How can there be so much depth in such a small radius, in winter? Layers upon layers seemingly still, but shifting . The landscape spoke with a sly chuckle, “can you keep up?!” I screamed back through the silence, "I’m up on my toes and down on my knees, looking!” Not with my voice, but with my shutter. With my hands touching the frosty ground in the shadows and, just steps away, a warm rock in the sunlight.
A week after my Aunt passed away, I found myself on Harstene Island with a heaviness. It felt like I was standing in a muddy hole. Not a deep one, but my body was so heavy that I couldn’t climb out. It was dark and damp. Moving was the only way out. It wasn’t easy, but I took a step and I picked up a rock, then a leaf, some grass. I looked up and saw roses. I reached for one, cut it, and put it in my pocket. I grabbed another. A thorn left a small scratch on my arm. Ouch. I started noticing more things. Bright green moss. Curly reddish brown - my favorite color - madrone bark. Things started to feel less dark. I dumped them out on a bench, organized them and then just… started moving things around.
How to make art with nature:
Step 1: Go for a walk. Gather some shit (not literally. leaves, rocks, sticks, dirt etc…)
Step 2: Move shit around while thinking of (choose one of the following or insert your own)
Someone you miss
Someone you love
Nothing at all
I felt like my mind was constantly going "snap, snap, snap" (camera sound) every step I took in Colorado Springs. We hiked Red Rock Canyon , drove through Garden of the Gods, ventured up (it was uphill both ways somehow?) to School Pond Trail in a thunderstorm, and drove around town picking up magical crystals on the way home. Snap, snap, snap. I've obviously been deprived color in Seattle; the green seemed to jump off the red sand. Boundless beauty and inspiration.