Simulacra
2013-present
The emotional structure of language.
What Once Was Here
A grief portal. A public memorial to time lost.
"What Once Was Here" is a collection of pandemic stories. The first time I've opened the simulacra to others, I held space in the Ivy Hall while people told me their amazing stories of loss, life, nightmares and miracles from the last year and a half. I scribed. Stories with tears of grief and joy, poetic words, heroic acts, emotional chasms, and so.much.clarity. Standing inside was Dark. Light. Life. Death. Nature. Void. The day after our opening, Nature decided to contribute her own artistic poetry by pretty much destroying two of the panels with abnormally high winds that ripped out grommets and unwove and strew our words and stories onto the surrounding hillside. About to head out of town and somewhat impressed by beauty of it (re-integration with nature, indeed), I sheared the panels in half and removed what was left of the woven maple. The panels hang now as only void against the backdrop of trees and sky.
Our stories and lives were such short moments in the larger cycle.
I am happy with this. It feels more ancient that way.
What Once Was Here. 2021. salvaged fir, canvas, maple. 10' x 6' x 6'
What Once Was Here. 2021. salvaged fir, canvas, maple. 10' x 6' x 6'
What Once Was Here. 2021. salvaged fir, canvas, maple. 10' x 6' x 6'
What Once Was Here. 2021. salvaged fir, canvas, maple. 10' x 6' x 6'
What Once Was Here. 2021. salvaged fir, canvas, maple. 10' x 6' x 6'
What Once Was Here. 2021. salvaged fir, canvas, maple. 10' x 6' x 6'
What Once Was Here. 2021. salvaged fir, canvas, maple. 10' x 6' x 6'
What Once Was Here. 2021. salvaged fir, canvas, maple. 10' x 6' x 6'
What Once Was Here. 2021. salvaged fir, canvas, maple. 10' x 6' x 6'
Simulacra works
It is in this series that my formal education in professional writing merges with my artwork and fades with time.
Conceived during Snowpocalypse 2012, when I was snowed into my downtown Seattle apartment for the better part of a week and my muse had just walked out on me in a fury, the simulacra started as impassioned letters to him. Dictated out loud and written in my natural illegible handwriting. Within a few days, the memory of the words starts to fade, the phrases, too, until eventually all that is left is the skeletal remains of a conversation.
The emotional structure of language.
