Artist-in-Residence

Upon returning from Hobart yesterday (about the time the sun was just beginning its descent over the edge of the world), I walked out to the Sunset Bench with its new deck. It had been built by Pino and myself just two days earlier and I had quickly come to like, even as one sat firmly on the bench, how the deck floated and nudged one’s spirit over that edge and out over the water.

The difference, however, between sitting on it the first couple of days when Bill’s and Pino’s energy and friendship were still amply present at Windgrove and last night when, once again, I was alone, was starkly evident.

It had only been a few hours since I had left Bill and Pino in Hobart to begin their journey back to America, and as I approached the Sunset Bench and saw it positioned empty out in space, the not-unexpected sadness of their departure stripped some of the color from the day. The deck and bench hovered black and white tempting me to “take a seat”, but it was difficult to climb on board for I feared something could take hold of me; something that I had kept pushed down for years.

The sadness I accept as a consequence of love. The fear, I will work on.
Oh, to embrace life fully—to embrace even friendship fully—is to spread the jam of bitter sweetness upon the bread of one’s existence. Get used to the flavour, I say. It is most nourishing.

This morning the color has returned. If you don’t believe me, just take a walk with me down the Peace Path. Hidden in the bushes and floating two feet off the ground is Bill’s sculpture, “Fishing for Peace”. Made up of found objects from the beach and my studio, this little boat of blue, maroon, orange and yellow will bring joy to anyone.

It gladdens the heart.

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Weighing in at 1000 pounds and over ten feet/3 meters in length, the top half of the Gull Stone Bench has finally been hoisted into position within the circled native grass sanctuary overlooking Roaring Beach. After ten years in the making, walkers of the Peace Path now have one more place to rest and enjoy the view. It’s a stunner.

Everyone has heard variations of the following, but it bears repeating:

Three people are all at the same construction site doing the same thing. When asked what they are doing the first person says, “Making $20 per hour”.

The second person says, “Framing up a wall.”.

The third person, however, says, “I’m building a cathedral.”

Having Bill and Pino around Windgrove for the past two weeks clearly demonstrates that their approach to work falls into the third category. Nothing is too difficult to do, or too demanding or too “un-vacation” like. The days spin with creative energy, resourceful work and playful banter. Their motivation stems from a philosophy that work of any sort can be worthwhile.

Jared Diamond writes in his book ‘Collapse’ about how the younger people are leaving the farms in Montana for a more easy, more prosperous life elsewhere because they view their grandparents has having had to work too hard with little to show for it. Diamond then writes:

“Montana farmers today who continue to farm into their old age do it in part because they love the lifestyle and take great pride in it. Jack Hirschy is still working on his ranch today at the age of 83, while his father Fred rode a horse on his 91st birthday.”

The clue that seems so obvious to me, but not to the younger people Diamond writes about, is that the farmers doing the hard, hazardous work are in their “80’s and older” and all the more happy for it. How many CEOs live this long?

Contentment and a long life do not always flow out of a cushioned life.

Let me add, however (before I scare off any future applicants to the artist-in-residence program), that along with the wonderfully hard work at Windgrove there are many options (and time) left open for play.

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Look carefully at this photo — especially the shadow area beneath the feet — and it appears that Melanie Mowinski is flying, paper in hand, going from tree to tree, drawing, drawing, drawing. Charcoal brought from America was soon used up. Charcoal from the Peace Fire, charcoal from elsewhere. Everywhere, broken, worn bits of charcoal littered the ground as Melanie tried to capture the essence of “tree” onto paper.

Urgency?

You bet. And not just because Melanie only had a month at Windgrove as the resident artist. She, like all environmentally aware people intuitively knows that messing with the environment gets one into a mess of trouble.
Like hurricane Katrina.

Any mention of global warming behind the fate of New Orleans?

How many will suffer because of a lack of commitment to tackle this issue? Bush might continually state that “the American way of life is not negotiable”. He may live in denial about weather patterns changing because of America’s prodigious appetite to consume. But the handwriting is on more than one wall and what happened to New Orleans is about to happen more frequently and with more devastation to rich and poor alike regardless of Wall Street.

And this brings us back to Melanie climbing trees. She does so, not literally to escape the rising flood waters, but in a metaphoric way to search out, through drawings, how humans might connect with “tree”. In this way we humans can regard trees as our kin, if not our kind, and learn to live in a way that is protective, rather than destructive, not only of trees, but of all of life. Not to do so imperils the whole family tree.

Melanie, as a visual artist, wants all of us to look at trees the way the poet, William Stafford, did when he exclaimed: “Part of me.”

My advice. Either start protecting the environment or install an inflatable raft in your attic.

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A quick postscript to the last blog entry.

I awoke yesterday morning to snow in the hills in the Roaring Beach water catchment area. Across Storm Bay, the distant hills to the west looked like a wintry Colorado scene. Walking to the beach for my surf, there were white pockets of hail scattered throughout the sand dunes. Brrrrr.

Normally, I would be ecstatic over such a dramatic climatic event, with snow not seen this close to sea level in 19 years. Yet, the host in me frets over the contentment of any of my guests and I tend to worry too much over whether or not they are comfortable.

Kabir or, perhaps Rumi, would say something like:

When the guest is happy,
I am delirious with joy.
When the guest is unsettled,
my mood goes dark with anxiety.

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