Water’s Memory of Earth
The world moves whether we are aware of it or not. Under our feet the ground is shifting. The weather above us swirls in wind and moisture collecting dust and water. Above that the universe burns on in its eternal primordial yawn. These things do not always bubble up to the top of our mind, yet they are always occurring.
With this in mind I take to my studio. In the last few months, I have made a small series of paintings. These paintings are made up of wood, canvas, walnut ink, and clay. Somehow these hold the stillness of the land as well as the quiet yawn of the universe.
The paintings are all 24 inches by 24 inches. I stretched 12-ounce duck canvas stretched over pine board that I cut down to size and built into canvas stretchers. Just as the river flows with the curvature of the earth and the land that it cuts through the material moves and reacts to the surface of the canvas. It is not the same relationship as the water and the earth, but I like to think of them as related.
This work feels more minimal and quieter than much of my other work that I was making In Minnesota and Wisconsin. Perhaps there was more that I was working through in those paintings so there was more excitement and power. Now, the work is more familiar, and each movement is like an old friend. The work here feels more silent, more meditative, perhaps even more aware of itself. I wonder if this is because there are more bright dead things in the ground than there was up north. I didn’t expect the oceanic history to hold me so tightly.
With every scrap of clay, I can see the small gods that made up the oceanic Ohio basin. I invite them into my studio and home. I am really surprised at the reverent quiet it asks me to give it in the studio. At times my workspace feels more like a monk’s cell than anything else. The land calls for my reverent attention, and I try to give it as much as I can. She has given me so much, and my attention is the least that I can give her.
This work started in lostness. I had found this clay early in my time here in Ohio, but I was having troubles finding the contrast that I wanted on the paintings. In some small test I had allowed pools of clay dry and crack. This has always been exciting to me, and I had made some small pieces in college that played with the similar idea. After talking with Jason Franz, the director of Manifest, he suggested I make more of the cracked clay pieces.
When I originally had made them, I thought of them as more of an experiment; something that I would like to further pursue someday. I thought of them as small answers in the “meantime”. Jason urged me to make some more, asking “what would it look like to have a wall covered in these?” The beauty of repetition is always a good place to look.
I made 6 canvases and got to work laying down the clay. By this point I had been joining walnut ink that I had made with a few paintings to help contrast the lightness of the soils and clays that I was finding here. I laid a base of walnut ink on the raw canvases. Once that had dried, I crushed, mixed, and poured the clay on to the surface. Then let them dry. Many of these paintings I would re-wet or add more clay to. There was a fine dance of letting the clay lead. I would suggest things with volume and distribution of material. In the end the clay gets to make the choices. I am ok with this relationship. It allows me to set my ego aside in the creative process and let the materials lead.
This is the most exciting part for me! Pouring the clay is usually the last thing I do in the studio before leaving. This lets the clay rest in a room that is not having dust kicked up in it, but also gives me something to look forward to finding when I go back. This act of leaving some thing for me to find when I come back to the studio does two things that make my practice very healthy for me. One is that it keeps me excited to come back in when my mind is looking for a reason to stay home after work. Secondly, and more importantly, I am able to find myself in a new state of wonder. Being able to find these paintings waiting on the floor for me, gives me a booster shot of energy for my studio session and helps to perpetuate my practice and motivation.
Wonder has been a silent part of my practice since the beginning. It draws me in to ask questions. It fills me with fear when I stand at the edge of a cliff or allows me to feel so small when I stand under a veteran Oak tree. Wonder keeps me asking questions when I am out in the world or when I am in the studio ready to say that I have no motivation. Wonder and fear come together and pull me off the couch to see what the clay has done. I can’t wait to see what the art has done while I’ve been gone.
The spirit of the art lives in this. I too am a passenger on the ride just as we all are in the world. These paintings seem to hold this energy. There is a ride that we are going on when we look at them. It is not a roller-coaster, but it is not a smooth ride either. Perhaps it is more of a song that is able to mix the smoothness of a quiet lullaby with an edgy harshness of a sawtooth synth.
We all come to the work differently. I find my own path to the work that I make just as you find your own path. Yet the work is the clearing in the woods where we meet.
The song of the earth will never bore me. There is too much energy there for me to become bored. We all spin together to the song. Through space we dance to the natural forces. The rivers sing for us just as the birds do. Sometimes we are able to take a moment of that beauty and bring it home with us.