Reflections and notes on the relationship of art to nature and of nature to art from along Warwoman Creek, in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Katuah Province of Turtle Island, where the light, the dark, the seasons, the time of deep past, deep present and deep future all mix in alchemal mists to reveal and hide and transform these slopes, shaded coves, bright rivers, deep forests and me, and together sustain me and my art.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

THE POET AND THE POWER OF THE LAND

Reprinted from "Forest News," Georgia ForestWatch Quarterly Newsletter, Fall, 2010:

The Poet and the Power of the Land," by Laurence Holden

"The land is like poetry: it is inexplicably coherent, 
it is transcendent in its meaning, and it has the power 
to elevate a consideration of human life." 
- Barry Lopez, Artctic Dreams (1986) p.274


People have doubtless been walking up to the top of mountains for a declaration, a message, or a witness to be be made or acknowledged, forever. Some rituals are so ingrained, we don't even have to know that's what we're doing. So our merry band walked up Rabun Bald, thinking we were doing it just in mutual celebration of such a pleasant day, of the mountain itself, and of our fellowship. (At least us mlountain folk walked; the flatlanders among us thought perhaps it was a hike).

At the top we emerged from a laurel thicket onto a windswept precipice. A real mountain top for sure - the thick roiling cloud cover a low ceiling just above our heads. But a real precipice too, for not only is Rabun Bald a mountain, it is also a weather-scoured ridge that is the Eastern Continental Divide.

It is a great and certain divide indeed, for as we topped the ridge, the mountain suddenly fell away from us down into the steep roadless area of Sarah's Creek. Not a road, not a cldear cut to be seen. Rugged country for real - a place you wouldn't enter without a real back-up plan. A place you hear stories about the "back of beyond." A place for stories.

I'm still preparing my back-up plan for a sojourn there, a trip I know I may never actually make. But it's there. It's actually there. Enough for countless generations of stories. Stories to keep, to tell, andto pass down. That's the way we keep what's sacred in the land, keep it all alive, and us as well - alive to its miraculous presence. As author Christopher Camuto puts it in Another Country: Journeying Toward the Cherokee Mountains, "in a landscape where nothing is sacred, nothing is safe."

We saw it from atop Rabun Bald. I know it's there, there in all its roadless fullness just as I know the waters of Sarah's Creek way down below in a gentle cove where I've gently touched my open hand to its surface, and felt the tremble and the thrum of it all above - all the way up to Rabun Bald.

We sat a while on the top, inveterate celebrator Brooks Franklin passed around his morning's harvest of cherry tomatoes, each exploding in our mouths like bountiful bursts of ripe sunlight. Jill and I each prepared to give our talks, but once there, as we looked about at the grandeur at the summit, I knew my words could not match the experience of being there. But we both did, but each with more than a little humbleness in our voices. Surely we are sewn out of the wonder of the world!

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

HONOR WOODARD'S "PRESCRIBED BURN" : a revaluation of our relationship to the world around us and within us



Honor Woodard’s “Prescribed Burn”in her upcoming book: Upon Reflection: New Landscapes, Ancient Lands


A flux of events brings an image into being. A forest fire and an artist’s explorations of mandala imagery get folded into the construction of an image that goes out into the world to make a living for itself. The still and unmoving reality of this image no longer just chronicles these events, but remains to fix something beyond that eventfulness and holds it in place; no longer as a journalistic document, but by a consequent folding and refolding of the particulars of these events into a particular fabric of harmony. Not a quiet harmony. No, not that at all! But a harmony with enough visceral strength to perhaps hold up the world. In such a way an image can touch us.

Our images tell us much about both the world around us as well as the world inside us. Whether they are the images we are drawn to or repelled by, or whether they are the images we make, they all fix an eternally moving life. They tell us that within the flow of creation there is order, within constant change and transformation there is pattern, that within time there is a permanence. We take in an image of the world around us and see how it fits with our inner experience of ourselves. We take an inner image and project it upon the world to see how it fits. Of course, the two can't easily be disentangled. One reflects the other. It is unlikely the two can ever be disentangled. But in the intertwining we locate ourselves in relationship to the world around us, and the world in relationship to ourselves. In this way Honor Woodard's image "Prescribed Burn," is a compelling image.

First, it draws us to it by its forceful symmetry; at first, like a face by its bilateral symmetry. But then we realize this scene is a reality that has been folded four times, and thus draws us into a very different relationship to the  landscape and the world.

We don't expect this from a landscape. Whether in a painting, a photograph, or direct observation, we normally expect a scene to unfold before us - like a carpet unrolled from foreground through middle, to background. These are the characteristics of a European landscape tradition established long ago in the eighteenth century. It is a particular culturally shaped view of land - that it is to be properly surveyed from a distance and remove, and that one moves through it linearly (from foreground thru middle toward the horizon). Thus it tells us of the world inside us - just how we organize experience within our minds and thoughts, how we can observe a whole bundle of thoughts and ideas from a rational remove.- we say we have to “stand back to see the whole picture” of some problem.

When we simply pull off the highway at a scenic look out, we are rereading this prescriptive 18th century European way of relating to the landscape, the land, nature, and the whole natural world - at a remove and distance, and in linear progression and a one point perspective. When we snap a picture of this scene to save its memory, the lens we employ has been ground specifically to shape this one point perspective. One has only to peruse the images of landscape in other cultures to see how richly diverse are the ways to relate to landscape, and to ourselves. An Apache storyteller will tell you “the plants, rocks, fire, water, all are alive. They watch us and see our needs. They see when we have nothing to protect us, and it is then that they reveal themselves and speak to us.”
 Unfortunately most of these ways are no longer available, they are either dead, or rapidly being pushed to extinction

So it can matter greatly, and directly, in our lives just how and where we locate ourselves in this world, and how and where we locate our inner world in relation to the outer world. In 1991 Wendell Berry eloquently described what happens when we believe in “fictive coordinates.” like those of linear perspective- we lose control over ourselves as well as the controls of nature. Honor’s “Prescribed Burn” presents a strongly “worded” opposition to this European tradition.

In “Prescribed Burn” Honor Woodard has transformed landscape into a surrounding symmetry of coordinates strongly provoking a Rorcharch response in us, and thus purposefully pushing landscape into inscape. At first, "Prescribed Burn" unfolds much as a European alter piece. Such an alter piece unfolds to reveal a hierarchical organization of space, in careful steps from vile earth upward through a social reality to a heavenly one, thus revealing its own culturally shaped view of the ultimate reality. But Honor's four fold symmetry does not allow us to move back to survey or to lead us upward toward a higher reality - the tripartite universe of European theology and culture, with God over Man and Man over nature. Honor’s quadripartite universe relocates ourselves within a constantly unfolding and refolding relationship. The U.S. Forest Service prescribed burn took place on what was once Cherokee land in N.E. Georgia. They saw this land in their own terms, and they too understood the universe as quadripartite. For them the sky, “Galun'lati” is a stone arch, part of the earth, not a transcendent reality. Their four cardinal directions located a place that extended itself into the three additional sacred directions of earth, human, and spirit.

"Prescribed Burn's" insistent folding focuses us there within that place, each part mirroring another, each part reverberating with an over all pattern, just the way a spider’s web does. Two mature Pine trees, secure as architectural columns, scarred by fire, stand triumphant on solid earth and hold up a roof, not of heaven, but of earth again itself.

And what are the circumstances from which this scene unfolds? It happens to be not a symbolic vision, but a particular event in a particular time and place: the U.S. Forest Service's frequent attempt through "controlled burning" to reset the natural forest process of growth, in effect their attempt to domesticate both forest and fire. Honor's image is based on her photographic document of such a prescribed burn in North Georgia. Ash and char permeate that scene. But the evidence of destruction by fire throughout becomes folded into a perfect and still harmony. The two Pine trees could be a gate for us, but it is a narrow one, and the two stout trees present us with two formidable guardians.

Beneath this controlled, prescriptive burning of a forest floor, lurks a deeper circumstance. Fire in a forest is terrifying. We've known this for millennia. It is wildness in its rawest expression. It is a wild beast, a destroyer of life. What we've always feared in a wolf's gaze is multiplied many times by a forest fire.

Though a flux of events brought this image into being - a forest fire, an artist’s exploration of imaging, the folding of these into an artist’s experience of what a pattern in life does reveal, the image itself now lives in our world among us. We can’t say it never was, or that it was just a passing figment of imagination or fancy.

We need to know of this, and learn from it. It’s obvious to me that many of our most entrenched images about the world and ourselves have gotten us into great trouble. The recent ecological disaster in the Gulf of Mexico is. by all engineering and scientific expert accounts, far beyond our ability to either prevent or repair. Such news for our species is grim. Perhaps we can’t save our natural environment without first saving something in ourselves - some way to re-inhabit this world by coming to it with a renewed image of it and of ourselves. The experience of art offers one step in this direction - an art that encourages us to imagine another image of our relationship to nature. This is what Honor Woodard’s “Prescribed Burn” does in fact summon us to - a re-evaluation of that moment, which could be any moment, a revaluation of our relationship to the world around us and within us. It’s what we need to know here and now.

To learn more about Honor Woodard's work just go to:

http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/1501226
silvermoonfrog.blogspot.com
http://wppr.podbean.com/2010/08/23/community-life-august-20-2010/
silvermoonfrog.jalbum.net
perfectnowworld.blogspot.com

Monday, August 23, 2010

BETWEEN ART & CRAFT - PART II

Several weeks ago I went to visit old potter friends in the Jugtown area of North Carolina. I hadn't seen them in 15+ years. In the early to mid 1990's my wife Lynn Durant and I visited them often when Lynn was developing her series of stunning exhibits at the Hambidge Center. We found their potteries  all still there - Sid Luck's, Pam and Vernon Owens', the Farrells', Ben Owen's, Mark Hewitt's over in Pittsboro. Some said there were over a 100 potteries in the area now. In the 1990's we counted 80 I believe. This time I went in each of several potteries looking to see if I could still recognize the strong roots of their tradition there. I picked up a Vernon Owens jug and it bloomed in my hands as strong as ever with a fullness and certainty of that tradition - . Pam Owens' too. And I could see it coming on strongly in their young son Travis' work too  - a little self conscious yet, but that's to be expected in one so young who is studying so carefully the way his father and mother raise a pot on a potter's wheel. In another pottery I saw this tradition waver, not unexpectedly either, the potter seeming to be looking for a way for a pot to appear more relevant in today's world. I've known that feeling in my own work at times, and known also the endless path of distraction it has always led me down.  It's far from certain just how to keep one's center in a world of shattered coordinates, either in art or craft, a world which has decidedly made traditional craft an anachronism. Old Issaiah Wedgewood knew the brutal way the world was headed when he said he would "make machines of men" in his pottery in Staffordshire, England.

So working in a traditional form offers no certainty either. No surprise there. I came away thinking of Ben Owen, and especially of a photograph of him hobbling with an uncertain gait in his old age toward his own Plank Road Pottery, his young grandson Ben Owens III, six or seven years old then, confidently in tow. The sadly poignant aspect of that photograph is that they are both walking away from us into the past, not toward us into the present. I wonder what they are taking with them that we will never know?

Over the next several days, trying to come to terms with what I had witnessed, and felt, a poem began to brew while driving around that countryside. Here it is:

            OLD PLANK ROAD POTTERY
                             in memory of Ben Owen, potter, 1904-1983


                        This earth
            rises up on an old potter’s wheel
            like memory -
            squash, cabbage
            beans, butter
            whiskey, souse.

                        Just so
            not too tall, not
            too wide, not too thin
            for a mountain
            a valley, a river
            a winter, a life

                        for what
            can hold
            this earth, this country
            this life
            on this wheel.