I’ve never seen such consistently fascinating weather as I’ve seen in Johnson. It’s absolutely beautiful.
I’ve never seen such consistently fascinating weather as I’ve seen in Johnson. It’s absolutely beautiful.
I’ve never seen such consistently fascinating weather as I’ve seen in Johnson. It’s absolutely beautiful.
In Which We Laugh at a Technical Difficulty While Discovering a Metaphor for Artmaking.
Last week, I attended a lecture at the Vermont Studio Center by the painter Yvonne Jacquette. (Check out this article for more info on her paintings of aerial cityscapes).
Near the end of her talk, the Powerpoint and digital projector were put away because Yvonne wanted to show us some thangka paintings which were not in digital form. The Beseler opaque projector was turned on; it provides for the projection of books and other paper items, using a series of lights and prisms to reflect the image onto the screen.
I’d never seen anything like this beast before; all told, even though it sat on a tabletop, it seemed to be bigger (certainly heavier) than anyone in the room. And it was loud, very loud. There was a door which opened from the back, like the door to a wood-burning oven, which, when opened, poured out hot light into the darkened lecture hall. There was a presentation tray underneath, made of industrial-looking metal rollers, on which the reproduction of the thangka painting was placed.
As Yvonne began to talk about the thangka, the internal fan (necessary in the face of those white-hot lamps) blew the card off its centered position on the rollers. We watched it get caught up in the blast of wind, like a leaf on the street, until it caught on the interior wall of the projector. From there, we could see the corner of the card and the metal rollers, but that was all.
Undaunted, the projectionist opened the door and adjusted the image, then closed the door again. The image again was forcefully blown away and out of reach of the lights and prisms. We could see evidence of it, a shadow, a shape, but not the image itself.
The projectionist, quicker this time, again opened the door and repositioned the little painting. The door was firmly closed and once more, we watched the projection screen as the gust of air took the painting out of our sight. Again and again, the projectionist tried, but the little painting stubbornly refused to be seen.
The audience laughed at this unruly little image.
While people continued to give advice and fiddle with the Beseler, I realized that this was a great metaphor for artmaking: it’s the place where the patient, the stubborn, the curious, the diligent, and the frustrating all collide. Where sometimes you know what you want to happen, but it just won’t materialize, despite your best efforts. Although the process might seem perfectly straightforward, there’s always something that keeps running ahead of you, just out of your grasp. The fleeting image.
Usually when this happens in the studio, you just have to make do with something else; your hand makes adjustments to contours, position, relationships between parts. Sometimes something major needs to get covered up, or sometimes a piece is put aside entirely in favor of something new and different. These solutions, which may not be what you had in mind, usually turn out just fine in the end. (Sometimes, better than fine).
This calls to mind a Richard Diebenkorn quote:
I can never accomplish what I want – only what I would have wanted had I thought of it beforehand.
Because no one could stabilize the image in the opaque projector, Yvonne’s talk ended there. Fortunately, most of what she had wanted to say seemed to have been said already. Afterward, a small crowd gathered around the Beseler projector to marvel at its dimensions and laugh at the momentary chaos it had caused. We left the lecture hall.
I walked back to the studio, thinking about runaway images. Time to try again.
A peek inside the artist’s studio…
I tend to develop a painting intuitively and reactively…I don’t work out a plan ahead of time, or plot a composition on paper first. I begin by diving in and sketching out shapes with paint. When I step back and look at the painting, I’ll react to what I’ve already put down on the painting surface, and either make complementary shapes and colors, or cover up what I’ve already done and make new ones. Sometimes that even means turning a painting upside down, or changing its orientation from horizontal to vertical. Most of the painting is in the editing process–this eliminating of things that no longer work, and adjusting to add what does.
In thinking about the story of Tyler Clementi, and in general about gay people who are often asked or required to hide who they are, I chose an uneasy green to convey anxiety. (Someone suggested that the green was “institutional”, which added another layer of meaning–all the better!) This anxious, institutional green covers previous layers of activity (you can see vestiges of them peeking out, or see their texture covered by the green). Some activity takes place out in the open; some is covered. The greenish-black and the reflexive scribbling with pencil are meant to be jarring, emotional notes.
One of my beliefs is that a painting needs to be beautiful on some level, in order to capture a viewer’s interest and get him/her thinking about concepts and ideas inherent in the work. Making an ugly piece about war, for example, works for Goya or Otto Dix, but it’s not my way of getting into a work. I like to suggest a mood or moment through color, interplay of shapes, and quality of lines. While I don’t go too far in one direction by allowing my work become merely pretty, I also try not to go too far in the other direction by covering everything in black. I prefer to be more evocative, rather than to answer the question too quickly.
I think of it like a book: you want people to keep reading; you don’t want to give away the whole story on the first page.
For this painting, I took a photo of my progress every time I stepped away from the studio for an extended time (meal break, overnight). What you’re seeing is an arbitrary moment, not necessarily a critical juncture in the painting process. As I carted my work home from Vermont Studio Center, I could hear some misbehaving from the jumble of paintings in the backseat, so I’ll have to assess whether any touch-ups are needed, but as of now, this is the story of this painting:
I like Montreal. It’s a walkable city, with interesting neighborhoods (next time, I want to spend more time in the Latin Quarter) and a charming feel. We had time for just two museums and a gallery or two, but it was great to see “new” artists who don’t appear frequently in American or European collections. Three discoveries were Master of the Female Half-Lengths (how’s that for a name?), Brendan Lee Satish Tang, and Pierre Durette.
We were greeted as natives everywhere: French first, and a friendly switch to English when it was proven necessary. I thought that was a nice, polite touch that made us feel at home. Here are some photos from our walks around town:
This is a true story about the small world we live in, about memory, family, roots, and the power of art.
It started around the breakfast table at the Vermont Studio Center. My friend Peggy Sapphire and I discovered our mutual connnection to the city of Pittsfield, Massachusetts. I was born there, she had visited it as a child, and she excitedly leaned over to tell me about her great affection for it.
This has never happened before, so first, a word about my birthplace and my somewhat complicated relationship to it. When people ask where I’m from, there’s a slight mental pause on my part before I say I’m originally from Massachusetts. Not “Pittsfield”, just “Massachusetts”. I was born in Pittsfield, it’s what my passport says, yet I only lived there until I was four or five, and my memories are hazy at best. I remember in glimpses: our street, walking to the Dairy Queen after dinner, the smell of a bakery with turquoise trim and shiny glass cases with revolving cakes, seeing the huge dragonfies at Onota Lake, looking at Queen Anne’s Lace along the side of a road while on a walk with my aunt Anne, and a bright pink stucco church which seemed out of place in New England–but fascinating because of it–even to a four-year old.
We left Pittsfield for another town in Massachusetts, of which I have stronger memories because I was older. But I don’t say “I’m from Sterling” because my connection there seems tenuous as well: we kids were forbidden to develop the local accent, and we moved out of the state entirely in four more years, to a town in Connecticut on the Massachusetts border. My roots do feel as if they are planted somewhere in Massachusetts; I never, ever lay claim to being “from” Connecticut, even though that’s where I spent most of my childhood, and it’s where my parents still live, thirty years later.
Besides my lack of strong memories, the other disconnect to my birthplace is that my parents’ glowing descriptions of Pittsfield absolutely do not match up with what my own eyes told me about the place when we returned as visitors for family events.
Pittsfield is like many New England towns that thrived along an industry (for some, it was a mill; in our case, it was General Electric) then crashed when the industry left. Many of these towns, like Pittsfield, are still trying to get back on their feet.
When my parents grew up there in the 1940s and 50s and returned after college in the 1960s, GE was headquartered there and Pittsfield was hot. My parents told tales of excitement along North Street, of happy people socializing in a vibrant downtown, of summer vacations, from that era.
When we returned for family occasions in the 70s and 80s and less and less as time went on, I saw abandoned buildings, some with plywood for windows, some blackened by fire. There weren’t many people on the sidewalks that I recall, but the ones I saw seemed to shuffle around unhappily. I saw broken windows, empty warehouses, ugly industrial spaces with too many wires overhead. Nothing felt nice. No additional pleasant memories related to the city itself were planted alongside the old glimpses I’d retained.
It seemed impossible that just a few short years earlier, this had been a fun-loving utopia for my parents. Their stories, unfailingly and glowingly complimentary to Pittsfield, took on the air of hyperbole, even propaganda, over the years because of this disconnect. My sister, brother and I (the ones closest in age to me were born there too; the youngest two were born in Connecticut and have even less connection there) couldn’t understand the old Pittsfield, their Pittsfield. We sometimes teased them for creating a fantasyland that didn’t match up with the current reality, one that didn’t seem like it ever could have. Once, when we wanted to make it sting, we said we knew the river had caught on fire from all the chemicals GE had dumped in it. My mother maintained it didn’t happen; I don’t think my father had an answer for that.
I don’t remember my parents ever acknowledging the existence of the newer version of Pittsfield, one where the river caught on fire, where people were out of work, where kids my age battled cancer they’d gotten playing in contaminated yards. My sister, brother and I denied the existence of their version because we couldn’t believe their stories when our own eyes told us differently, and my parents denied the existence of the contemporary version, maybe also because the difference was too jarring.
I will admit that looking out the car window a couple of times a year is not the best way to judge the city. Given the stress of major holidays, the travel, the vigorous fighting that would likely have been occurring in the back seat, the steamed windows from too many people being in the car for too long, my father’s violent sneezing on the way home because of my aunt’s cats, Pittsfield probably never had a chance from this vantage point.
If you were to Google Pittsfield, you’d see that it has received more than a few votes for “Worst City” in the US, with some bloggers outdoing themselves to put it down. There’s no denying that there are alot of things to say along these lines.
So it’s in this context that my friend Peggy began to excitedly talk to me about Pittsfield. She’d gone there as a child in the early 1950s and spent a couple of summers at Buckley Farm, down a dirt road in Lanesboro. She was a city girl, a New Yorker, going to visit the countryside with her brother, without her parents.
I wished I could have said Oh sure, Buckley Farm, but I didn’t know it, not even from my parents‘ stories.
She went on to say that she’d written a poem about Pittsfield, specifically about England Brothers’ Department Store. I remembered England Brothers from driving by, and also because one of my uncle’s very best friends was a direct descendent from the original England Brothers. I didn’t know her well because my uncle moved away for college and never moved back East, but her name was always present in family lore. England Brothers also appeared in many of my parents’ stories, as a prominent landmark by which other locations were described, and also as a backdrop for other activities since everyone seemed to meet there.
Peggy promised to send me the poem. As it turned out, the occasion for writing it was the demolition of England Brothers in the late 1990s.
Her poem was beautiful, a tribute to early years and adventures, well before Pittsfield’s downturn. I learned about England Brothers in detail for the first time, and I hadn’t realized how hungry I had been for the information. In my parents’ stories, it had merely been a shorthand notation: they’d never described it because they didn’t have to; everyone knew England Brothers.
The poem also named several of Peggy’s friends and acquaintances from those summers, and one name caught my attention: Inez. There was an Inez (pronounced I-nus by our family) who was my grandmother’s best friend. I don’t remember my grandmother because she died when I was a year old, but Inez, no last name needed, was a familiar character in the family stories, just like England Brothers. In the poem, Inez also didn’t have a last name and therefore couldn’t be immediately identified. Peggy and I wondered if they could be the same person. After all, how many women named Inez could have lived in Pittsfield, Massachusetts at that time?
I sent the poem to my mom, her twin sister, and my uncle. I also asked if Peggy’s Inez could be “our” Inez. To clear up that mystery, it was generally agreed that there must have been another Inez in Pittsfield, based partly on the fact that “our” Inez wouldn’t have inspected anyone’s hands before dinner, as Peggy had written. The other responses were immediate, enthusiastic and grateful: memories of the sprawling system of overhead tubes which was used as a delivery system in the store, along with blueberry picking at Mickle’s Grove and a place called “blueberry mountain”, my grandmother’s blueberry pies, were shared and elaborated upon. I learned more about myself: that all of my baby clothes were from England Brothers; it was where I went to visit Santa for the first time. My uncle’s friend weighed in from Oregon to say how proud and touched she was to hear of the prominent place her family’s store held in so many lives and memories.
I shared my family’s excited memories with Peggy. With each new email, she was more delighted. We convened over meals, telling the story with its latest chapter to whomever happened to be sitting nearby. Peggy always thanked me again for sharing my family history (such as it was, imperfectly remembered by me) and embellished the poem with additional memories:
…the beautiful scarves on display at England Brothers
…bringing lunch, consisting of a couple of sandwiches, and sitting down among the cow patties to eat them. In response to several wrinkled noses, Peggy chuckled deep in her throat and exclaimed: “They smelled sweet, what did I know, I was from New York!”
…running along the lane to deliver news of a baby’s birth, and feeling the importance attached to that responsibility, as well as the intimacy it conveyed. She was now one of them.
One morning she asked if I’d been born in the local hospital. Yes, Berkshire Medical Center, I said. This was a fact that I knew, a detail regarding my hometown about which I could be firm. Peggy recounted how her brother had once gotten his foot sliced in a hay baler or some type of farm equipment. No one had remembered to warn the city boy to beware the sweeping blade and his foot was injured quite badly. After describing the injuries and treatment at the hospital, Peggy nodded and said with quiet appreciation, They took good care of him.
You know, I was only the third baby whose father was allowed in the delivery room, I offered. We had both been treated well there.
These stories, these snippets of real information, made Pittsfield seem more alive and maybe even likable to me. I could finally begin to understand, through Peggy’s affection for it, and the round-robin comments via email, the affection that my parents had felt, that many had obviously felt. I could sense this affection, and Pittsfield itself, weave a bit more into the fabric of my own past.
It was during this conversation that I started crying at breakfast, a quiet but persistent reddening of the eyes and tip of my nose, and welling of tears around the rims and lashes. I felt overwhelmed by these connections to my family: picturing my mom, pregnant with me, shopping for my baby clothes on her lunch break, picturing a tiny baby me, sitting on Santa’s lap. Picturing my dad, my aunts and uncles, my grandparents, Inez popping into England Brothers for some necessity, going past the Ladies Department, stepping on the creaky floorboards, looking up at the tubing system zipping along, saying hello to all the other neighbors and family who had likewise stopped in. I felt indescribably close to my family, engaged as we all were, from different parts of the country, in reading this love poem to Pittsfield, appreciating it, allowing it to spark deep memories and feelings, circulating it to others and then reporting back again.
It is a gift, Peggy said, with quiet emphasis on each word. It is a gift to be able to be brought into your family like this. It’s very rare for a writer to hear how her words are received.
Peggy, the gift is mutual.
Peggy’s Sapphire’s poem is included here with her gracious permission. Please visit her website to learn more about her and her writing.
England Brothers Department Store under the wrecker’s ball.
Main Street, wide with maples and hanging petunias.
England Brothers under the wrecker’s ball,
two-story wood and brick since 1857.
Lulu, wherever you are, do you remember
the day you took me there? Pittsfield, Massachussetts,
your birthtown, your Main Street, your England Brothers,
your mama’s and
your mama’s mama’s.
Dark wood floors, old bones creaking under me that day,
the New York City kid, up a dirt road for two weeks
on your grandpa’s dairy farm, your grandma’s kitchen.
Zeke washing up sudsy at the kitchen sink.
Inez checking my hands for washable dirt. Their round dining table
with room for everyone, including me, plenty for all of us,
brown gravy, sliced roast beef with juices running over,
cream from the barn and a million fresh blueberries
for dessert, remember Lulu? Didn’t matter the best bushes were
found near sweet smelling cow pies.
England Brothers under the wrecker’s ball,
vacuum tubes carrying messages and money
in a loud whisper from the small office upstairs, to the beautiful sales ladies
standing behind glass cases with mahogany trim, selling scarves
and linen hankies, silk slips and sachet bags. Upstairs the piles
of Hudson Bay blankets, softest wool I ever touched,
making believe we have to choose between strawberry red
with buttercup yellow, or milk white with new-grass green.
Lulu, best friend in the summer of 1951, the fattest girl I knew.
I walked ahead pretending we weren’t together. I’m sorry.
I thought I was beautiful that summer, first time in my life. It was
your cousin George, my pioneer boyfriend, his farmer hands clumsily
up my blouse where none had gone before, whose image
consumed me with hungers I couldn’t name.
England Brothers under the wrecker’s ball.
Today’s photo in the paper, five decades later.
Is that you, Lulu, buying the last
of the porcelain tea cups and gilded saucers?
I’ll gladly walk with you, Lulu
side by side, arm in arm. Wait for me, we’ll
show them all how we push open the double-doors of
heavy oak with the solid brass hinges and
promenade into the cool air of the Ladies Department.
England Brothers forever.
Peggy’s poem was originally published in The Country and Abroad.
For more information on Dave Nelson’s paintings, pictured above, go to www.dnelsondesign.com/paintings.
A walk along the Gihon River on a gorgeous day.
And, see if you can see the rainbow that appears in the shape of the rising mist (not an arc). Once again, cameras can’t do it justice!
There is weather, real weather, in Johnson.
We’ve had beautiful spring-like days, crisp fall, warm autumn, and cold winter air that swirls under your hair to chill the back of your neck. We’ve experienced several kinds of precipitation: a little hail, a little snow, sleet, rain, low-hanging mist, none of which seems to make anyone’s hair frizzy. And this all comes courtesy of visual effects in the sky and along the mountain such as low-hanging clouds, dramatic shadows, and striking colors. A landscape painter has her work cut out for her here, but what nature is doing looks so unbelievable, that the painter would be accused of making it all up.
Photos never do it justice, but I keep snapping away:
I’ve noticed something peculiar related to food and appetite: I am starving at every meal time, even as I’m eating full, healthy meals, and closer together than I would in NY. Many others here have commented on the same phenomenon.
We eat heartily at every meal (at least I do–tearing through entrees like penne puttanesca and broccoli rabe, seitan and mushroom stew, soups, salads, breads, lovely desserts) and the cycle begins again: ravenous hunger in just a couple of hours.
It’s the fresh air.
We’re working harder here.
It’s Pavlovian, because we’re on a regular schedule.
Meals are lighter here, with smaller portions.
There’s less opportunity to snack between meals.
There’s nothing else to do (HA!) (no cellphone reception, family, etc).
Someone said that she’s hungrier because she doesn’t have to cook.
We’re relaxed and happy and engaged, and so our bodies are functioning like they’re supposed to. I think it’s this.
I’ve only felt this one other time that I can recall, and that was when I went to Italy for the first time with my friend Kristy. We marveled at how much we were eating, and yet how hungry we were. Always. You know Italian eating–large portions piled high, and just when you think, with relief, that you’ve managed to polish that off, here comes the next course, mangia!–and yet we were starving again in no time. We traveled all around Italy, taking in sights, asking questions, in awe of everything we saw.
Here, I feel the same sense of engagement on every level: heightened senses, a sense of purpose, a curiosity, a sense of accomplishment every day. I think our bodies have not only been liberated from the many stresses we’ve grown accustomed to in our “real” lives, but also been awakened by the opportunity to engage so fully with our environment and our ideas. Our bodies and minds are working together to accomplish something that feels important, and because of that, I think our minds have given our bodies permission to loosen up. They’re able to behave more naturally, process everything more smoothly: ideas, stimuli, food.
Three of my favorite things.
Sitting at the window of my studio and watching the snow fall on and around the white barn next door. It’s a noisy snow–probably more sleet than anything–and it was slippery underfoot. Not my favorite snow–I like my rain to sound like rain, and my snow to be quiet and muffling, creating its own silent world. But I can’t tear myself away from the window.
I really need to take this relaxed attitude with me when I go back home. If I don’t finish my painting this morning–or hell, even work on it–it doesn’t feel like the end of the world. At home, everything is the end of the world. These little pleasures are so important–and really, what’s two hours sitting by the window?
They’re everything and nothing at the same time.
Of the recent suicides of gay youth due to bullying, Tyler Clementi’s story is especially heartbreaking. Tyler’s roommate used social media to “out” him, and secretly filmed Tyler’s intimate encounter with a man. The roommate, Dharun Ravi, planned to do it again, broadcasting the time and date over the internet, as well as promising to stream the upcoming video. These activities spurred gossip in the dormitory and caused humiliation for Tyler, who was in his first month of college. Within two days, Tyler jumped off the George Washington Bridge. Dharun and a friend were charged with invasion of privacy; other charges may be pending.
In Roman Catholic tradition, devotees can visit the Stations of the Cross, which adorn churches and lay out in pictorial form the last hours of Jesus Christ. Each Station, visited sequentially, represents a key moment in these last hours. The Stations provide an opportunity to contemplate, and even to repent in a personal way for the suffering and death.
Without intending to deify Tyler Clementi, this series of paintings (here are the first three; it is on-going) describes some of the key events that unfolded in the last days of his life, in order to honor him and shine a light on the suffering and taunting that many gay youth face.
My studio is called The Edda Jakab Studio. There aren’t many studios that are named, so this caught my eye. I made a note to myself to look her up, but so many other things have been on my mind that I hadn’t gotten around to it.
One of the things on my mind: last night and into today I was struggling with a painting. Really struggling.
If you want the long story:
I told myself before I came that I would keep an open mind about how I would work and what kinds of paintings I would make when I was here. I didn’t want to close off any possibilities: what if I were so inspired by the Vermont countryside that I wanted to take up landscape painting, for example.
I woke up very early one morning and had an idea for a whole cycle of paintings. They’re related to the bullying and suicides of gay teens, specifically to the suicide of Tyler Clementi. Tyler’s college roommate secretly filmed Tyler in a private moment with another male, Twittered about it, and planned to film Tyler again while streaming the video live. Tyler, a freshman in his first month away from home, was humiliated. Within days, he jumped off the George Washington Bridge. I haven’t been able to get this story off my mind.
I’ve worked abstractly for a long time, and prefer to tell stories that way, using suggestion rather than illustration. But it occurred to me that maybe abstract imagery wasn’t the best way to tell a story that is about images of people. Images that were seen via computer, in real time. Images that were promised/threatened to be disseminated via the latest technology. I wondered also if painting, a very old medium, was the best way to tell this story.
Besides the gay aspect of the story, this story was as much about being hit over the head with images, images that just keep coming (electronically) and the instant gratification of Twitter, iChat, and all the other ways that we all keep in touch now. I thought that being very direct with my images might be called for now, and so in the spirit of opening myself up to new possibilities, I decided to include figures.
I was looking at photos online, collaging them together, working on composition, even blowing images up in Photoshop to examine the pixels. The results were pretty horrific, even for a beginning painting, when you usually have to be very forgiving of what happens, knowing that you’re going to edit like crazy anyway. It was hard to keep working on the painting because it was so depressingly bad.
It was in this state of hopelessness that I was playing hooky in my own studio. When I wasn’t trying to bend pixels to my will in Photoshop or trolling around for images that didn’t exist, I was otherwise fooling around on the internet instead of doing more battle with that painting. Idly, I looked up Edda Jakab, whose studio I’m in.
I liked her work very much. Edda is a painter who paints in lyrical abstraction, like me. Her forms are organic, soft, and contemplative. We have alot in common, including a love of color. Her point of departure, the spark that gives birth to her abstract marks, is nature, with quite a few paintings dealing with water and reflections, stones, and leaves.
Her artist’s statement emphasized that she didn’t want to recreate nature exactly as seen, but to suggest it, to get at the mystery of it through suggestion. She included the following quote:
Let the image float inside you,
Pass slowly by.
The slightest idea of it
Will suffice for you.
Then she repeated: “The slightest idea of it will suffice…”
This gave me an answer I was looking for. I realized that I was off-base to try to be so literal with my painting. I went back to the drawing board (ha ha, art joke) and extracted one tiny part of it, which was more than suggestive enough for my purposes. I turned the painting vertically (it had been oriented horizontally) and began building a very abstract and expressive painting around this suggestion.
The painting isn’t done but it’s come light-years with this one little reminder.
So I feel quite indebted to Edda Jakab and happy to be in this lucky studio. (Those of you who know me, know my little superstitions).
Edda was at the Vermont Studio Center in 2000. I would like to thank her for her inspiration, but she passed away in 2007.
The Bread and Puppet Museum has to be seen to be believed. None of the pictures you’ll see here can possibly do it justice, but I found myself snapping away anyway, to the point where I ran down the batteries in my camera less than halfway through the place.
Located in Glover, VT, the Museum is a 45-minute ride from the Vermont Studio Center; we organized a few carloads of residents and headed over along the backroads. We pulled up in front of the Museum, which is for the most part a fairly nondescript barn along a small road. I say “for the most part” because the one thing that made it stand out was the bright red bus parked across the street that has been taken off its wheels and painted to advertise its purpose as a “Cheap Art Store” (and yes, you can climb aboard and purchase some cheap art, being sure to leave money in a little box provided for the purpose).
My friend Garie looked at me and asked when Ken Kesey was supposed to show up.
A series of homemade signs pointed us in the right direction; we walked through the rain (it rains alot in Vermont these days) across the street and into the barn. We climbed the wooden steps, and emerged into the loft of the barn…and into an alternate universe.
Every available inch–ceiling, rafters, walls, floors–had been turned over to the display of puppets–many of them very large–as well as other materials such as photos of the puppets in performance, bas-relief drawings, small paintings, and the occasional No Smoking sign in French.
The puppets come in all sizes, from little scenes with multiple characters arranged on the ground, to large heads measuring about 20 feet across, hung flat on a wall. And then of course, there’s everything in between.
The barn is roughly divided into sections by the placement of post beams, and each section was given over more or less to one tableau-style presentation of a group of puppets from a performance. And each section had a handwritten note which described the theme, the time and place of the performance, where the puppets were constructed (surprisingly, many of them were created in various neighborhoods of New York City). Many of the puppets dated from the early 70’s.
There was a tableau of garbagemen, another given over to Chinese devils, a striking blue atmospheric one, our Founding Fathers (all of them, but with Ben Franklin gaining prominence) hanging from a beam, their buckled shoes dangling in the air. There were papier-mache globes, masks, and dioramas. There was the White Horse Butcher (the horse was a sawhorse with a sheet over it), a silver-headed warrior with a sword, ghost-like figures.
Bird-like puppets that resemble the Egyptian god Thoth. Fat faces with red pimples. Red Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceiling. A Chinese dragon on wheels, pushcart-style, made in NYC. Humorous puppets and masks, with bulbous noses and moustaches. Frightening ones. Groups that go together, and groups created only by the bunching up of singular puppets that didn’t fit anywhere else.
Many artistic echoes rang through the barn: Orlando Furioso in the Sicilian tradition (who made an actual appearance downstairs–a gift from Rome), tribal masks, Bosch, Edvard Munch, the Reverend Howard Finster, James Ensor, Jim Henson, Tim Burton.
There was something quite American at work here (this absolutely must be listed in “Weird Roadside America”). But the display of politics and the emphasis on the community inherent in performance seemed to come from another place altogether. There was a display of the popular in its truest sense–of and by the people–which seemed more of the world than of America, if that makes sense. A spirit of cooperation, of being in on the joke together, of working for the common good which is not typical of the American character. And certainly, there were influences from Central and South America, Cuba, colonial America, China, and something even Germanic in the politics, inspirations, and formal qualities of the puppets.
Photos of performances adorn the walls and can also be seen in several books in the gift shop. Most of the performances take place outside–probably because it’s the only place with enough room to accommodate these giant heads–and seeing the puppets among the trees give a different impression than seeing them among the barn rafters. They are impressive in both places.
The Bread and Puppet Theater Company maintains a busy schedule and continues to go on tour; just last Friday they performed a Verdi opera. The theater company provides a piece of bread with every ticket by the way, because both give sustenance.
A sense of humor is evident throughout, as is a left-leaning, 1960‘s-liberal, do-it-yourself or do-without mentality. The barn is unheated. Everything is on the honor system: visitors are asked to turn off the lights when they leave; payments for gift shop items are accepted via a designated box. Handwritten notes and signs are everywhere; some note that mice like wheat paste, and skunks like to play amongst art; others take a position against The Establishment, be that the rigged capitalist system, crooked governments, or swindling art dealers that take art out of the hands of The People.
The language, spirit, and essence brought me back to Berkeley, but there is a New England backwoods twist at work too.
The Puppet Cathedral and Dirt Floor Theater are located in a different barn out back. The floor is indeed made of packed earth. Just inside the entrance is a small music stand with instructions, as well as a large brass bell on the ground nearby:
1. Ring bell.
2. Choose text and seat, and read aloud.
3. Change seat and repeat.
4. Ring bell again.
5. Consult radio and other forms of communication to see how your performance was received by the world-at-large.
Ouch! Any artist has to feel that sting, and I wince as I write this because really, what does it matter?
The grounds also include a printshop, which creates the work on display in the gift shop (postcards that urge “Resistance against technological oppression”, broadsides, etc). Two of us lurked outside trying to peer in the windows. The founder and printmaker, who was currently at work on some prints, took the time to go to the window to motion us around to the shop entrance, though he was too busy to pose for a photo, as he was in the midst of inking plates and printing them by hammering them with a mallet onto fabric sheets.
As I walked around the barn loft, the printshop, even the garden which was not quite an ordinary garden, I kept thinking: Wow, they’ve made it work. They have a passion, no matter how odd or impractical, which they have turned into a success. They have positioned themselves so that they can work all day on that passion. They have enough of a following that they are called on tour. They sell art. They own land. They have space to display their passion–and people travel to see it. They converted a damn bus into an art gallery.
They’ve made it work.
I feel like they’ve found the secret. It’s not the first time I’ve thought that up here.
It’s the kind of place that you can’t get out of your head.
It started on September 12, 2001.
The day after the terrorist attacks, a sign appeared in Johnson, VT: “YOU CAN RUN BUT YOU CAN’T HIDE. VENGEANCE IS MINE SAYETH THE LORD”.
As a response, Vermont Studio Center co-founder Louise von Wiese began putting “Art Is Peace” and Pax Cultura signs around campus. They are present at the entrance of most campus buildings still, in the Meditation House, and I’ve also spotted more than a few bumper stickers moving around town.
The imagery is a banner for peace, the brainchild of Nicholas K. Roerich. Roerich was a Russian painter, philosopher, writer, and scientist. He painted approximately 7000 paintings and was also the set designer for the premiere of Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring in Paris in 1913 (famous in the history of classical music for the near-riot by the audience).
In the wake of World War I, Roerich saw the need for a treaty to protect the world’s historic monuments, as well as artistic, scientific, and educational institutions from destruction like the type that occurred in the first World War. He formulated the Roerich Pact, which called for respect of these institutions and the cultural treasures they house. The Pact stated that these institutions were neutral in time of war and should be respected as protectors of all of humanity’s cultural property. The Pax Cultura has been called The Red Cross of art and culture.
He also designed the Banner for Peace to fly over such institutions. The banner displays a triad (the world’s oldest universal symbol) which here symbolizes Arts, Sciences, and Religions within a circle of infinity which symbolizes the unlimited creative potential of man.
Roerich was also an advocate for peace, believing that peace and culture go hand in hand.
Roerich was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1929 for his work on the Roerich Pact and its acknowledgement of humanity’s common cultural heritage. He was also nominated for a second Nobel Peace Prize in 1935.
As an information sheet on campus says:
Wherever the Banner is displayed now, it recognizes the great achievements of the past, the present, and the future. It encourages the individual to strive to fulfill his highest potential, beautifying all aspects of life; it encourages each person to take responsibility for the evolution of the planet; it signifies the peace-builder; and it symbolizes the transformation of society.
“We are tired of destruction and negations,” Roerich wrote. “Positive creativeness is the fundamental quality of the human spirit. Let us welcome all those who, surmounting personal difficulties, casting aside petty selfishness, propel their spirits to the task of Peace-building, thus insuring a radiant future.”
Where there is Peace, there is Culture;
Where there is Culture, there is Peace.
Nicholas K. Roerich