All summer my pond has been visited by a lovely checkered dragonfly. One day he laid himself to final rest on a lily pad. I put the wings on The Shrine of Fragile Things with the bee, the moth and the curled leaf. When I found this ancient Chinese snuffbottle it seemed like the perfect homage to a being who lived only months, from June to August.
Digital Collage created from layered paint, photo transfer and original photographs taken with a Canon G10.
The Black Buddha, otherwise known as the “television Buddha” sat for years on my step-grandmother’s TV, his head unironically posed between two silver antennae. Even as a child who had not yet been taught the niceties of good taste I could tell that this statue, although hollow like my milk chocolate Easter bunny, was a Prince among objects. Where the black paint had rubbed away copper glinted. His robes had the sharp cast and sheen only found in metal, and when I picked him up and set him down I could tell he belonged to a different family of dolls.
At some point in my late teens, after reading a book or two by Alan Watts and becoming instantly hip and knowing, which I eagerly confused with being enlightened, it occurred to me that this object belonged in my life. Did I steal it? Did I stand in front of the television as though mesmerized by the cheap print of VanGogh sunflowers and off-handedly tuck the Buddha into my coat? I have a vague memory of light on a dusty window, of the pine tree outside, of family noise and clatter and a moment of rationalization. I hope I asked.
This Buddha has gone with me to every room I have lived in, presided over my inkstone and rice paper and the copying of sutras and 4 AM yoga sessions and detours into Gurdjieff, Guru Mai, and Yogananda. He has never gained or lost weight, or criticized me for being delusional, or asked for water, or offered a word of advice. For years at a time I have not actually looked at him; I’ve even lost him on occasion– buried in a box under the bed. Then I will find him and the fact of him starts all over again. The Buddha is a resonant object, and my mind changes when I look at him.
I puzzle over this quite a bit. What is this alchemy of the object? The historical and real person of Siddhartha, who became the Buddha, never asked to be made into a figurine. In fact the Buddha himself discouraged this as dangerous close-cousin to the worship of idols. Only the image of his footsteps was allowed or perhaps the trace of a wave on the shore, or a hand. Yet today I doubt that any Buddhist anywhere meditates without some image in their mind of –not the breathing, sweating actual human being — but the statue. Leave it to the Greeks to ruin a good thing, the void and the imagination, and to supplant it with idealized form. And now you can buy a guy in a robe with snails on his head anywhere, online next to blinking ads for a flat belly, or in an import store or from a catalogue full of clocks that wake you up with the sound of the ocean.
Through hundreds of years and thousands of places of manufacture, the significant details of the sitting Buddha rarely change. The graceful sloping of the shoulders, the relaxed ease and the simultaneous sense of absolute focus, the circuit of small spheres along the head. And form is important. The shape of the saints is common, but it is not ordinary. The power of shape is a mystery, devotional practice equally so.
I have a second Buddha, a pale gray version mass produced and bought at a nursery twenty years ago. He has sat long enough in my garden to acquire the iridescent sheen of actual snails across his knees. Together both statues, indoor and outdoor, do a fine job of gentle reproach as I plunder time and waste it in mindless daily orbit. You would think two would be enough. However, I was seized this spring with a sudden overwhelming desire for a new Buddha, something life-size. I became completely obsessed with the idea that a statue was waiting for me and I had to find it right now. So abandoning my other obligations for a day I scoured every Asian import store in the city. The closest I came to my imagined find was a graceful, stupefyingly beautiful Thai god (god of what, I’m not sure) made of fragile wood and $15,000.87 out of my price range. As I started to leave the shop, my obsession defeated, I noticed the chairs. Simple, magnetically so, projecting a deadpan stoic humor and covered with the patina of decades in an outdoor cinema. If one wanted a reminder to “sit” what could be more potent than a chair, after all? I sat. In spite of the barracks-style severity the chair was surprisingly comfortable. And you can bargain for chairs, although you would never bargain for a Buddha.
This is my new garden statue, for now. It lives in the bamboo reminding me to be still, to just sit.
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This is the first in an upcoming series of essays on Buddhist iconography in art and daily life. I will be featuring interviews with artists who work in a variety of contemplative paths, ranging from traditional devotional art to contemporary improvisations, in media ranging from painting and drawing to sculpture, music and video. If you are interested in the subject of the object as a source of contemplation you may want to visit the section of my blog that focuses on response to the book “A History of the World in 100 Objects.”
The Stables is the quietest place I have ever been. You can hear a twig drop in the woods, and a horse eating a buttercup. In between, complete, breathtaking stillness. Situated high on the southwest side of Orcas Island, this 25-acre ranch and creative compound hosts workshops in a variety of arts and crafts taught by the resident artists and invited guests. The simultaneous sense of vista and retreat makes for a very special place for art and reflection.
This July I signed on with my sister, Cassandra, and 17-yearold niece Zoë for a three-day workshop in cyanotype. My sister and I had spent early years growing up on a ranch, and to be together quite literally in a stables, sleeping in a loft above, sent us both into states of unexpected recollection. Every morning we looked out on two chestnut horses and followed their graceful ambulations across the pasture. The tooled leather and haymow, the 4-H, the riding rink, the coyotes under the moon and the back forty of our pasts tumbled into the present everywhere we turned. My niece, not yet of an age for elegies, lovely in pigtails and grave and hilarious by turns, focused on her senior year project in all things photographic. She proceeded to make one artlessly perfect composition after another. Note to self: make no helpful design suggestions when a true artistic gift is at hand.
I had planned originally to work with my existing themes of architectural photography, and had spent days making negatives. At the last minute I threw two birdcages in the car. This turned out to be a very good idea. Within hours on the first day I could see that this process of cyanotype is an alive thing, a way to paint with the sun and your surroundings, an opportunity to toss out your preconceptions and open the door to the unexpected. Noted Seattle artist and cyanotype expert David Simpson taught us, and nudged and pushed us through three days of testing our limits. Although he had encouraged us to bring objects we also used what we found on site: crumpled wire, thistles, chainsaws, daisies, ferns. We laid these things on glass or directly on coated paper. Our fourth workshop member, printmaker Lynda Swenson, experimented with printing on maps and existing etchings and woodcuts.
Upper right brown and black print shows how fabulously the Artistico works with tannic acid toning. Below, a composition with three dimensional blocks and pearls, testing cropping. The actual print is not this yellow. The photo was taken with warm light from the walls of the stables reflecting onto the surface. I would love a skirt with this printed on it!
In the first step we coated our paper with solution in a darkened stable under a red safe-light. When ready we dashed from the darkroom to the outside laboratory where we slid the paper under existing arrangements or began lightning fast compositions, lifting or placing objects for different effects. We all had various timing devices, and at times it looked like a circus casino, or perhaps a camp for people with attention deficit disorder. We rushed in and out of the barn, lifted and placed objects, stared at our paper variously counting outloud, watching a cellphone or a wristwatch, or drifting into conversation — “What minute was I on???” And then (this was the best part) we threw the paper into a kiddie wading pool to fix and finish developing.
Some things I learned:
Above, a piece in progress. I painted under bright sun, adding new solution. As it dried it turned strange shades of rust and pink and two new shades of blue I hadn’t seen before. Then it all disappeared in the wading pool and became something else.
One of the most promising experiments I did involved folding paper while it was wet. I do wish I had figured out the cause of the mysterious round spots before I did “Origami Cage”, but I am including it here because I think it’s interesting. I can’t tell you how great it felt to completely beat up a piece of paper. When I wake up in the morning one of the first things I see when the sun is out is the shadow of birdcages cast onto the wall. I have tried off and on for ten years to capture them in some way. I think they finally found their home.
And, a couple of links. You can find out everything you ever want to know about cyanotype and alternative processes at Alternative Photography.com. And don’t miss David Simpson’s work at Photographic Wanderings at Lisa Harris Gallery opening August 2.
I took this picture from the beach while waiting for the ferry, heading out to Orcas Island for a three-day workshop in cyanotype. I had no idea my phone could see in blue, but I stumbled onto the filter and am getting a head start. The real thing soon!
Testing and studying, getting ready for something new……