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Carve Me Free of this Wilderness
Toward the
Dig
The
account of this project, beginning approximately in November 2010 and
concluding December 2012, is an
explanation of a series of transitional experiences manifesting themselves in a
collection of creative experiments exploring ideas of land use, physical space and the
psychological ties of place. As I describe this process in the singular, it is
constructed of transitional phases. Each phase has been transformative in the
overall creation of my work and is driven by a commonality tied to a specific geographical
location that has shaped the trajectory of all my actions.
The
site lies in an urban open space located within the East San Diego city limits
and adjacent to a city park and recreational lake. The western section of the
park, which is fenced off from the park proper and under limited supervision
from park officials, has become an informal multiple-use space for the neighboring
residents. This relationships bound to this space are historical and tied to
much emotion and sentiment. The space is an unspoken inheritance, and the
stories of the area are as diverse as the neighborhood. Those stories and the
evolution of the space have changed as the neighborhood has changed since its
development in 1949, military housing hugging the perimeter fence of what was
originally the first and largest naval radio transmitting facility, built in
1921. In that time, the facility went through a number of transitions from
naval supply depot to fueling station to a city water filtration plant. The
west side of the park still retains mementos of its former self: dilapidated
foundations of loading docks and warehouses dot the landscape, visible through
chaparral and sun daisies and scattered about the serpentine asphalt that
betrays the hustle and bustle of an earlier time. I have been acquainted with
this area for a number of years using the site as many residents do for a respite
from the street. The space would be the focus of my work for nearly two years.
In that time I found an unconventional method of expression through the act of
scarifying a chosen section of ground. Acting upon this space by scarring
natural surfaces of the ground had loose origins in graffiti, where a writer
prints or paints his message or sign on a public surface. The act is usually
performed incognito to avoid confrontation with law enforcement. Graffiti is a
common feature of most urban areas and is usually associated with gangs, youth
and the socio-economically disenfranchised. In the neighborhood where I live, I
have interpreted it to mean a variety of things, from territorial markers by
area gangs to amateur free-form art pieces, or even solo and crew tag names.
Sometimes it is just vandalism, blurring the line between appreciation as art
democratized and the tastelessness of garish self-promotion. Though
I did not initially start the project with the intention of making a definitive
association between environmental scarification and graffiti, it gradually
found its way into the dialogue via a natural and organic process. So when I
found myself digging, it was with a measure of hesitation, for I was not sure
what I was doing or why. I found my voice in the simple act of doing and
thereby found the reason for my actions. Even with a shovel tightly gripped in
my hands, digging, as a vehicle toward discovery, is a mysterious and
incomprehensible act. Peering down into a hole two feet by five feet, sweating
through hours of dense clay with pick and shovel, was literally a descent to
discovery, and what I sought needed to be uncovered a spade full at a time.
Generally speaking, the creative journey is the making of one’s own myth. There
is always a critical moment in the journey where a door of perception will open
up, where the air quivers and disrupts the stillness, awakening the recipient.
For a brief instant, in the excitement of a new discovery, the creator is stripped
of the claustrophobic clutter of the world, and what is necessary and valuable
is revealed. I have always had the ability to manipulate
mark-making tools. Crayons, chalk and a Ticonderoga No. 2 aided my interior
world. I saw drawing as a rather commonplace skill endowing everyone. I saw
making imagery as natural as a natural aspect of human nature. I arrived at
this assumption early as a child. In our home there were no books on shelves or
painted pictures hanging from the wall. Culture arrived as a black and white
TV, isolated in a barren corner of the living room, resting on a metallic brass
stand. This is neither a rebuke of my parents nor an attempt to tug at the
strings of sympathy; it is simply a fact. I lived as the majority of the world
does, cloaked in the comfort of unmolested upholstered day-to-day existence. Two
things remained constant: the necessity of illustrating my imaginings, and the
satisfaction of closure that came from acting out what I created. The
physicality brought whatever initiated the idea full circle, capping what can
be described as psycho-immersed theater. If
there was any introduction to art-making, it came in the form of my father, a
telephone, and a blue-lined legal pad 8 1/2 inches by 11 inches. My father, a
ship builder, would sit at his chair, his arm resting on a small end table,
with a yellow legal pad and a sharpened Ticonderoga No. 2 pencil, speaking into
the telephone. He would conduct shipyard business all the while his hand and
pencil orchestrated an auto-mechanical prestidigitation that filled the page
with curious penciled figures and shapes, none of which had anything to do with
boats. As soon as the phone call ended, he would set down the pencil, and the
miracle would cease as abruptly as it began. This phenomenon would not present
itself again until the next call. In my eyes, my father was elevated to the
realm of magic. Each time the phone rang, like a Pavlovian dog, I would feel my
heart race to witness the miracle of the yellow sheets populated with contorted
figures and square-headed treats.
Trips
to Yosemite, Meteor Crater National Park, the Petrified Forest or Hood Canal in
a cramped, bleached, blue aluminum trailer were the memories I have of places
visited on vacations with my father as guide. On these trips, he would shed his
middle-class dressings and transform himself into the classic wilderness Indian
scout. (There was a time my brothers and I believed we were direct descendants
of Geronimo.) He would busy the air with nervous chatter, like a mountain man
falling upon company for the first time in years. He would manufacture any
excuse to pull off the main road, with prospects, just around the next bend, of
gold ore veins and buried Indian ruins. The cabin pressure from his stories was
so immense I could scarcely breathe-I would burst from the vehicle and, with a
geologist pick in hand, dig in with a frenzy to churn the soil for buried
treasure. Sometimes they would stop the car just to pacify my anxiety and allow
me to dig. It is a condition that I have not been entirely cured of.My
father and I would take day trips to the back country of San Diego. On one occasion, we drove out to Pine Valley.
This is before the suburban sprawl pushed eastward, transforming quaint country
villages into upper-income hideaways and gated territories of showcase
homes. My dad as always passed the hour
drive with speculations about the historical spot he had in mind. I always
found it strange that he seemed to know so much about the unwritten history of
San Diego; since he was born and raised in Globe Arizona, but I never gave it
much thought and guessed it had something to do with his “native” blood. He
pulled off the main highway and drove us up a dirt road that connected a few
modest homes tucked away within the oak groves. We pulled onto the shoulder
next to an open field of wild grass where, nestled in an outcropping of rocks,
a lone oak stood. My father began his imaginings. He told me how the tree was
an old meeting or council rock where the chief of the tribe resided. He painted
such a picture that I could see the small band of people going about busying
themselves with seed gathering, chatting amongst themselves, working next to
open campfires, mashing acorns in stone metates. We
walked over to the tree, and my father began digging. I found a place and began
my excavations. It was solitary work. He stuck to his spot, hunched over on his
knees, puncturing the soil with his pick .We dug for an entire day. At the end
of the day we had extracted pottery shards made of red clay, some with delicate
design patterns made by a brush or reed, pieces of pottery large enough to show
the curvature of the whole pot, or a pierced hole where maybe a rope acted as a
handle. In the late afternoon we drove home in silence, each buried in his
private thoughts. I looked at my father very differently after that day, and I
realized I was hooked. Dirt held new meaning. Since
then, my life as an adult has taken a rather circuitous route. I have held many
jobs, some I believed to be callings, others dictated by circumstance. At one
time I had been between jobs for about six months and was preparing to “hit the
pavement” once again. My son and I were driving to a dentist appointment when
he turned and commented that I should think about becoming a teacher. He
believed artists essentially spent their time sharing ideas with one another,
and teaching to his way of thinking was a logical extension. I had never
considered the idea of teaching, because I was very comfortable playing the
role of the working studio artist. The environment was unusually flexible, and
my co-workers possessed a wide range of talents and sensibilities. However, his
words had struck a chord, and I was ripe to the suggestion. Ultimately, I
returned to school, did the necessary work, and in the process discovered that
an inner need was satiated. The act of teaching spoke to my desire to directly
affect the world I lived in. I was able to work for an inner-city high school
in a neighborhood where I had spent my adolescent years. It was a career that
had a component of civic duty built in. I felt I was at the frontline of
society-building with my finger on the pulse, able to effect real change. I
have been shaped and transformed by this career, building upon a credo that one
must make a difference with the tools available. Having the opportunity to
teach what I love, art, is an extended bonus. Before teaching, all my
activities had been self-serving. I acted in response to, not out of.
Everything since has reshaped my actions. I have become an educator in thought
and deed. To
understand the motive for spending a year digging in the dirt and concentrating
a considerable amount of time and energy in the earth in lieu of making objects
took a considerable amount of energy. It
came as an epiphany, where a bolt from the separated heavens had appeared and struck
me with the idea that digging was a justifiable course of action. Of course, I
knew that I had my work cut out for me, because I was not completely convinced
that the idea of cutting into the earth was a legitimate art-making activity. I
came to graduate school equipped with paintbrushes, canvas and paint, filling,
dabbing and smearing on rectangular surfaces. Over time I felt a frustration in
the paint and the limitations of the flat surface. It was a cognitive boundary
which I could not overcome, inhibiting my ability to resolve this creative
conundrum. I felt like a domesticated animal that had come face to face with
the limits of its enclosure. At the time, this aching defied definition and so
there was no remedy to my pain. In the past when I experienced the tinge of
dissatisfaction, I always resorted to building things: small three-dimensional
environments, very similar to theater sets. These were boxy creations with
walls, floors and a roof. Sometimes I added windows for multiple viewing
angles. Toys, found objects, street trash, and chance materials were candidates
for use. Store-bought or created elements were disdained simply for that reason.
Things that possessed a real or imagined history were essential to the overall
composition, even more so than formal aesthetic considerations. I understood Roland
Barthes to say that static objects are closely associated to the “cult of death”.
Static images, he felt, are segregated from the “community of life”
and present themselves as a slide or a frozen specimen, mimicking gestures of
speech, incapable of recapturing the animated moment, merely locating a point
in time through isolated substitutes in the absence of living truth. I attempted to capture a sense of the real in
this contained space called a canvas. I ached to make the static image lift up
from the frozen moment and experience the living world. I wanted my surfaces to
breath, live and die. Along this route the heavens parted, so to speak, and the
night became day. Late one night, at the end of a painting session, tired,
alone in the studio, I went about the mindless work of cleaning up, putting
caps on paint tubes, sealing bottles of linseed and stand oil, dipping my
brushes in solvent and wiping, performing the chores that had become a set of
practiced movements I have done mindlessly for a number of years. If viewed
anthropologically, they were nothing more than a series of reflexive actions,
like a mountain ape peeling bamboo leaves from its stock. The
revelation that would alter the course of my work manifested itself in the form
of a water faucet. Strange how signs present themselves and take on the guise
of the most mundane: it is an open heart which distinguishes the helpful
message from the white noise of the mechanical world. These signs,
opportunities or messages do not come like the morning paper, slapping wet-hard
on the front door. They are made up of the world, porous and pliable, invisible
and wistful. I
stood at the basin, a bar of soap in my left hand gently massaging the brushes,
watching the soapy water swirl down the drain. I was struck by the iridescence
of the colors caused by the separation of oil and water, a bubbly whirlpool of
suds and solvent swirling in the drain. In this late-night stupor I imagined
the water flowing down the plumbing, meandering throughout the building’s apartments,
tumbling through the main drainage to the ravine that spilled into the river basin
below. I became acutely aware of my blindness, a defiler of the planet. How
many more like me were there mindlessly washing our crimes out to sea. I felt
the grip of guilt. It was a slight transgression, possibly, but in my eyes, a
crime just the same. An acute sensation of guilt and shame acted on the
conscience. The stains on the basin told me I was not alone, that others shared
the same deed, but it did not dilute the feeling of personal guilt. I had
become absolutely awake, an aching alertness that was irrevocable. Change was
at hand. For weeks I wrestled with this apparently minor but
personally troubling event. It plagued me enough that I attempted to articulate
it to several people. It was a confession that is always met with uneasy
embarrassment for both parties, especially when the problem or curiosity posed
floats slightly free of gravity and is inclined toward the mystical. It is odd
that the connection between the mystical and art should be such a sensitive
subject, since they have both shared such a long relationship. The
possibilities or inventions independent of the circuit board and the right
angle may still be useful for discovery what drives the “whys” of what we do.
Regardless, it became apparent that, firstly, I would have to solve this
problem on my own and, secondly, I needed a plan. The
best plans, are not contrived by effort, but are spontaneous and instinctive.Witold Rybczynski, A Clearing in the Distance The
first attempts to reconcile the issue manifested themselves in works that
relied on found objects incorporating unconventional materials retrieved from
nurseries, Home Depot, Wal-Mart, the street and dumpsters. Dumpster-diving and
walk-searching for anything visually intriguing or possessing a sense of
discarded history became my main preoccupation in my searches. It was a method
I was very comfortable with, in that I had spent a number of years creating
from the detritus of everyday existence. The objects constructed, the initial
response to the “drain incident,” were small-scale works that spoke to
box-works made years earlier. These were small enclosed houses staged with an
assortment of discarded items and arranged compositionally to connote a narrative.
The new objects, on the other hand, were sans the confines of the walls and
ceilings of the older works, but each was set in the format of a stage.
Thematically, I had begun to drift toward motifs within the realm of nature,
specifically: the inter-species power relationships of domination and
subservience.
Figure1. Free Range made of beef products, oil
paint, found rag, plastic olive spears and wood. I
used the bovine as my representative for the exploration of this theme. The cow
has had along historical relationship with man, from service beast to food
product. Meat became my choice of material. At the time, I was using animal
by-products as a source to wean myself away from using standard art materials. At
the same time, I was attempting to manage my environmental footprint. In the
beginning, pet supplies, chew bones, rawhide, soup bones, and animal treats
became the bulk of the media used. I rationalized that, by substituting
synthetically manufactured materials for animal by-products, I was in fact not
supporting industries that practiced natural resource extraction and thereby
added to manufacturing and consumer-based waste. The irony was that the
materials I chose supported industries that practiced many of the same
environmental violations, besides raising the moral question of producing
suffering for profit. At the time, I was reading Susan Sontag’s Regarding the Pain of Others. Reading
further, I found that, in my haste to find a substitute for making, the route
taken had led to a philosophical cul-de-sac. It was the summation of Sontag’s
thesis - considering and including non-human suffering and pain and according non-humans
the same rights against unwarranted pain and suffering as humankind-that acted
as a moral compass and consequently become a thorn in my side. The question concerning
my problem would be, could I reconcile the conflict between of new material
versus perpetuating pain, and would I choose to care enough to change? Pity
is considered to be the emotion that we owe only to those enduring undeserved
misfortune.Susan Sontag, Regarding the Pain of Others
I would continue for some time to use hides
and processed animal flesh, wrestling with my conflict, and rationalizing that
the end product would either degrade after some time or could conceivably be
eaten and thus leave a smaller percentage of residual waste than would synthetic
material. Still, I had to contend with the biting immorality of using what was
created through suffering for the production of art. I had to maintain that, in
an attempt to rethink a traditional method of making, I had to search for new
approaches and materials. Balancing this need to move away from the synthetic
and to find humanity in my work were complex arguments surrounding the issues
between human and non-human needs. I had to accept as part of the process the frailty
and the contradiction embedded within in this path of discovery. The
wrapping of flesh, the discovery of the adhesive quality of animal residue, was
symbolically loaded and difficult to resist as useful but unexpected qualities
of the materials. I argued for these materials as a natural response; the flesh
held a deeper significance, permitting a justification in the face of Sontag’s
book. I confess I had arrived at a point where I did not want to consider the
grocery list of my materials, and I avoided reading labels, as I only wished to
make with the goods. Denial became an unanticipated tool. The internal
contradiction revealed a war raging within is as old as Descartes and as current
as Derrida. The biblical declaration of man’s supremacy guarantees to him
mastery of all creation; the question is whether we if we can move beyond our
embedded specie-ism regard non-human interests as well. This became my
inherited argument. Figure 2.Beast,s
sticks, tar, burlap, oil paint, local grasses, rope,
manure, concrete block. As
a result, I completed a series of objects that toyed with the fragile proximity
of human and non-human nature. The pieces each addressed the comingling of both
existences by a combination of synthetic materials, found objects, petroleum
products, raw wood and animal material. This was an avenue I left myself as I
broadened my search for a purer method of making. Adhesives tentatively held
together slabs of hardened mud which earlier had been laid out at a remote
site, baited with food in hopes of capturing scavenging footprints. It was the
first excursion into making larger free-standing sculptural pieces that
experimented with sculpture embedded in natural surfaces. Each piece was
constructed on site, exposed to many environmental and climatic conditions. In
one experiment I laid out a burlap-supported slab of moistened mud near a
cluster of squirrels. These animals were accustomed to human contact, and many
in the group were assertive. Watching the animals react, especially with people
they recognized, was interesting. The animals anticipated the bags of bread
before they were presented. A few squirrels’ heads popped up from their
hillside dens broadcasting the “squirrel-alert” calling the rest of the pack to
gather. It is an unsettling experience to be in such close proximity and in
such disproportionate numbers, where matters of civility come to the fore. I
did find the meetings intriguing enough that I wanted to capture the moment. I
did not want to discuss so much the interaction between the human and the
non-human as I did the physicality of the moment. I was not interested in
documenting the event through photography or video. What interested me were the
marks left on the ground that traced the excitement and chaos. I felt if I
could anticipate another such meeting and devise a way to place some structure
that might mediate the two groups at the time of a feeding, then I just might
capture the living trace of a dialogue between man and beast. The
plan was to make wet mud panels that, when laid flat on the ground, would
inconspicuously blend with the environment. Each panel, two feet by three feet,
was made with a light-weave burlap used as a cold-weather blanket for new-growth
plants bought from a local hardware store. The burlap backing was doused with a
mixture of water and glue until it hardened. Once hardened, the burlap was
stiff enough to be frosted with a white glue and mud mix and brought to a
thickness of two inches. The last layer was added just prior to laying the
panel in place. This was a trial-and-error process. Initially, I layered the
panel at home and drove it to the site, but the top layer would always dry out,
due either to travel time or weather conditions. I eventually had to prepare
the panels at the site and in place. The
experiments would take place over a period of a couple of weeks. The squirrels
were not always cooperative or present, and so staging an interaction was a hit
or miss affair. To complicate matters, my actions were looked on suspiciously
by the park rangers and visitors. When approached, I would reassure everyone of
my good intentions, explaining the purpose and the desired outcome as a
standard procedure. My entry into the mix, squirrel versus human, was regarded
as an intrusion by some people and a curiosity by most. It was a foreshadowing
of the problems that would color future projects. When working a regulated
public environment, I had to appreciate everyone’s concept of nature. I refer to
Joseph Beuys’s action piece Coyote, I
Like America and America Likes Me of 1974 in making an observation. Whereas
I identify my pieces as physical experiments, Beuys’s action pieces are social
experiments. In his written analysis, Beuys claims to have staged a most
unusual if not unlikely encounter with a coyote, as he says, representing the
trauma in America’s past by the character of this wild animal. Beuys becomes a
psychic medium who makes himself present in the form of a coyote, and speaks “with
the Indian, the Red Man-only then can the trauma be lifted.”
Beuys’s staged encounter is unlikely in a natural setting. Beuys, wrapped in
felt and armed only with a walking stick and floppy hat, “communicates” with
the creature, sleeping on the “coyote’s straw”. Each assumes their respective
territory within the caged area, allowing time and curiosity to furnish each
one moments of closer inspection. Though in totality Beuys is reaching out to
and through the spirit of the coyote, he is still speaking at the animal. The coyote, the non-human element, is still regarded
as a tool in an exercise with human ends. The idea that nature can be
understood is a completely anthropocentric stance. The zoo mentality is
predominant throughout the exercise, and the non-human, as evidenced in the
supporting photos, must accept certain states of distress within its gated
confines. The artificial premise in which it finds itself, with this insistent
creature (Beuys) in a felt rug and floppy hat and cane and concerned about the
psychic transference, can never be measured so as to bring the coyote or the
human any closer to understanding. The relationship between man, animal/nature
and metaphor is a construction that is unfortunately one-sided. Walt Whitman addresses the question and
supplies an answer to Beuys in his poem “Leaves of Grass”: Swiftly arose and spread around meThe peace and knowledge that pass
All the argument of the earth,And I know that the hand of God is
The promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God isThe brother of my own,And that all men ever born areAlso brothers and the womenMy sisters and lovers,And that a keelson of the creation isLove,And the limitless are the leaves stiff or
drooping in the fields,And brown ants in the little wellsBeneath them,And the mossy scabs of the worm fence,Heap’d stones, elder mullein and poke-weed.A child said “What is the grass?”Fetching it to me with full hands;How could I answer the child? I doNot know what it is anymore than he.I guess it must be the flag of myDisposition, out of hopeful greenStuff woven,Or I guess it is the handkerchief
Of the Lord,A scented gift and remembranceDesignedly dropt,Bearing the owner’s name someway inThe corners, that we may see and remark, and
say whose?Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the
produced babe of the
Vegetation.Or I guess it is a uniformHieroglyphic,And it means, sprouting alike in broad zones
and narrow zones,Growing among black folks as among white,Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, CuffI give them the same, IReceive them the same. Whitman
tackles with questions piercing deep what Beuys addresses with physicality in
his action piece: nature as the wellspring of those answers deeply ensconced in
the human psyche. Whitman muses that this desire to dialogue with nature is as
much a part of our nature, and so remote as to defy understanding. We know
little of the nature of nature and gather no more answers than a child’s
wonderment over a blade of grass. It is Whitman’s surrender to the immensity of
the question that I believed informs all the actions I would later pursue and
find, the “comfortable disposition,” as Whitman spoke, “The peace and knowledge
that pass / all the argument of the earth.” Weeks
later I would move west from the park proper and venture to the western
terminus of the park. This part of the park is less tended, and the uses of
this section are more varied and less restricted. Park officials occasionally
ride through this section emptying trash cans, but that is the extent of management,
that is the extent of it. The uses of the western section are as diverse as the
people that populate the area, from dog-walkers and joggers to gangbangers and
transients. At this site I constructed another experiment that used scattered
elements, natural found objects, the broken branches of the eucalyptus groves
that dot the area. A fence was constructed from scattered branches, extending
east to west across a heavily trafficked walking path. This excerpt from my diary of February 2010:This photo is part
of a series of gates and fences that I am constructing from fallen branches. My
intention is to alter the terrain but consider those that will inevitably
encounter them. My considerations do not stop at human interaction, but
considers the natural inhabitants as well. Only chance encounters, as with my
"beast "the object has now
become the habitat of several squirrels and field mice, and assist me with data
as to types of interactions with the “planted” objects and the mysterious
"other”, human or non-human. I am able to distinguish the different hands
responsible when a piece is tampered with. Figure 3. Fence structure made from
scattered branches found and tamped into a trench with mud. The object ran a
line of thirty feet east to west and connects a corral with a placed sculpture,
seen on the left, with two access openings along the trail. A ditch was dug the length of the fence line:
the excavated dirt was gathered and moistened, and the branches were set in the
soil and allowed to dry in place. In making this exposed piece, I began to play
with the notion of temporality in the work. It became immediately apparent that
the piece would inherit a limited life span. It would inevitably succumb to the
elements-wind, rain, temperature, exposure and human interference-usually
displayed in the deconstruction of an object. As I dabbled in these temporal
exercises, I began to understand that the inclusion of others had become part
of the process. What ensued was a series of engagements with forces outside the
scope of the work- stakeholders, human and non-human-in the open space. I
observed on several occasions the interaction of varying forms. The jogger,
whom I imagined had run down the hill every day for a number of years, on one
particular day found himself freakishly manipulated through a downhill slalom
of gates, hitting each opening with athletic deftness and turning back as he
passed through to study the curious structure he had so unconsciously obeyed.Figure 4.Far west side of the Fence showing the corral that holds a wooden altar made of mud,
manure mud masks and buffalo horns. Attached to the fence was a corral that housed
a high-legged sculptural shelf encrusted with mud masks, weeds and a pair water
buffalo horns partly concealed in a small stand of eucalyptus saplings. From a
distance I watched people approach, investigate and interact with the piece.
People examined it, walked its perimeter and added or reshaped the corral and
fence line. Other times the fence would be completely disassembled, bicycle
tracks evident through the whole of the fence. I would reassemble the fence and
make an additional length, returning later to see what modifications had
occurred to the piece. I recognized that I was a player in an unintended
performance. I had become an instigator of a series of creative actions. I
positioned works to foster what I believed to be a working dialogue, and the
piece acted as a mediator between the audience and me. In addition to the fence
and the corral, chunks of concrete were used as markers, with crude figures
drawn pointing in the direction of other experiments. At the time of the fence-corral,
there were two other exercises taking place. One was a tar, twig and burlap
quadruped (see fig.2) and a mural on the foundation of a former warehouse. The
“markers” were painted and strategically placed, pointing to each experiment. With
painted concrete blocks, my audience was managed through a designed path which
assumed the role of unauthorized park markers possessing a rather primitive and
peculiar nature.
Adlous
Huxley, Doors of Perception and Heaven
and Hell. New York: Harper and Row, 1963. Roland Barthes. Camera
Lucida. New York: Hill and Wang,1980, pp.30-31 Joseph Beuys, Joseph
Beuys in America: Energy Plan for the Western Man, Four Walls Eight
Windows, New York, 1990, pp.141-144 Whitman, Walt. Leaves
of Grass: Book III ,Song of Myself, A Public Domain Book, p.22
