the encircling twilight
by Victoria Thomas
listen little sister
angels make their hope here
in these hills
follow me
I will guide you
careful now
no trespass
I will guide you
word for word
mouth for mouth
all the holy ones
embracing us
all our kin
making home here
renegade marooned
lawless fugitives
grace these mountains
we have earth to bind us
the covenant
between us
can never be broken
vows to live and let live
bell hooks
Excerpt, Appalachian Elegy, 2012
Our planet is literally on fire. Radical environmental movements like Deep Green Resistance and Dark Mountain remind us that wind farms, recycling, and earnest veganism are not enough to turn the tide of human-made destruction, and that’s putting it gently. The Dark Mountain Manifesto reads, in part, “Ecocide demands a response. That response is too important to be left to politicians, economists, conceptual thinkers, number crunchers: too all-pervasive to be left to activists or campaigners. Artists are needed.”
Enter the visionary art of Jeanne K. Simmons, who sculpts with grasses, flowers, twigs and seaweed, as well as human models. Treating the body as ancestor, a female presence in this work may suggest a Persephone or a chthonic Ophelia surrendering back into the earth. This is art that, although gentle, resolves to shift our worldview. Simmons challenges the stories that our societies like to tell themselves. These stories center around the myths of progress and civilization, the myth of our own human importance, and the poisonous delusion of our manifest destiny as a chosen species.
With supreme though unintentional irony, Soolip contacted Simmons within a day of the opening of Michael Heizer’s “City” in early September. Heizer’s $40 million art project, more than a mile-and-a-half-long and nearly a half-mile wide, is located in Garden Valley, about three hours northwest of Las Vegas. A total of six people per day with advance tickets will be allowed to visit the site, at a price-tag of $150 each. The length of the visits is limited to a few hours, and the installation won’t be open every day because Heizer has expressed concern that human presence will degrade the art.
The thundering colonialist hubris of Heizer’s “City” is matched by tenderness and fragility in the work of Simmons, who lives in Port Townsend, WA with her husband, Gunter Reimnitz, who is also a sculptor. They share their home with 17-year old daughter Matia, a dancer and musician.
The art that I am making now is, in many ways, a product of my anxiety about climate change. I spend a great deal of time thinking about, worrying about, and losing sleep over the environmental changes that we are already witnessing, and the changes that are sure to come. Part of how I cope with this anxiety is to spend time in nature. I observe it, revel in it, embed myself in it, love it, and grieve in it if I have to. My experiences in nature heal me on a daily basis. I find my equilibrium there. When I manage to create something in nature that adequately describes my reverence for it, well, that is a very good day, and what I would describe as a peak experience. These experiences bring me joy and satisfaction, which help me to continue to show up in the face of all of life’s abominable tragedies, with courage and purpose.
ENVIRONMENTAL CONCERNS, GLOBAL WARMING IN THE CONTEXT OF YOUR WORK
My mission is to describe and honor the interconnection between humanity and the natural world, as there can be no “us” without “it,” and we are treading precariously close to our demise. It is my personal belief (and mantra) that I am an extension of the natural world, and the natural world is an extension of me. My work strives to be a visual depiction of this sacred exchange. I hope to remind the viewer that we belong in nature, that we are part of the very fabric of nature.
My work reflects my reverence for the natural world. I harvest and work with beautiful materials that are generally considered to be weeds or detritus, that is to say, they are not considered precious (although they are to me). Those materials have so far included such things as grass, ivy, Queen Anne’s lace, kelp (that I find washed up on the beach), small bits of moss, dried fennel, fern, scavenged cedar bark, and the occasional flower. My projects do not require me to alter the landscape. When I am done with a project, there is little to no evidence that I was ever there. I work with a “leave no trace” mindset.
SENSITIVITY TO ECOSYSTEMS IN YOUR WORK
The materials that I work with decompose after the completion of a project, therefore I create no waste. I generally do not have to buy anything in order to create my work, aside from gloves and clippers, although I have purchased fabric for a couple of projects, which I hold onto and reuse. I am grateful to have found a way of working that aligns with my ecological concerns and priorities. My goal is to elevate the natural world through my work, not denigrate it.
The creative process is my favorite topic of discussion. It’s my favorite thing to think and wonder about. And when I am blessed with an interesting idea for a creative project, it feels like a gift straight from the gods. I love listening to other makers’ stories about their own creative processes. Whether they are musicians, comedians, visual artists, dancers, writers, or scientists... anyone whose work requires imagination, intuition, and creativity has my undivided attention.
For myself, I know that I have to be looking for something. I need to be paying close attention and walking around with the intention of finding an idea. So there is a kind of courtship process. Very often a certain material will stimulate an idea, or suggest a project to me. Sometimes it’s a specific place or landscape or something atmospheric. Sometimes the idea will come to me whole, other times I need to nurse it along and flesh it out. I mull and analyze. If the idea survives my scrutiny, I might set out right away to make the piece. Some projects have taken me months or even years to make, due to insecurity and self-doubt.
WHAT YOU EXPERIENCE DURING THE CREATION PROCESS
Occasionally I make a project in the studio and bring it to a location to document on a model (I think of my models as surrogates, as they are having an experience that I wish I could be having). Most of the time, I make the piece on site, and document it the same day. When the day finally comes to make and/or document the piece, it’s a big deal. It means that my schedule, my model’s schedule, the weather, the light, the season, and sometimes the tide, have all come together in an almost holy (in my mind) union. And then the whirlwind of collecting my materials (usually on site), building the piece (often directly on my model), documenting the piece, and then deconstructing the piece all happen in rapid succession. Afterward, I’m exhausted, exhilarated, high as a kite, trying to piece together what just happened, satisfied for a little while, and enormously grateful to have completed something that I consider to be part of my mission, raison d’etre, and life’s work.
Obstacles to my process include fear and procrastination, rain, wind, cold temperatures, and scheduling conflicts. There’s a lot of waiting involved in my work. I‘m currently waiting for a storm to come and flush kelp onto the beach for a new kelp project. Sometimes I’m literally waiting for the grass to grow. Sometimes I’m waiting for something “go by,” such as the fennel stalks I was working with last winter. Most recently I waited four months for the dense fog of August (we call it Faugust here in Port Townsend) to document my latest project, “Grey Study with Alison.” I’m also waiting for my hair to grow for a new-fangled “Extensions” project. This work requires patience.
IDENTIFY OBSTACLES TO YOUR WORK / PROCESS
In trying to find the terminology that would best describe the forces that have led us to our current social and environmental predicament, I’ve settled on what bell hooks calls a white supremacist capitalist patriarchy, although, I think white supremacist capitalist heteropatriarchy works even better. In my opinion, this is a mindset of overarching violence and systemic discrimination inflicted upon the natural world, women, and all marginalized groups. Long and shocking histories of violence and violation have brought us to this precarious moment, as we now teeter toward self-annihilation.
CONCEPTS OF SACREDNESS AND VIOLATION
It’s difficult to be a sensitive person born into a cult of consumption and exploitation and we are all required to make sense of it and survive it the best that we can. My work is a practical invention that has served as a personal antidote to the crushing weight of unfettered patriarchy. It functions as a counterbalance to the destructive forces that continue to consume and exploit the Earth’s resources and people. I think the reason that my work might resonate with some people is because it depicts the possibility of an intact and harmonious relationship between humans and nature... humans embedded in nature, comfortable in nature, wearing nature, celebrating nature. I think that we long for the sacred connection with the natural world that many of our ancestors once knew, and that we are looking for a way back to it, before it is too late, or maybe because it is too late.
My work is ephemeral. It generally exists very briefly in three dimensions and is then relegated to the realm of digital photography. It’s been a long stretch for someone who identifies first and foremost as a sculptor.
When I started having these impulses to embed women into the landscape, I was fortunate to have Andy Goldsworthy as a role model. Mr. Goldsworthy doesn’t work with human models, to the best of my knowledge, but he certainly works in nature, with natural materials, and often in an ephemeral way. While I know that Mr. Goldsworthy has created large-scale permanent works as well, his early works have been enormously inspiring to me, and have demonstrated that art can be temporary. Art can melt. The tide can wash it away. The wind can blow it asunder. And it can still be art. When I set out into nature with my gloves and clippers and maybe a knife or trowel, I (humbly) feel an affinity with Mr. Goldsworthy. He is my unofficial Patron Saint of Ephemeral Creations in Nature. I like that my work eventually rots and becomes part of the landscape that I hold in such high esteem. I am glad that I am not adding to the clutter of so many objects taking up space on this overwrought land.
In stark contrast to this methodology and epistemology is Michael Heizer’s recently completed “City,” a project that required 50 years and 40 million dollars to complete. While I respect Heizer’s commitment to his vision and his impressive work ethic, I’m confused by this project. Heizer has expressed his desire and belief that his creation will outlast other art (in particular Richard Serra’s massive steel sculptures), and it is presumed that “City” is the world’s largest art piece. One can only conclude that size and longevity were of primary importance to the artist. While I know that we humans have an appetite for the grandiose, isn’t it time that we begin to question why? Is bigger really better?
Heizer has compared his “City” to Native American mound sites, beneath which the dead were sometimes buried, and upon which temples were sometimes built. Heizer also has compared his project to pre-Colombian cities. As in actual cities where lives were lived, art was made, agriculture and architecture were developed, and civilizations unfolded. I cannot imagine that these are apt comparisons.
Hats off to Heizer for completing such a massive undertaking and for holding fast to his vision, but the project could not have been completed without the support of art world bigwigs who sit on his board and who have generated the funds to support it. A project which, by the way, will continue to require over a million dollars per year to maintain.
Maybe it’s time that we humans adapt to our circumstances. Maybe it’s time to question our impulses and urges. Maybe it’s time to be a little bit more humble.
DOES ART NEED TO LAST? WHAT ABOUT HEIZER’S “CITY”?
I was honored to be invited to a local school last spring to work with students as a visiting artist. The kids were each provided with color copies of two of my pieces, “Grass Cocoon” and “Sadie in Ivy,” and were asked to share their observations. A first grader shyly declared that it looked like the people in the pictures were dead. Oh my. Not the jolly response one would hope to inspire in an elementary school setting.
Death
I have received other death-related comments in social media settings. Many people have expressed that being wrapped in a grass shroud, as in “Grass Cocoon,” is how they would like to be buried. While I didn’t expect them, I’ve felt honored by these comments. There’s a place for them here. I mean, many of us are working with the awareness that we’re staring down the barrels of our own demise, so yes, death imagery is going to show up. I imagine that if my models’ eyes were open in these pieces, the death association would be diminished. But I was asking my models to inhabit what might look like a meditative state, an internal state if you will, the quiet state of transformation, as I was in part trying to express my own internal process of claiming this way of working, of asserting my allegiance to this Earth, and of banishing restraint from the expectations of others. I was trying to become the truest iteration of myself with this work, and it was incredibly liberating. So there was a death of sorts. And also a rebirth.
All images courtesy of the artist, Jeanne K. Simmons.