The High Line: An Abstract Nature

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The High Line is New York City’s phenomenally popular urban park built atop the remains of a former elevated rail structure. Designed collaboratively by James Corner Field Operations, Diller Scofidio + Renfro, and Piet Oudolf, the park runs through a 1.45 mile section of the Chelsea neighborhood on Manhattan’s West Side. Twenty-five years elapsed between the time trains stopped running on the High Line and it was first considered for redevelopment as a uniquely innovative park. During that time a feral urban wilderness seeded itself and grew on the structure. That wild character inspired the creation of the park.

Introducing The High Line: An Abstract Nature, my most recent project—still in progress. An extension of my previous series, called Synecdoche: the fragment that represents the whole, the new project applies the concepts and issues of that series to the specificity of this place.

Synecdoche is a literary term that means the part that represents the whole. The images in the series metaphorically express the fragmentation we experience in our complex, often paradoxical, relationships between nature and the built environment; they challenge definitions of nature in a time when nature often is reduced, manufactured and abstracted. The images come from diverse locations to emphasize the increasing universality of this phenomenon. (To see selections from my Synecdoche portfolio, click here.)

The High Line: An Abstract Nature is a photographic study of the park, which, although inspired by feral nature, is as carefully designed and maintained as a botanical garden. The rigorous design of its natural features and its popularity as a tourist destination combine with its urban setting to create an unprecedented urban park experience. It is a park where nature has been introduced into a totally manufactured environment that is dominated by the presence of people.

Let’s be clear about two things: First, like so many others, I love the High Line. Second, although it was inspired by the feral kind of nature that grew on the abandoned line, now that it’s a park it can no longer be considered anything like an urban wilderness. I’ve often stretched that concept, which is meant to be a thought-provoking paradox. But trying to wrap it around the High Line would eviscerate all meaning from the "wilderness" end of its conceptual spectrum. No matter. The High Line is another sort of experience of nature and, as I see it, a more abstract one. Hence the title of this series.

To see more images from The High Line: An Abstract Nature, click here.

Artists talk about Chicago Project on Edelman Gallery website

I brought my two prints home from recently from The Chicago Project V exhibit that has been on display at the Catherine Edelman Gallery since early July. However, the exhibit lives on in the words of the artists (including mine) on the gallery website. Each of the nine artists included in the exhibit were interviewed for a feature called Artist Talk.

The purpose of Artist Talk, according to the website, is to further the understanding of "the creative process through the words of the photographer. We hope collectors, curators and the general public will gain a better understanding about each piece on exhibit and the artist in general."

Before the interview we were prepped to include some biographical information, who influenced our work and/or other photographers we admire, and then to describe the prints on display in some detail. If you listen to my video you will note that I adhere pretty much to this pattern. The two prints that represent me in the exhibit are from my Synecdoche Series (and, yes, I explain that odd term in the video!) You can hear just my interview, or any of the other individual photographers, by clicking here and then clicking on the small video link to the right of my name under my two prints.

To listen to all of the interviews in a sequence, you can click here and then click on the link to "The Chicago Project V," (which is currently right on top.)

To read my previous post about the The Chicago Project V exhibit, click here.

My Synecdoche Series has been complete enough to have been exhibited twice now in solo shows. However, wherever I travel I continue to find subjects that are consistent with its theme of symbolizing the fragments of nature that represent the whole. Sometimes they even push the concept in a new direction. I recently returned from a vacation trip to Cape Ann, north of Boston. A familiar landmark there is the twin lighthouses on Thatcher Island, the kind of place where our species has been testing its relationship with the natural world for a very long time.

Fortuitously, I was there when the moon was full.

You can also see more from the Synecdoche Series on my website.

Turrell Graces the Guggenheim

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As I walk into the rotunda of the Guggenheim Museum it is all white. Serendipity, I soon learn. The floor is white, the walls are white, and the space overhead is bright, though not uniformly, white. Everything except all the people. People line the curving walls of the space, sitting on specially designed and installed benches. People also lie flat on their backs in the center of the floor, on a mat installed for that purpose. All are staring straight up into the whiteness overhead. I quickly lie down on the only patch of bare mat, a small sliver that allows for only my head. No matter. I too stare straight up.

Six white ovals seem to float in space.  There are six concentric edges but nothing that resembles a ceiling. As my eyes—and my mind—adjust to the effect, it doesn’t even resemble space; at least not any earthly space I’ve experienced. Celestial space perhaps. I wouldn’t know.

Someone next to me rises, departs. Immediately, I scoot up so that I am more centered on the mat. I am aware of the body heat in the mat left behind by that person. I am aware of breathing on both sides of me, the rubbing of clothing. I hear the murmur of voices all around the room, some loud enough to understand, most simply ambient noise.

The white ovals change ever so slowly, becoming a pale robin’s egg blue. The smallest oval, in the center, remains lighter than the others. It feels like a great eye is staring back down as I stare up. The pale blue gradually becomes the most intense cerulean I can imagine. When I blink I see yellow on the insides of my eyelids.

A baby cries out, briefly. One of the voices I hear clearly—and repeatedly—is that of the guard warning people not to take photos. I am aware of the heads of people moving about around the circle. My gaze remains upwards.

The blue becomes pink, then intensely, magnificently fuchsia, then magenta, orange. My eyelids are green now when I blink. The orange fades to the most delicate peach and once again white. The oval center seems to recede at times, to stand forward at others. Briefly it disappears altogether. At no time does the space above us feel like an enclosure; it continues to float through every color change, not a corporeal presence at all: pure light.

I relinquish my place on the mat and stand. The room becomes an oddly shaped room again, not quite recognizable as the Guggenheim rotunda; reminiscent of futuristic architectural visions from the past. The benches around the periphery of the room are still full of people, though not the same people. The visitors are interchangeable, like the colors. I choose a vacant spot, sit, and lean back against the curved wall behind me.

From this vantage point, at an oblique angle, the illusion is imperfect. The concentric ovals recede like a wormhole going upwards. But to where? No frame of reference provides a clue.

The people moving about the room are more distracting. There is a boy across from me wearing a fluorescent chartreuse shirt. A woman next to me holds up a cell phone. The guard comes towards us. “No photographs!” he says forcefully. The woman is startled, chastened. (But she got the shot. Who is being injured? I wonder. This work of art can’t be captured anyway, not really.) The guard turns away; looks harried. I sympathize. The impulse to pull out that cell phone seems nearly universal these days.

I sit through another sequence, but the colors are not the same this time. There are the peach and the blues, but then the “sky” turns gray and darkens. It is almost oppressive, as if a storm is approaching. The ovals lighten again, pale blue like a clearing sky, pink, fade to white.

I recall the story in the New York Times just last week about art museums that feel obliged to provide visitors with more than great but static art on the walls; to provide an experience. Well, yes, I muse, as I continue to gaze into colored space. This is not the same as standing in front of a painting. How will that feel, I wonder, when I go upstairs and wander through the galleries, look at the Kandinskys, Picassos, and all the rest?

I lie back down on the mat. Different colors again. Yellow now; orange; red-orange; fuchsia. (My eyelids turn blue.) I am aware of words being spoken in a variety of languages: French, Spanish, German, Russian. People come and go. Lavender. I love the lavender! How long have I been lying here? Time, like space, seems to dissolve into light. When it becomes white again, it is such an intense white I am reminded of stories of the afterlife in near death experiences.

Why did Turrell choose ovals? I am thinking it is a baroque gesture. By elongating the rigid geometry of Wright’s circular building Turrell injects a dynamic shift, as baroque architects did in their vaulted ceilings. And the trompe l’oeil frescoes that adorned those ceilings often created the illusion of gazing up into the heavens. I’ve always loved Turrell’s work, but this is a triumph!

There’s more, but I’ve gone on too long. (I think I’ve outlasted most of the other visitors, too.) At one point the woman lying next to me whispers to her (presumed) husband, “Let’s go, this is getting boring.” He demurs, says that Turrell admits that some people will not be willing to spend the 10 to 20 minutes needed to appreciate it. The woman retorts, “Did you talk to him?” No, he replies patiently, “he’s interviewed on the video.”

When I finally decide I’ve had enough, I calculated roughly that I must have been in there over 40 minutes. I spy a young woman wearing a badge that reads, “Let’s talk art” and ask how long the sequence lasts. “About an hour,” she thinks. For a more traditional (and briefer) description of the installation, go to City Paper. At right, for what it’s worth, is an image I got from ArchDaily.

I did go through the rest of the museum. I did find the Kandinskys and Picassos a bit..., not boring exactly, but, well, static. 

But is it art?

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If intention is the determinant, which is arguable, it is not art. But, it must be asked, why then did I, after finding, picking up and admiring the perfectly oval stone, carry it with me for some distance without conscious intention? The impulse to select this particular stone, with its remarkable geometrical form, from amongst the hundreds of thousands piled up in a great mountain of similar stones along the back of Cape Hedge Beach is an aesthetic one; perhaps even more than aesthetic, for it speaks of a desire to find (in this case literally to discover) order in a chaotic world, meaning in an incomprehensible world; and by placing the stone just so—on its long axis, atop the natural irregularity, the jumble of weathered granite, the rocky outcrop at the edge of the continent, facing with its fragile stance and balanced by my agency against the currently calm but ultimately implacable, all consuming ocean—that act of placing is likewise aesthetic, likewise an assertion of meaning; an act of optimism, perhaps, hope that order will prevail, that balance and, if only for a moment, a mystical harmony with the universe can be achieved.

Similar “interventions” in the landscape have certainly been called art. What is art, after all, but a cry in the wind, a mark in the sand? Not a futile gesture (one hopes), but only rarely a transcendent one. What is intention anyway? My life, my choice to be an artist, that is the salient intention. I am not Andy Warhol. I don’t believe that everything I do is art or that my presence on earth is itself a form of art. But now and then I do something, make something, assert myself, place a stone carefully, consciously upright on a pinnacle of rock. And I ask, is it art? (And I don’t mean the photograph, which is a separate question and one that’s easier to answer, I think.)

Feeling the luxury of time and space, I sit with the stone and the rocky cape and the ocean and wind and the sky. When eventually I leave, the stone remains standing on its precarious perch, for the moment, to be found, perhaps, by the next person who comes clambering out onto the headland in search of whatever epiphanies are at hand. It brings me joy to think that this humble offering might come as a joyful surprise. Art, even with deliberate intention, can do worse.

A haiku for the beach

My family is spending a week at the beach in Rockport, MA. So far I've gone four whole days without working. In other words, a real vacation for a change. In more other words, I haven't shot a single photograph except of my family. It's very relaxing. Relaxing enough that I wrote my first haiku in a very long time.

afternoon at the beach

toddler                        seagull

eying the same cracker

The toddler is my granddaughter, Lynncita. I didn't get a shot of the gull. (I'm not working.) But I did get this one of Lynncita:

Livebooks posts my website on its "success stories" page

My website is hosted by Livebooks. They have a featured page called "success stories." They just listed my website: Livebooks Success Stories.

Sources of inspiration: MARN mentors and National Parks

Extraverts draw energy from social interactions and introverts find themselves sapped by the same situations. Instead they are nurtured by solitary pursuits. Likewise some artists find inspiration from and amongst other people while others head as far out of town as possible and immerse themselves in nature. Two divergent exhibitions currently on display in Milwaukee illustrate these tendencies.

From long experience I know that I will be unable to visit half the venues on my “must see” list for gallery night and day, which is coming up this weekend. Therefore, I took the opportunity to visit these two shows, which are a bit off the beaten track, ahead of the weekend.

Sculptures by Ann Baer

Vanguard Sculpture Services, a foundry and gallery on the north side, is hosting the annual exhibit of work done during the past year by MARN mentors and their protégées. Sponsored by MARN (Milwaukee Artist Resource Network), the program pairs artists with similar interests or disciplines who then commit to meeting together for a year. Their relationship is intended to be a mutual exchange or dialogue, each drawing inspiration from the experience of working with the other.

Yelling Man, Rhonda Gatlin-Hayes

The drawback of visiting this show outside of official opening or gallery night events was the absence of the musicians and the “platforming” (which I must confess is a new category for me; can’t say what it actually is.) However, the visual arts on display are quite diverse, including painting, printmaking, sculpture, mixed media, and video.

One that struck me in particular was a series of projected images entitled “The Sequence Collection” by Jason Altobelli. Each projected image in the series is composed of several still photographs collaged together. The relationships amongst these disparate images were often enigmatic and I found the impulse to create associations intriguing. There was no way to capture this piece in one still image.

Hidden Face, Kyle Jeske

It is a testament perhaps to the power of the mentor/protégée relationships that I found it hard to distinguish the work of the protégées from that of the mentors. Something is working here!

 The other exhibit is at the Schlueter Art Gallery, on the Wauwatosa campus of Wisconsin Lutheran College. It couldn’t be much more of a contrast with the MARN show. The six artists in the show have all taken advantage of the opportunity to retreat into the remote wilds of nature through a U. S. National Park Artist in Residency. The show was curated by Kristin Gjerdset, a Wisconsin Lutheran faculty member who herself has participated in multiple National and State Park residencies.

Great Basin Triptych, Kristin Gjerdset

U. S. National Parks Artist in Residency programs are offered in over 29 parks, monuments and wildlife refuges. They generally provide participating artists with minimal accommodations and maximum access to nature and the unique features of each park. In return the artists are expected to provide some kind of public program for park visitors and to donate a work of art that was inspired by their residency.

Mosquito, Joyce Kostenmaki

The work of the six artists in this show is remarkably consistent both in content and quality. Inspired by their surroundings, traditional nature studies and landscapes prevail, as might be expected. The parks represented range from Great Basin in Nevada and Rocky Mountain in Colorado to Isle Royale, MI, in Lake Superior.

It was eye opening to see how many of these artists have been granted residencies year after year. At least two of their number have done no fewer than a dozen stints in one or more parks. This was of particular interest to me personally, not only because I myself often find inspiration in the natural world, but also because I have applied to be an artist in residence to at least five different National Parks.

Spring Melt, Diane Bywaters

“Summer Arts: Inspired by the National Parks” runs through August 2 at the Schlueter Art Gallery, 8815 W. Wisconsin Avenue, Wauwatosa. For more info, see Wisconsin Lutheran College.

The “MARN Mentor/Protégée Exhibit” runs through July 30 at Vanguard Sculpture Services, 3374 W. Hopkins St., Milwaukee. For more info, go to the Vanguard website or MARNmentors.

Ps., if you go to Vanguard and find the front door locked, as I did, don’t be stymied. Go around to the left side loading dock. They have a buzzer there—and they will let you in.

Full disclosure: I have been a MARN mentor in the past—but I have not (yet!) been accepted as an artist in residence at a National Park.