Roxy Paine | Steel Arborist | Maelstrom Maker

Librado Romero/The New York Times

I love trees.
That’s obvious, given at that I have written dozens of blogs that have something to do with the spirit of trees.
And I’ve written about Roxy Paine, too.
But, being a designer, my love of trees is really about the extraordinary character of how they work. I won’t get into a long-winded overview of that. But I do marvel at how they seem to be designed to organically fill the space — like a rhythmically expanded vortex, they flow out to fill the measure of light and “fullness”.
I think that Roxy’s work does that.
Ken Johnson notes, in the NYTimes, “An awesome spectacle awaits visitors to the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Cantor Roof Garden, which opens for the season on Tuesday: a gnarly thicket of trees and branches extending 130 feet from one end of the open-air deck to the other and rising 29 feet overhead. It looks as if a tornado had ripped through Central Park and deposited its gleanings here. Except the thicket is made of shiny metal rods and pipe: some 10,000 pieces weighing more than seven tons and ranging from three-eighths of an inch to 10 inches in diameter, with larger trunk sections made of rolled plate. It’s as though all that wood had been transformed by a Midas with a stainless-steel touch.”

These days, I’m not in NYC as much as I’d like to be. In 2007, I was there, working at Girvin | NYC, pretty much half time. In 2008, more like 40% of the time. So far this year, I’ve spent more time out of both offices than ever before, in a melange of places. Nationally, and internationally, I’ve been all over. From Miami to Madison, from London to Dubai. But being there earlier, I was exposed to Roxy’s installations near our offices, next to Madison Park.

Looking at these, at night, I gazed upward — steel, the tower, to the stars.
If you’re there, check it out. And I will, too.
tsg
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E x p l o r i n g t h e s o u n d o f t r e e s : m e r a p i
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The Exploration of Personal Ritual

Getting to the soul of things.
What is a thing?
I’ve wondered about that. A thing.
thing
O.E. þing “meeting, assembly,” later “entity, being, matter” (subject of deliberation in an assembly), also “act, deed, event, material object, body, being,” from P.Gmc. *thengan “appointed time” (cf. O.Fris. thing “assembly, council, suit, matter, thing,” M.Du. dinc “court-day, suit, plea, concern, affair, thing,” Du. ding “thing,” O.H.G. ding “public assembly for judgment and business, lawsuit,” Ger. ding “affair, matter, thing,” O.N. þing “public assembly”). Some suggest an ultimate connection to PIE root *ten- “stretch,” perhaps on notion of “stretch of time for a meeting or assembly.”
What I ponder is the concept of the thing as a notion of time, as alluded to above. And, as we consider it, the thing is a point of contemplation — that stretch, that moment, when reflection takes place. And, it’s about the object — the thing that is held. And the meaning, in memory.
object
1398, “tangible thing, something perceived or presented to the senses,” from M.L. objectum “thing put before” (the mind or sight), neut. of L. objectus, pp. of obicere “to present, oppose, cast in the way of,” from ob “against” + jacere “to throw”
And, in the sensing of the thing, the object, in the arrangement of time, and the placement of the thing, it can be formed as something more meaningful. That is imbued with meaning. And I meditate on the object, the thing, as something more. Something that is transformational, something that, in action and contemplative rippling, becomes some thing different. It deepens. It is infused, in the conception of ritual.
ritual
1570, from L. ritualis “relating to (religious) rites,” from ritus “rite” (see rite). The noun is first recorded 1649. Ritualistic first recorded 1850.
Which, in turn, is rite.
c.1315, from L. ritus “religious observance or ceremony, custom, usage,” perhaps from PIE base *re(i)- “to count, number” (cf. Gk. arithmos “number,” O.E. rim “number”).
This is the ritual, the rite, the counting of the days and the passage of things, newly imbued with content and meaning. Anything can be there. It’s up to you.
And this is about meaning. And the newly finding of it. The meaning in the thing, the rite of the object.
mean
O.E. mænan “to mean, tell, say, complain,” from W.Gmc. *mainijanan (cf. O.Fris. mena, Du. menen, Ger. meinen to think, suppose, be of the opinion”), from PIE *meino- “opinion, intent” (cf. O.C.S. meniti “to think, have an opinion,” O.Ir. mian “wish, desire,” Welsh mwyn “enjoyment”), probably from base *men- “think.” Meaningful first attested 1852.
Being with my girlfriend, we explored the idea of ritual, in lamenting, in memory, the decade old passing of her sister. And it was her idea to create a place in which this passing could be memorialized — or newly observed, in formality. Finding, then, the form of content.

Her idea was to acknowledge in a manner of her own devising, but something that gestured to our experience together in Bhutan, exploring the monasterial spaces of that extraordinary kingdom, we witnessed the rituals of smoke and oblation.
And she envisioned creating something similar, like the Bhutanese stupa-like altar and fume platform.

The smoke, said over prayers, sends those offerings skyward. So too, her idea and inspiration — for inspiration, as well, is of the breath.
inspiration
c.1303, “immediate influence of God or a god,” especially that under which the holy books were written, from O.Fr. inspiration, from L.L. inspirationem (nom. inspiratio), from L. inspiratus, pp. of inspirare “inspire, inflame, blow into,” from in-”in” + spirare “to breathe” (see spirit).
And, too, the infusion of spirit.
c.1250, “animating or vital principle in man and animals,” from O.Fr. espirit, from L. spiritus “soul, courage, vigor, breath,” related to spirare “to breathe,” from PIE *(s)peis- “to blow” (cf. O.C.S. pisto “to play on the flute”). Original usage in Eng. mainly from passages in Vulgate, where the L. word translates Gk. pneuma and Heb. ruah. Distinction between “soul” and “spirit” (as “seat of emotions”) became current in Christian terminology (e.g. Gk. psykhe vs. pneuma, L. anima vs. spiritus) but “is without significance for earlier periods” [Buck]. L. spiritus, usually in classical L. “breath,” replaces animus in the sense “spirit” in the imperial period and appears in Christian writings as the usual equivalent of Gk. pneuma. Meaning “supernatural being” is attested from c.1300 (see ghost); that of “essential principle of something” (in a non-theological sense, e.g. Spirit of St. Louis) is attested from 1690, common after 1800. Plural form spirits “volatile substance” is an alchemical idea, first attested 1610; sense narrowed to “strong alcoholic liquor” by 1678. This also is the sense in spirit level (1768).
In any object, a thing, there is spirit — and translating spirit, in intention, brings one to a point of contemplation.
To that rippling and outreach to manifestation, we built this, together. Grabbing the right stones and arranging them on the beach — then hauling them up the cliff, to this vista.

And this modeling, in balance.

And the beginnings of the fire, finding the beauty of the transition from solid, to fire, to fume, to prayers and contemplations, born on the wind.

Fire is the translation, it’s the alchemy of transformation — and, in my thinking, fire is about the beauty of the story, the hearth, the spirit in translation — meanwhile, the moon wheels in the heart of the very opening of this notation — movement, in time, passage, in contemplation.

In feeding the fire, in contemplation, there is a meditation on the self (less) and the nature of time in the passing of all things, as we know them. Every thing goes.

And that moment, the thinking on the thing, the translation of the object, takes you from the one place to another place, that is infused with wonder, reflection on your place in rite, and the beauty in mystery.
c.1315, in a theological sense, “religious truth via divine revelation, mystical presence of God,” from Anglo-Fr. *misterie (O.Fr. mistere), from L. mysterium, from Gk. mysterion (usually in pl. mysteria) “secret rite or doctrine,” from mystes “one who has been initiated,” from myein “to close, shut,” perhaps referring to the lips (in secrecy) or to the eyes (only initiates were allowed to see the sacred rites). The Gk. word was used in Septuagint for “secret counsel of God,” translated in Vulgate as sacramentum.

And beauty passes on, as the moon spins through the heavens — time, transiting, ever — to a new view of things.

I offer only one thing, to the nature of the rippling story above. Take that time, to be there — go in, and see what you can find, in the metamorphosis of meaning.
Take time.
For your self.
O.E. self, seolf, sylf “one’s own person, same,” from P.Gmc. *selbaz (cf. O.N. sjalfr, O.Fris. self, Du. zelf, O.H.G. selb, Ger. selbst, Goth. silba), P.Gmc. *selbaz, from PIE *sel-bho-, from base *s(w)e- “separate, apart”.
tsg
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E x p l o r i n g m y s t e r y :
http://tim.girvin.com/Entries/?p=712
Tim Girvin | d e c a t u r i s l a n d
The Desert | Mystery Sought…

I have longed for the desert, since I was a child. I’d asked my Mother, after seeing LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, to learn the theme on the piano, so she could play it over and over. And when we sat together, at the piano, the cascades of memory in sound, the long sliding compositions of those strokes would forever beckon to the recollections of those notes, in sequence of story in theme.

Never forgotten. Never shall.
So, being in the UAE, I’d savored the idea of returning to the true desert, to be out in the night sky, experiencing that — the silence, the bold sweep of heaven, in that state of contemplation.

That, really, wasn’t to be. In reality, the desert was aswarm with camps — gas-powered generators and Arabian music flowed through the night — the stars were distant, the moon, while full, was hazy and blurred by the array of klieg-lights on the horizon. Still, I got out there, closer to the heart of my dream of the desert. These were intimacies — they were moments.
And in anything, that is what to look for, the moments.
Dozens of Toyota Landcruisers churned the dunes, their headlights bobbing erratically, as they plowed through the swish of road channels, directed, afar to the city of Dubai. Even getting out that far, was a strange melange of meandering — because roads were built, roads were closed, construction varying states of resolution — and so, rather than simply consult the map and re-tune the sojourn, the troupe of desert cruisers would simply drive off the road, crossing the desert, to eventually get to another.
I will find my way back to the heart of the dark and silent desert. Still, in my own meditation, I got out, past the blasting camplights, to find the night, and the heart — of my heart — in the silence of the cool sands, of the empty-quartered desert, night fallen.
Some of those contemplations are here:
The dust-storm from Saudia Arabia

Sunsetting, the observant camel

Facing, east — out to nothing, except for one

The shadow of camels, caravanned

Ridge running, the dunes

My feet, dunes edge

The rippling sea

It was merely that, a beginning. More to come, surely.
Wishing well, in any adventures.
…..
tsg | dubai | UAE
The nest: an installation
The beginning, forming the nest.

I’ve written about creating an installation — actually, many installations and placements — over time.
Dawn Clark (http://dacarc.wordpress.com/) and I built a nest — woven of sticks that we found on the beach. One week later, two weeks later, it’s still there, but it’s moved; it simply lifted up, and drifted to another location. Three weeks out — it’s moved again. Things come and go, and by the time I return the next time, some weeks from now, it will likely be moved again. Another time, in transition.
The woven nest:

Nests, since my childhood, have been a fascination. And that fascination has continued. http://blog.girvin.com/?p=1606, the Bird’s Nest of Beijing — some observations and historical references for me, baskets and the overlay of idea(l)s. And sharing a love of nests with Eartha Kitt — another lover of nests: http://tim.girvin.com/Entries/?p=328; or the poetic implications, the meditations on the nature of the nest, the weaving interplay of life and wonder: http://tim.girvin.com/writings/fall.html. And passage, the Fall.
The contemplation is about the interlaying of forms, energy, beauty — and the meditation on that symbolism. And the formation, was about that weaving, the interplay of found, interwoven beach found objects:

To any word, it’s worth exploring meaning and context:
nest (n.)
O.E. nest “bird’s nest, snug retreat,” from P.Gmc. *nistaz (cf. M.L.G., M.Du., Ger. nest), from PIE *nizdo- (cf. Skt. nidah “resting place, nest,” L. nidus “nest,” O.C.S. gnezdo, O.Ir. net, Welsh nyth, Bret. nez “nest”), probably from *ni “down” + *sed- “sit.” Used since M.E. in ref. to various accumulations of things (e.g. a nest of drawers, early 18c.). The verb is O.E. nistan, from P.Gmc. *nistijanan. Nest egg “retirement savings” is from 1700, originally “a real or artificial egg left in a nest to induce the hen to go on laying there” (1606).
nestle (v.)
O.E. nestlian “build a nest,” from nest (see nest). Figurative sense of “settle (oneself) comfortably, snuggle” is first recorded 1547.
To get to this section of beach, below the house, involves climbing down a cliff — we did that with a shoulder bag of tools, to cut and form the array the timbers, sticks and branches. Finding a grouping of stones, and then expanding the nest as a weaving around that substructure, we built and wove the collection of sticks and branches that had washed up on the shoreline.

And looking down from the cliff, out to the sea, the nest resting on the shore.

That night, we returned, as the water arose, to shoot the nest, and set fire to the heart of the installation.

From there, the following morning, we waited on the incoming tide — and the nest arose in the water, still holding its shape, arising from the stone base, and floated away.
The following day, adrift.

That installation, still holding, has continued to move around the rocky shoreline.

Weaving, symbolically, is about the layering of forms, above and below — the loom of ideas, creates the tapestry of experience. And, in the spirit of ideas, and ideals, I visualize them as being woven, layers of sentiment that form around the heart of an idea. Or an ideal. Or a dream.
Nest from the cliff, near the memorial cairn.

Beauty fullness.
Wonder, I do, about the weaving of things.
What’s nest, next?
tsg | decatur island
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Exploring community, storytelling
and relationships | the Human Brand:
http://www.girvin.com/new/human_brands.php
A love of the Raven

I’ve been out walking; and listening; and looking skyward — up through the trees, into the clear blue sky. And what happened there were three ravens, flying at once, over the top of me.

And when the Raven flies, I always stop, quiet in my step, because there’s a character about that bird in flight that is unlike any other. It’s the sound. But today, there was something different in that sound — arching, banking, rushing side-bound, wings vertical, pointing up and down, sky and earth, there was a new rushing, swooshing. And when the Raven flies, it’s different than many other birds — rather than the thrumming of the hummingbird, or the pushing sound of a raptor, or the fluttering of other smaller hatches or the fanning of pigeons, the Raven has a distinct character. It’s a deeper, denser rushing of the air over the wings — and even if there is no croaking call, I can recognize it. And that sound, along with the crackling quality of their speech, I can connect with, anywhere.


And anywhere, I have.

It takes me back. It takes me back to years of exploring the Raven, from wandering the plains of Mongolia, to the noisome streets of Tokyo, the remote temple seclusion of Kyoto, the passes of Tibet, the hot, shimmering mirages of India, the craggy forests of the Cascades, the piney mountain reaches of Bhutan (where they are the national bird), or the streets of Istanbul. I listen for them, watch them. I listen for the wing; and I observe them, as surely they observe me.

It takes me forward. Last night, giving a talk in Miami, (and there are corvids here, too), I spoke of the story. And in speaking of any story, you really tell yours. So I broke this out to the four stories of my self. These are the beginnings, below — the science journals; the early work of the limited edition and handmade; the spirit of the Wanderer, and finally, the Ravens.
That gesture, the early connection with Ravens, was about an encounter in a light-glinted forest, decades ago, as a child, rustling and cawing — these birds called me to their coven. And being drawn into their mystery, I felt as a gifted being, in seeing something that no other had experienced. But that solitary sense of wonder, in simply seeing things — experiencing things — has long been a kind of gift; not suggesting being gifted, but rather being given gifts of sight and experience that are impacting and forever powerful. Unforgettable.
I believe, that the more you look, the closer in you see, the more you shall be gifted. It’s beyond that, of course, it’s also about what you are looking for, what meaning it has, and finally, what your draw — in wonderment — might be.
Like the gesture of a drawing — illustrating, lustrating and making something shine in your fist, your fingers and mind — it’s that: you draw it out; and you draw it in to your Self.
And, to that drawing, isn’t it possible that connecting — intimately — at the spirit of an icon (for me, the Raven) is something that might draw you into another world?
I’d say so.
Sow, that seed.
tsg
The Sense of Silence

This morning, it’s profoundly quiet.
Off, some miles from here, I can hear the distant rumbling of a freighter, its deep engines humming; and even now, that is fading. Otherwise, there is the soft murmur of the lightest rippling, a sussurant touch of water touching the shoreline. And beyond that, there is silence.
I feel a kind of joy, there, in the profundity — the quiet, the alone, the quietude in merely listening, slowing far down and contemplating the absence of recognizable sound. And I think about that idea of aloneness. And all oneness — in being solitary, can one find another sense of collective connection — in every thing?
Meanwhile, in that quiet, there is a sudden rustling — something moving toward me in the moonlit gauze of light, dispersed here. And it’s a sea otter, that’s softly moving over the decks, furtively skirting the edges, exploring — yet ready to bolt in an instant. And stepping outside, further, to study it, I awaken a massive grey heron, nesting in the sumi-inkblack strokes of the tree that draws a line in the horizon — an long and gnarled vertical stroke, connecting heaven and earth, over the stretch of salted sea that lies — out there. Heron, that now wheels off in the grey black of the morning; and its croaking, prehistoric garble echoes out there, across the southern darkened sound, that body of surging tidal water that moves, in the swing of the moon, in and out, during the very passage of time. It never stops. And while I do, just for a moment, I can still sense my heart beat.
Slow, like the tide, mine too, in some softer pulse of the planet, a rhythm that goes and goes, onwards. And who knows how the lunar grasp might change my beat, in tune with things that lie within, and yet far beyond this pale of experience.
My mother has written me a note about the concept of exuberance. In her reading, she’s found this — and I love it:
here’s the talk that catalyzed a new book by Kay Jamison called Exuberance….
“It is a curious request to make of God. SHIELD YOUR JOYOUS ONES, asks the Anglican prayer. We have given sorrow many words, but a passion for life few, by its pleasures, exuberance lures us from our common places and quieter moods; and it gives ascendant reason to venture forth all over again.”
Blake said,
“Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy of silken twine.”
….
keep the spirit of love in your heart, and your soul on wing….

TSG | out (t)here
http://www.girvin.com/new/human_brands.php
Mist, mystery, wander, wonder

In that exploration, that movement to see, I ponder what I’ve seen, what I’ve missed, what I’ve scene, what I’ve mist.
In my experience — it’s that moment of attention — what might be sensed in the light, the energy of the encounter, the momentum of vibration. How awake am I — how attentive, to the now, this instance — the instant?
I can only offer this:
I wonder about what is scene, and what is not — seen?
I contemplate the knowing that is there — what you’ve touched, that is now disappeared.
What you’ve seen, that vanishes — and then is present.
….
Here, there, everywhere. And no where.
Place is like that. Real, then realized; known, then unknown; touched, then evanescent.
Gone, like mist.
to be returned to, another moment.
more soon. soon more.
Here I am. But can you see me?
tsg | decatur island
I go back | Matthew Girvin

I reach back, I go back, in recollection. I recall:

Notes on a ritual:

When I think back, on that day when my father called, to tell me that Matt had been killed - I was standing on the island, looking out in the morning light, to a grouping of stones that stand near my house on the island. I go back. It was just after 7.00am. Now, I live in fear of calls like that, early morning and unexpected rings, the reign of sadness from afar. And it was striking, listening to my father, telling me that my youngest brother was lost in a rescue mission, to the remote kingdom of Uvs, Outer Mongolia, snowbound, deep winter — and immediately visualizing the character of that passing: snow, bitter cold, an explosion, cries and black smoke. And I looked down at the stones. I go back.
And “adventure”, as Matt put to me, in the last email I’d received from him. “It’s time for a little adventure”. We’d talked, earlier, about going to Tibet that winter. Yet, that never came for the two of us. Just for me.
And that is a potent attribute our connections, the wandering, the exploration, the imbibing of the elixir of travel and culture. Matt and me. I go back.
So since that time, there’s been a ritual in passing, that time of year, yet again, in memory of that fine person, that brother, and what those meditations represent, in reflecting that passage. And this, in frequency, has been with my parents. And it, too, involves fire. And scent, and smoke, and heat, and — at this time of year — cold. Every year, together, we go there, to the stones that I saw on that morning.
And that idea of scent takes you back to the idea that smoke, the fume of perfume, is a calling back — a reckoning of the scent of memory and experience. You inhale a fragrance and you’re called back to a memory in mind. I go back.

I go back to the Himalayas, in my mind. The scent of the temples of Tibet — or, the burning installations of Bhutan, where the wafting of burning conifers carrying the spirit skyward, as in this opening intonation, calling from a Dzong in the high mountains of Bhutan.

That smoke infuses you — and it creates its own kind of mimetic mist, that carries the memories and the visioning of time, spirit, and sends it aloft in prayer. So we do that, have done that, since the passing of Matt, in celebration and fond re-collection, of those times and that person.
Here, then, that ceremony from today, light. Contemplating that day, January 14, eight years prior.
The cairn, with an installation in the water, below, the tide in:

Dad, with offerings:

Mom and Dad, at the cairn of remembering:

Mom, making offerings:

The offerings, contained:

The cairn in the light:

And Matt, in his garden, Ulan Bator, Mongolia.

Isn’t it so, that recalling is a retracing — you call out, you retrace, you find your way back to the heart? And in every day, there should be a ritual that does that — it takes us back to the heart. Even the following of the path of the bird in the sky, it takes you somewhere. And perhaps it brings you back to the heart. The ritual of skywatching. The center of your collection, your palace of memory, that you carry with you, moving forward into the year.
I go back.
tsg | D e c a t u r I s l a n d | 1. 14. 2009
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Explore the Embrace of Change:
http://www.girvin.com/new/embrace_change.php
Other writings on scent and memory:
http://blog.girvin.com/?p=886
http://blog.girvin.com/?p=584
http://tim.girvin.com/Entries/?m=200710
http://blog.girvin.com/?cat=10
2000 + 9
9.

every journey
is yet anouther
spiral, in the spin
of living, yet
this whorl
keeps turning
and we stride
inside the whirl
of this ever
outer arc, that
turns in, turns
out, unfolding
a reel of beauty
that is the real
explication:
that string which
is the circle, never
finished, that
turns outwardly
to the opening
of the new, this
day, the start
of our mutual
run, at the opening
of the year.
Beauty, found:
hope, new –
2009.
all the best,
to you.
And yours.
tsg
A Love of Wild Trees (10/10)
A Love of Wild Trees, the last of the series
Meditations on the tree, that is not a tree…
And this is the tenth in a series, of ten, from http://tim.girvin.com/Entries/index.php.

A pine grove | Decatur Island
When I contemplate this series, writing about trees, ten times — and the reflections that lie there: the time, the places, the travels — there is one tree that is absent, and comes forth to my mind, and my memory, now. The sense of the grown grove is deep in memory — but what grove, recalled?

A bamboo grove, Kaua’i, Hawai’i.
And it’s not a tree, in the normal understood sense of a coniferous — or a deciduous — wood-branched growing entity. It is a tree, in the evergreen sense of the word. It is a standing stalk, more like a grass that grows as tall as a tree.
Bamboo.

And I couldn’t have this long series of thoughts about my love of the wild, the tree, and the places that these live in together without contemplating the power of bamboo.

To botanical taxonomy, bamboo is a group of woody perennial evergreen plants in the family of grasses, the Poaceae, member of the subfamily Bambusoideae, and the tribe Bambuseae. Some of its members are the tree-like giant timber bamboo, forming by far the largest members of the grass family — but grass, on an outlandish and anciently-defined, if not prehistoric, scale. Bamboo in groves, doesn’t feel like grass, but a forest of other plants. Ancient plants.
If one thinks of trees as woody natural forms that transport nutrient fluids up from the roots (rhizomes or otherwise) into a leafy photosynthetic system for life sustenance, then bamboo fits into the tree category.

Bamboo is very special; it is the fastest-growing, wood-stalked plant in the world. Imagine a plant that you can watch grow, at more than six inches per day. And perhaps you have seen bamboo that was one height one day — and the next, it is standing taller than you, your original sighting. I’ve seen both.
And when it comes out, the burgeoning growth — the opening “shoots” of bamboo are bizarre, extra-terrestrial forms of tendrils; they pierce outwardly, coming up through the earth, in ground that the plants have wholly changed, converting the chemistry of the landscape comfortably to get their measured nutrient and ecosystem.

Working in a bamboo grove, I’ve heard the bamboo creeping and crackling, alive, out of the soil. I’ve stood in the green shadows of the forested grove, and watched it move — slow in the heat.

Or during a wind or raining thunderstorm, I’ve heard it clacking and groaning, like a mysterious collection of ghosts, smacking and cracking the stalks like demon drummers. And if you’ve been in a gale, in a bamboo forest, you know it’s something unforgettably sensate — the thoroughness of the captivation.

The scent, the swirling leaves, the sound clattering, the raspy smooth touch of the wavering trunks, even the taste of bamboo, that can be in the air. The experience is whole.
But that comes from time — and enthrallment — in bamboo. From jungles in Costa Rica, to Cambodian snake-filled swamps; Yogjakarta temple compounds to…

and Moroccan YSL-memorial tenderness, to royal groves in Hawai’i; from mountainous, wintering bamboo, in the chilled, ice-bound groves of Ni’igata and Hokkaido, Japan, to the harvested forests on Java.

Loving the space of trees, the wild ones — softening sea-born pine warrens, hiking vales of cedar, quaking aspens, millennial redwoods, climbing giants, painting gnarled wonders, silkscreening plastic panels, researching the tree at the end of the world — that tree which lies in the center of things — and journaling experiences, bamboo forest collections — in, and among, these places, it’s been a journey.
Here are the sequences, in case you missed one:
1. The tree prints | 1979
2. Tree climbing
3. Treehouses
4. Drawing trees
5. The Oldest Souls in the world
6. Being in the place of trees
7. The Tree of the World
8. A Love of Wild Trees (others)
9. The tree of my dreams

Ending the year, winter bound, the Northwest…
tsg | pike place market
—-
References:
Buildings: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/22934387/wid/18298287/
http://www.journallive.co.uk/north-east-news/todays-news/2008/07/18/light-show-to-celebrate-world-s-largest-bamboo-bridge-61634-21362860/
Culture & heritage: http://www.thehindubusinessline.com/2004/04/13/stories/2004041300110900.htm
http://kauai.net/bambooweb/whybamboo.html
http://www.mastergardenproducts.com/bamboo.htm
http://www.americanbamboo.org/index.html
Japan: http://www.snowjapan.com/e/features/niseko-magic-8.html
Science: http://www.sciencedirect.com/science?_ob=ArticleURL&_udi=B6T6X-4M7CMF9-2&_user=10&_rdoc=1&_fmt=&_orig=search&_sort=d&view=c&_acct=C000050221&_version=1&_urlVersion=0&_userid=10&md5=22e3b4bc5956f18153555b161e806cff
Imagery: http://www.flickr.com/photos/23140499@N07/3133322440/