#notesfromsolitude

[genre-blog]

Skycamp at Joshua Tree

On the mountain, just past the water tower, in the desert with raised hands like the land’s namesake and primary population.  

Sun and wind.

Illumination and turbulence.

Heat and flow.

Mess, knot, and tangle.

Drawing presence.

Painting process.

Dancing around an ideal.

Honest difficulty.

Directionality.

Zapped energy.

Golden hour.

Baptism of the day.

Business of the sacred.

Balancing in between.

Liminality and blurred lines.

Open hearts, minds, eyes and ears.

All eyes and ears.

And stars.

Tongues that spill, share and taste.

Reflective glue with contemplative unity in mind.

Spirit massage.

Pain of healing.

Purge and burn yet remain sensitive.

Nuanced vulnerability.

Shockingly humorous.

Evaporating control and its temptation.

Salve of peace.

Campfire sands.

Singing solitude alongside the slower and larger emerging movements.

Love in unshaping.

Shadow of playful articulation.

Smile of shade.

Joy of kindred fascination.

Spectrum of personality.

Faithful integration.

Continuum of color and changing formation.

Blending, unravelling, and reflecting the views of viewers and location.

This summer I was invited to create an installation piece by my friends Kimberly and Gary Bowers. Kimberly owns a small campground located on the side of a mountain overlooking Joshua Tree called Skycamp. There’s a lean-to for shade, an outdoor shower, flat spots for tents and an evolving collection of artwork made on site.

 I started the installation during a photography retreat sponsored by Hipcamp and Eddie Bauer. It was amazing to have so many encouraging people around before engaging the depths of solitude. But the stillness and silence came and time dried up before my eyes. The whole process was a struggle with the landscape.

I spent everyday with the sunrise. It was the only time in the dessert mountain majesty that I could paint without the colors drying directly onto my brushes. I communed with the wind and shade in the midday for minor relief while reflecting on the morning’s musings. The ritual of a cold shower after lunch brought dreams to my siesta. Friends and fire would gather under the stars. Deep slumber marked the brutality and the wonder of days spent oriented and exposed to the sun. In return, I would rise again the next day to make new marks and layers that would slowly evolve into a cohesive whole.

Before I returned to the city, my friend Julia Parris (and her husband Able) captured me making the final brushstrokes on the double sided painting. The sun and the wind left their marks on me for leaving behind my marks with them.

[genre-blog]

Stubbornness, beauty, and ritual.

Last week I had a big fall on my longboard which bruised my hip and raspberry jammed my hand and knee. I was carrying a bike pump, 3 bags of groceries, my backpack with art supplies and my computer. Aside from being an eternal optimist and a little accident prone, I’ve always had this “where there’s a will there’s a way” philosophy to misguide me into, and mostly through, precarious scenarios. 

Last fall my knee became infected and I had surgery weeks before a longtime planned hike around Mt. Blanc and down the Gr5 trail to the Mediterranean. I came very close to cancelling my hike due to the fact that it was very difficult and painful for me to walk, not to mention carry a backpack. It was like the universe was forcing me to slow down.

With trekking poles as my crutches, I was determined to at least camp in the Chamonix valley below Mt Blanc, so I went anyway. I stayed in the valley one night and with the help of some newly made friends and fellow hikers, I decided to make a go for it on the trail. It was painful, so I took it slow. Anytime I would come across a village with a market I bought an orange for me to eat at the top of the next vista. It was amazing. It was grueling. So many afternoons were spent completely exhausted with tears of joy and citrus upon reaching a saddle or summit. The taste and beauty was overwhelming. 

I crossed the high pass in Vanoise National Park alone. It started to snow as I was ascending. The trail disappeared and I was left to follow cairns, the stacks of rocks that miraculously lead to the other side of the pass. Adrenaline flowed. The brisk mountain air and my minimalist gear put my senses on high alert. The snow turned to rain and the cold soaked in. Why do I put myself through this? What do I have to prove? Why am I here? As if I am in control and the muse of spirit has not provoked and carried me through this life. Ha.

I cut my hike short when my uninjured knee started to hurt from overcompensation. I had touched Mt. Blanc. I had survived my own stubbornness. My ritual deceleration had brought me to a full stop and yet I was full.

To be outside connects me both with time and timelessness, home and homelessness, my aims and my aimlessness. In disputes with age and gravity, I am seldom a winner. Theres also something to be said about our relationship with discomfort and the appropriate wisdom that comes from being humbled by the beauty and awe of scale. I may not always be so privileged to cross cultures, walk in mountains or surf over concrete, but for now the reward for chasing the muse and not paper is more than worth its risk.