Bear with me as i crawl towards a moment or two of great interconnectedness...
A dear friend recently shared with me that she had another friend struggling with an issue. Her friend couldn't arrive at a solution to her problem. She looked at it from one perspective, then another and eventually...she saw what needed to happen in order to move forward. She felt as if she'd been "circling" around her challenge. When my friend told me this, it resonated deeply for me, on many levels of my life. And it reminded me of the reading that i've been doing on the Haida Indians of the Pacific Northwest and their devoted, humbling and deep relationship to nature -- especially birds and flight. The raven. The eagle. The transformation into and out of these creatures. Like birds, we humans often circle for that comfortable place to land in search of sustenance, shelter, companionship, the solution to a struggle, a place to dream and so much more.
For me, i realized that i've been circling this art project for months. when 2009 began in January, i had plan. (And for those of you who wish, there are 20+ blog entries before this to enlighten you on my process up to that point. happy reading!) But life events unfolded, our family paths and schedules grew complicated, there was much singing to be done and tick tock, time went by and few nails were driven into wood. And i began to lose focus. Perhaps i was flying too high to see clearly and circling about in confusion of how to keep this process going.
However, events of the past month have guided me to a secure landing place -- a branch that is thick and strong with support and whose protective leaves are unwavering during the blustery winds of doubt. this will make a good nest for me from which to sit and guide this piece back into fruition.
And what were these events of the last month? I'd say that it started with my first trip ever to Canada. In Vancouver, I listened to so much incredible folk music that could, on its own, be a blog but i'll spare readers of this. Upon traveling there with a couple of terrific adventurers, i was in search of a book that i thought would be great to read while en route: "A Story As Sharp As A Knife: The Classical Haida Mythtellers and their World" by Canadian poet Robert Bringhurst." I couldn't find it, but upon traveling there, I grew more and more interested in this book. Once back home, i bought a used copy off of Amazon while my traveling cohort loaned me a book from an exhibit she saw up there a year earlier on two centuries of Haida Art. The companionship offered between these two books is rich. One offers deep text of mythtelling and Haida life and the other offers incredible visuals that compliment and further illuminate the richness of this culture's way of life.
I was particularly drawn to the totems of the Haida communities. How they are raised outside the doors of the great houses that once stood between the forest's edge and sea's tide. How they faced the infinite waters of the sea -- representing the spirits of those who came before as a reminder of their role in the evolution of the Haida community. Canadian artist Bill Reid (d. 1998) explained:
"Above all (uses of the cedar tree),
you can build totem poles,
and the people of the Northwest Coast
built them in profusion:
forests of sculptured columns
between their houses and the sea,
proudly announcing to all
the heraldic past of those who dwelt there...
Each pole contained the essential spirit
of the individual or family
it commemorated,
as well as the spirit
of the artist who made it,
and, by an extension, the living essence of the
whole people.
while the people lived,
the poles lived,
and long after their culture died,
the poles continued to radiate
a terrible vitality
that only decay and destruction could end...
all things must die,
and great art must be a living thing,
or it is not art at all."
Well the readings of the Haida people, their stories and art brought me back to Rwanda's landscape and its people. and, again, my importance to memory was re-solidified, if that's possible. i knocked the dust off of a small piece of cardboard (a 2" x 4" saved covering from one of cooper or eleanor's beach tattoos out of a machine) on our bookshelf. 3 or more years ago, i had made a sketch of 6 stonehenge-like columns titled "Rwanda Triptych". They are spaced as such: 1 column. then space. then 2 columns. then space. then 3 columns. [ [[ [[[
1, 2, and 3 sets of columns representing 3 months. 800,000 lives lost in 3 months. maybe i'll get my scanning skills in order and scan the old sketch and new one so that it can be view alongside this reading.
In the middle of all this new inspiration for one American woman towards the Rwandan people through the vanishing culture of the Haida Indians, i sat with artist Linda Newman (and deep spiritual friend/guide) to talk about how best to express my energy now. She inspired me to acknowledge the fog of disbelief and disorder that i've been in surrounding this art project. I had to look at fear -- fear of success? fear of failure? and we did that together. And i walked away from her visit with the true belief that to move forward with this is really loving myself. And the active loving of self is vital. I just need to keep this alive and i trust that the financial support is out there, the time is available, the documentation of it is possible and the emotional and practical support swimming around me is almost unending.
And I want to thank any of you lovely people who have asked me about this. I've been embarrassed to answer about how little progress has been made on it, but i appreciate the continued interest and inquiries. Such support goes a long way. And now, time to restructure and reorganize and move forward. Which i will do. I decided that i would do at least one thing a day for this piece and that's a good place to start. So, early this morning, I wrote to two artist friends who are steeped in the work of art and memory. I asked if we could make a time to sit down and seriously hash out some of the practical questions that i have regarding 800,000 nails community project. Their advice and experience i know will be quite valuable.
A few hours later, one of them responded. Speaking for the two of them, she said that she'd love nothing better than to sit down with me and dream about a new piece of art for the memory of a people. She said she'd love to do that over a meal, sometime in September perhaps. But for now she's out of town...
"I am in the great Northwest headed for the Queen Charlottes to see the totems in situ and to meet with Haida chiefs with my friends who work on Native rights. It has been a life long dream."
I almost fell off of my rickety desk chair.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Let The Hammering Begin
Blessed are the new beginnings, for we shall have a chance at a new start. A revised perspective. The beginning of a new day offers hope after an awful one. The start of a new administration in this country offers a welcome end to a hideous, idiotic one. The turning of the page from one year to the next beckons a fresh start. As impermanence teaches us, we accept the fog of uncertainty when we are swimming in it, trusting that clarity will eventually emerge.
The last five months have been productive in life and art. So productive, that i've had little time to write about it. I had great success with a prototype of 10,000 nails on a 2' x 5' panel. The smaller sized nails worked. The varied types of wood worked. The panel came together and i was able to display it at our kids' elementary school. The annual "Festival de Otoño/Day of the Dead" was an appropriate setting, as it is the continual source of deeper inspiration for this piece. People of all ages looked at it, touched it, wound and wove red thread throughout the nails as they tried to grasp the enormity of this event, the place where it happened and the memorial aspect of the proposed piece. i was told that two men stood over it and spoke of family relations to those who died in Hiroshima and in German concentration camps of WWII. I heard teachers explaining to students the importance of remembering the spirits of others who are gone. Friends and acquaintances were moved, inspired and visually compelled. The chance to have the public contemplate this panel, touch it and interact with it was an experiment that worked, that propelled my efforts, that said to me "yes, this is doable. This is important."
Loving skeptics in my life have offered these comments recently:
"Did you finally give up on the nail idea?"
"You're not still going to do that, are you?"
"I still don't understand the reason for doing this."
Again, i love these questions. I need these questions to float to the surface now and again for pause and reflection. And i respond with this:
I have reached the age where i emphatically appreciate how art can function as a window to history. A gateway to history. History's caretaker. And once in a while, it may even play the role of momentary healer to a people's or a landscape's history.
And so, with resolve, i move forward. It is time. Also, there are so many other artistic endeavors and ideas that have grown from this journey that, i want to complete this piece so that i can embark on another, if i'm lucky enough to have that opportunity.
The prototype (see photos) worked on many levels. I realized that i can do this with a drastically reduced budget. The work space on the side of our house and in our garage is perfect and free. I have two storage options for completed panels...both, free. I am overflowing with recycled wood. Again, free. Costs that i had anticipated before are not necessary. The only expense over the next 3 months is nails, wood glue and varnish. For Jan-Feb-March are the 3 best months of this year that i can hammer and get all 800,000 nails into wood. The time has come.
And time will tell, as it always does, whether this hammering is putting the cart before the proverbial horse in the construction aspect of it. But, this is the time that i have to hammer, and hammer i must. As a folk artist, i trust that i will be able to attach the panels together even after the nails have been hammered, not before. That's a bit scary, but, as my friend Brett (a helluva worker who i had the honor of working with on many films) once said: "It's always best to start a new project with a bit of fear inside you." It forces one to rise to the surface and accomplish feats that one may never have accomplished before. it challenges one to push into new, unknown territories and be successful there.
Happy New Year. Let the hammering begin...
The last five months have been productive in life and art. So productive, that i've had little time to write about it. I had great success with a prototype of 10,000 nails on a 2' x 5' panel. The smaller sized nails worked. The varied types of wood worked. The panel came together and i was able to display it at our kids' elementary school. The annual "Festival de Otoño/Day of the Dead" was an appropriate setting, as it is the continual source of deeper inspiration for this piece. People of all ages looked at it, touched it, wound and wove red thread throughout the nails as they tried to grasp the enormity of this event, the place where it happened and the memorial aspect of the proposed piece. i was told that two men stood over it and spoke of family relations to those who died in Hiroshima and in German concentration camps of WWII. I heard teachers explaining to students the importance of remembering the spirits of others who are gone. Friends and acquaintances were moved, inspired and visually compelled. The chance to have the public contemplate this panel, touch it and interact with it was an experiment that worked, that propelled my efforts, that said to me "yes, this is doable. This is important."
Loving skeptics in my life have offered these comments recently:
"Did you finally give up on the nail idea?"
"You're not still going to do that, are you?"
"I still don't understand the reason for doing this."
Again, i love these questions. I need these questions to float to the surface now and again for pause and reflection. And i respond with this:
I have reached the age where i emphatically appreciate how art can function as a window to history. A gateway to history. History's caretaker. And once in a while, it may even play the role of momentary healer to a people's or a landscape's history.
And so, with resolve, i move forward. It is time. Also, there are so many other artistic endeavors and ideas that have grown from this journey that, i want to complete this piece so that i can embark on another, if i'm lucky enough to have that opportunity.
The prototype (see photos) worked on many levels. I realized that i can do this with a drastically reduced budget. The work space on the side of our house and in our garage is perfect and free. I have two storage options for completed panels...both, free. I am overflowing with recycled wood. Again, free. Costs that i had anticipated before are not necessary. The only expense over the next 3 months is nails, wood glue and varnish. For Jan-Feb-March are the 3 best months of this year that i can hammer and get all 800,000 nails into wood. The time has come.
And time will tell, as it always does, whether this hammering is putting the cart before the proverbial horse in the construction aspect of it. But, this is the time that i have to hammer, and hammer i must. As a folk artist, i trust that i will be able to attach the panels together even after the nails have been hammered, not before. That's a bit scary, but, as my friend Brett (a helluva worker who i had the honor of working with on many films) once said: "It's always best to start a new project with a bit of fear inside you." It forces one to rise to the surface and accomplish feats that one may never have accomplished before. it challenges one to push into new, unknown territories and be successful there.
Happy New Year. Let the hammering begin...
A Follow-Up to "The Effects of Repetitive Motion"
In updating this journey, five months later, i revisited the previous entry about the toll taken on a body that works in fields requiring repetitive physical motion. I make no attempt here to actually compare my work to that of the "strawberry picker, an assembly line worker and the factory seamstress" except to say that, when hammering, i get a glimpse of what they must feel and, i honor their efforts. In fact, glaring differences exist:
i am an artist by choice.
i am working at home, 14 blocks from the pacific ocean.
i work in fresh, cool air, under the shade of a tree.
i am doing this out of emotional and historical necessity, not an economic one.
10 steps away is a refrigerator with cold water any time i want it.
15 steps away is my choice of 2 bathrooms, clean and available, any time i need it.
i can listen to music that inspires me while i work.
i can rest when i want to or when i need to.
i can see my kids thriving after school at 2:30p, when i put the hammer down to go pick them up.
i have privilege and choice here. those who work tirelessly in the least popular occupations often have little or none of these options. it felt important to take a moment to acknowledge these differences.
i am an artist by choice.
i am working at home, 14 blocks from the pacific ocean.
i work in fresh, cool air, under the shade of a tree.
i am doing this out of emotional and historical necessity, not an economic one.
10 steps away is a refrigerator with cold water any time i want it.
15 steps away is my choice of 2 bathrooms, clean and available, any time i need it.
i can listen to music that inspires me while i work.
i can rest when i want to or when i need to.
i can see my kids thriving after school at 2:30p, when i put the hammer down to go pick them up.
i have privilege and choice here. those who work tirelessly in the least popular occupations often have little or none of these options. it felt important to take a moment to acknowledge these differences.
Monday, July 21, 2008
The Effects of Repetitive Motion
While trying to get 2400 nails into a 3 sq ft slab of wood in 3 hours, I gained new compassion for workers who earn their wages by doing jobs of repetitive motion:
the strawberry picker
the assembly line worker
the ditch digger
the factory seamstress
and many many others
Hard physical labor involving one part of the body doing the same movement over and over takes a toll on the whole. In simply hammering nails into wood, i would begin quite strong, but well-paced. Pick up a nail with the right hand. Stand it up on the wood. Bang it 3 to 4 times with the hammer in my strong left hand. Then I'd do it again. Easy. However, after about 50 nails, the hammer grew heavier. So i had 4 hammers to try -- all of differing weights. Of course one worked better for large nails. One, better for smaller nails.
Initially, I felt that the work would require the sheer strength of my fingers, hands and arms. However, performing the simple physical task of repeatedly hammering nails into wood reminds me of the body's interconnectedness. After 30 minutes, i could feel pressure in my upper left shoulder, which affected my posture and lower back an hour later. All of this work is done standing and, after a while, the body must shift the weight from the left leg to the right. And back to the left again. Then balance the stress equally on both legs. After 2 1/2 hours, I became aware of the fatigue setting in my feet and knees and their contribution to holding up all this activity.
What keeps me going is a meditation on a people and a place that i have no real, tangible connection with yet. Also, certain types of music inspire me while i work. I often play lots of music in the spanish language. And, though i don't completely understand these songs without sitting w/the english translations, certain familiar words that i do know would soar over my pounding:
"violencias" -- violence
"multitudes" -- multitudes
"defender" -- defend
"corazon" -- heart
"libertades" -- liberties
"la tierra" -- the earth
"injusticias" -- injustices
"innocencia" -- innocent
...and while those words rang in my ears, i bandaged a few fingers, put on fingerless work gloves, grabbed hold of the hammer and kept going. and i'll keep going.
the strawberry picker
the assembly line worker
the ditch digger
the factory seamstress
and many many others
Hard physical labor involving one part of the body doing the same movement over and over takes a toll on the whole. In simply hammering nails into wood, i would begin quite strong, but well-paced. Pick up a nail with the right hand. Stand it up on the wood. Bang it 3 to 4 times with the hammer in my strong left hand. Then I'd do it again. Easy. However, after about 50 nails, the hammer grew heavier. So i had 4 hammers to try -- all of differing weights. Of course one worked better for large nails. One, better for smaller nails.
Initially, I felt that the work would require the sheer strength of my fingers, hands and arms. However, performing the simple physical task of repeatedly hammering nails into wood reminds me of the body's interconnectedness. After 30 minutes, i could feel pressure in my upper left shoulder, which affected my posture and lower back an hour later. All of this work is done standing and, after a while, the body must shift the weight from the left leg to the right. And back to the left again. Then balance the stress equally on both legs. After 2 1/2 hours, I became aware of the fatigue setting in my feet and knees and their contribution to holding up all this activity.
What keeps me going is a meditation on a people and a place that i have no real, tangible connection with yet. Also, certain types of music inspire me while i work. I often play lots of music in the spanish language. And, though i don't completely understand these songs without sitting w/the english translations, certain familiar words that i do know would soar over my pounding:
"violencias" -- violence
"multitudes" -- multitudes
"defender" -- defend
"corazon" -- heart
"libertades" -- liberties
"la tierra" -- the earth
"injusticias" -- injustices
"innocencia" -- innocent
...and while those words rang in my ears, i bandaged a few fingers, put on fingerless work gloves, grabbed hold of the hammer and kept going. and i'll keep going.
100+ days ago
I just realized tonight that my last blog entry was roughly 100+ days ago. The beginning of April. Here we are, mid July. Strangely, this reflects almost the exact days that the Rwandan genocide took place back in 1994. I've been trying and trying to get back to this art piece, this experience and exploration, but many full life events have taken precedence: end of school year activities for our kids, jury duty, finishing my first semester of graduate school, working, playing and hearing music with friends, the day to day family details of a rich life. And, oh yeah, summer break.
During that time, i did manage to conduct a timing test with nails and wood. And i'm discovering that -- for such a simple idea -- this is a mountainous endeavor.
A few weeks ago, our 7 year old son was in the back seat of the car, banging his black converse sneaker against his forehead on the way to the beach, calling himself stupid and dumb. Why? He had ruined an orange t-shirt by cutting out a design that he had in mind. The cuts were too jagged, too big, not what he had envisioned and he was so mad at himself and thus, heading down that dark path for a moment:
"I don't know how to do anything."
"I suck."
"I'm stupid."
"I should be able to do this."
"Nothing I ever do is right."
Of course, as a parent, this is scary. No one wants to hear their child beat themselves up figuratively or literally. Oh, he ate a meatball sandwich 20 minutes later and was a completely different child, but this isn't an examination on the effects of low blood sugar.
The next day, I took him out to the side of our house, to the wood/nail sample that i had worked on in june. Here were the facts:
THE GOAL:
To pound 2400 nails into 3 square feet of a section of wood in 3 hours.
The RESULT:
1800 nails into 3 sq feet of wood in 10.5 hours over 4 broken up mornings. And, the wood split into 3 fractured pieces.
I showed him how the wood weakens when i get too many nails in a square foot. The wood simply can't hold a certain number of certain sized nails at some point. I showed him the bent, ruined nails off to the side. I showed him how, sometimes, when i would hammer a new nail into a crowded section of the wood, 5 or 6 nails on the wood would fall out. The wood was in one piece when i started and now, it's in three pieces. And do you know what thoughts would race across my mind?
"I don't know how to do anything."
"I suck."
"I'm stupid."
"I should be able to do this."
"Nothing I ever do is right."
I told him how, in moments over the past 100 days, i've said that i really can't pull this off. I'm not capable of doing it. And then, i listen to that voice, smile at it and decide to keep working alongside it. keep making mistakes. keep learning. and that, shock of shocks, it's the process, not the end result that matters. "we must be gentle with ourselves," I said. "And when we are trying to make something that's deeply important to us, we have to be especially gentle with ourselves."
Cooper looked at the nails, touched the wood, made a suggestion of using smaller nails and then added, "can i have a fudgcicle now? It's just that it's really hot today."
During that time, i did manage to conduct a timing test with nails and wood. And i'm discovering that -- for such a simple idea -- this is a mountainous endeavor.
A few weeks ago, our 7 year old son was in the back seat of the car, banging his black converse sneaker against his forehead on the way to the beach, calling himself stupid and dumb. Why? He had ruined an orange t-shirt by cutting out a design that he had in mind. The cuts were too jagged, too big, not what he had envisioned and he was so mad at himself and thus, heading down that dark path for a moment:
"I don't know how to do anything."
"I suck."
"I'm stupid."
"I should be able to do this."
"Nothing I ever do is right."
Of course, as a parent, this is scary. No one wants to hear their child beat themselves up figuratively or literally. Oh, he ate a meatball sandwich 20 minutes later and was a completely different child, but this isn't an examination on the effects of low blood sugar.
The next day, I took him out to the side of our house, to the wood/nail sample that i had worked on in june. Here were the facts:
THE GOAL:
To pound 2400 nails into 3 square feet of a section of wood in 3 hours.
The RESULT:
1800 nails into 3 sq feet of wood in 10.5 hours over 4 broken up mornings. And, the wood split into 3 fractured pieces.
I showed him how the wood weakens when i get too many nails in a square foot. The wood simply can't hold a certain number of certain sized nails at some point. I showed him the bent, ruined nails off to the side. I showed him how, sometimes, when i would hammer a new nail into a crowded section of the wood, 5 or 6 nails on the wood would fall out. The wood was in one piece when i started and now, it's in three pieces. And do you know what thoughts would race across my mind?
"I don't know how to do anything."
"I suck."
"I'm stupid."
"I should be able to do this."
"Nothing I ever do is right."
I told him how, in moments over the past 100 days, i've said that i really can't pull this off. I'm not capable of doing it. And then, i listen to that voice, smile at it and decide to keep working alongside it. keep making mistakes. keep learning. and that, shock of shocks, it's the process, not the end result that matters. "we must be gentle with ourselves," I said. "And when we are trying to make something that's deeply important to us, we have to be especially gentle with ourselves."
Cooper looked at the nails, touched the wood, made a suggestion of using smaller nails and then added, "can i have a fudgcicle now? It's just that it's really hot today."
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
The Aprils of Rwanda
Since 1994, I wonder what the Aprils of Rwanda feel like for that country. Do they come and go unnoticed? Do flags fly at half-mast there as in our country at times of loss and remembrance? Do birds cease to sing? Does a heavy cloud of memories fall upon countrywomen and men as the calendar brings up a month symbolic of past events?
It's on my mind, obviously. As is the 20th century Holocaust that occurred during the second World War. i have now looked at that chapter of human history deeper than ever before and the motivations, facts and stories of this event forever boggle the mind. Incomprehensible is the word that comes up for me, time and time again.
The Humanities course I'm finishing up this month -- "A History of Anti-Semitism in Western Culture: From Antiquities to the Shoah" -- has been taught by a charming professor, fresh with much-needed wit and great storytelling ability. In our most recent class, he said something in relation to the thousands upon thousands of Jews being led to their deaths daily, especially from 1942 until the end of the war:
"we (humans) are somewhat finite in our ability to conceive of large numbers."
and, it's so true. 6 million. 6 million? Well, I have to try to see 800,000 of something, from one vantage point. And somehow, I hope that i can see a glimpse of the individual within that gigantic number.
The class finishes up later this month and then, i'll return to the work of this art piece in may. until then...
It's on my mind, obviously. As is the 20th century Holocaust that occurred during the second World War. i have now looked at that chapter of human history deeper than ever before and the motivations, facts and stories of this event forever boggle the mind. Incomprehensible is the word that comes up for me, time and time again.
The Humanities course I'm finishing up this month -- "A History of Anti-Semitism in Western Culture: From Antiquities to the Shoah" -- has been taught by a charming professor, fresh with much-needed wit and great storytelling ability. In our most recent class, he said something in relation to the thousands upon thousands of Jews being led to their deaths daily, especially from 1942 until the end of the war:
"we (humans) are somewhat finite in our ability to conceive of large numbers."
and, it's so true. 6 million. 6 million? Well, I have to try to see 800,000 of something, from one vantage point. And somehow, I hope that i can see a glimpse of the individual within that gigantic number.
The class finishes up later this month and then, i'll return to the work of this art piece in may. until then...
Monday, March 3, 2008
The Necessity of Memorials
Really, what's the point of any memorial? Of digging up the deepest, darkest chapters of our human experience? Of forcing one to look head on at something that's much more comfortable to turn and walk away from? Why. Why?
I can only speak for myself here.
Honestly, it's not that i have some morbid curiosity for death and violence. I do, however, possess a rich appreciation for the past. For history. And for what people with beating, feeling hearts and minds have done to one another throughout time.
Chris and I biked down the west coast of Ireland 11 years ago. We always had room in our limited panniers for books on Ireland as we roamed the landscape. We were there for adventure, but also to learn about that island. One day, as we found ourselves biking on a lush green bit of flatland near the northwestern coast, we stumbled upon a sculpture that made our jaws drop. In the seeming middle of nowhere, here was this huge metal art piece: a ship. Three masts. And sails...not of iron cloth, but of clinging skeletons. Out there, on an empty oceanic edge of this emerald island sat a memorial to the Irish famine victims. The ones who fled on the "coffin ships" to America, hoping for the chance at a better life...and not always making it.
This piece of art affected us profoundly. We found more books specifically on the famine. the events leading up to it. those who suffered. those who managed to escape, with generations of sadness on their shoulders. This memorial shook me to the core. Enriched me. Surprised me with it's unexpectedness upon the lush landscape of Ireland. I will never forget it and because of it, i will always have compassion for those souls who lived, died or survived that experience.
Memorials -- whether expressed through music, poetry, sculpture, painting, films, novels, oral traditions or any other creative human form -- are a vital necessity to our very human fibers. To our connections to the past.
I could go on all night, sighting memorials that have affected me deeply and have been expressed in all the disciplines listed above, but the hour is late and there are still bills to pay. I had to stop and reflect on this a moment because, well...it's been on my mind.
i wrote this tonight while listening to Rachel Portman's soundtrack from Oprah Winfrey/Jonathan Demme's film adaptation of Toni Morrison's work "Beloved"--a trifecta of memorial expression to African Americans struggling to pick up the pieces in a post-Civil War landscape.
I can only speak for myself here.
Honestly, it's not that i have some morbid curiosity for death and violence. I do, however, possess a rich appreciation for the past. For history. And for what people with beating, feeling hearts and minds have done to one another throughout time.
Chris and I biked down the west coast of Ireland 11 years ago. We always had room in our limited panniers for books on Ireland as we roamed the landscape. We were there for adventure, but also to learn about that island. One day, as we found ourselves biking on a lush green bit of flatland near the northwestern coast, we stumbled upon a sculpture that made our jaws drop. In the seeming middle of nowhere, here was this huge metal art piece: a ship. Three masts. And sails...not of iron cloth, but of clinging skeletons. Out there, on an empty oceanic edge of this emerald island sat a memorial to the Irish famine victims. The ones who fled on the "coffin ships" to America, hoping for the chance at a better life...and not always making it.
This piece of art affected us profoundly. We found more books specifically on the famine. the events leading up to it. those who suffered. those who managed to escape, with generations of sadness on their shoulders. This memorial shook me to the core. Enriched me. Surprised me with it's unexpectedness upon the lush landscape of Ireland. I will never forget it and because of it, i will always have compassion for those souls who lived, died or survived that experience.
Memorials -- whether expressed through music, poetry, sculpture, painting, films, novels, oral traditions or any other creative human form -- are a vital necessity to our very human fibers. To our connections to the past.
I could go on all night, sighting memorials that have affected me deeply and have been expressed in all the disciplines listed above, but the hour is late and there are still bills to pay. I had to stop and reflect on this a moment because, well...it's been on my mind.
i wrote this tonight while listening to Rachel Portman's soundtrack from Oprah Winfrey/Jonathan Demme's film adaptation of Toni Morrison's work "Beloved"--a trifecta of memorial expression to African Americans struggling to pick up the pieces in a post-Civil War landscape.
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