob and I arrived at the mound around 9:45 pm, four early birds had already claimed their prime blanket spots and were eagerly watching the sky. I introduced myself and offered to give them a preview tour of the constellations. It was great fun! The four were attentive, asked a lot of questions, and perhaps spurred on by their interest and enthusiasm, I performed with confidence and excitement. We also saw what ended up being the best meteor of the night...a brilliant green Earthgrazer that streaked through Hercules and left behind a trail visible even in the darkness and (unfortunately) gathering haze.

The rest of the group--33 in all--arrived a little after 10:00 pm. Led to the mound by park naturalist Becky Bode, most carried blankets or lawn chairs and hurriedly scuffled around for the best observation spots. Once settled, Becky asked everyone to shut off ALL light-producing devices and introduced me as a representative of the Black River Astronomical Society. I jumped in to an explanation of the Perseids' origin and advice about how best to observe them. By this point, more and more of the sky was becoming obscured by thin clouds, so I stressed that even if we didn't end up seeing many tonight, there were likely to be Perseids visible for the next few days. And even if worse came to worse (this is Ohio after all), and the whole rest of the shower ended up entirely clouded out, I advised them to check out spaceweatherradio.com and listen to the radar echoes of meteors shooting through the upper atmosphere high above the clouds.

The night's second constellation tour was a little less successful. In the thickening haze, even the Big Dipper and the normally striking Summer Triangle were starting to look a little washed out. Still, there were moments of clarity, and toward the end of the night's observation it was possible to discern the glowing clouds of the Milky Way from their earthbound counterparts.

The majority of our group picked up at 11:30 and headed back, but Rob and I hung around for a few extra minutes chatting with Becky and watching the sky with another young BRAS member who'd brought his camera and tripod up the mound to try for some meteor photos. On our way back to park headquarters (about a mile from Killdeer Mound), Becky pulled out a bat detector and we stopped to listen to the low fluttering of wings whirring softly through the night air.

Another Perseid program is scheduled for tonight at the Wellington Reservation. I really hope the forecasted scattered thundershowers will scatter elsewhere!

Wishing

On tuesday night we went out looking for Perseids. The shower doesn't peak until late this weekend, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't expect to catch a few early birds. We doused ourselves in bug spray, sneaked over to one of the college's unlit athletic fields, and lay down atop a blanket spread out over the damp grass. Though my engagement with amateur astronomy has continued to grow over the past few years, and I can find my way around the sky a whole lot better than I was ever able to as a kid, it seems like ages since I'd gone out to simply look at the stars equipped with no technology beyond my indiglo wristwatch, and no agenda beyond counting (and maybe wishing upon) shooting stars. It's really something I should do more often.

Oberlin is a small enough town that the Milky Way is faintly visible on clear nights...even within city limits...well...not on Main Street of course...or around the Science Center...and you usually have to shade your eyes from the glare of a street light or two...but it's there! When Rob and I first visited Oberlin together in the spring of 2012, I remember stepping out of the car and being dazzled by the relative darkness. I was an NU student at the time and all too accustomed to Chicago's limited palette of half-a-dozen stars. Goosebumps lit up my arms as I imagined having so many stars in our regular backyard sky.

Back to our secret campout: we did see a few meteors...one or two likely Perseids...traced some constellations, and marveled at the number of satellites milling around overhead. Though the current forecast is not exactly encouraging, I've got my fingers crossed for at least one more good clear night for meteor watching over the next several days.