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 http://blog.girvin.com/?p=1606, the Bird’s Nest of Beijing — some observations and historical references for me, baskets and the overlay of idea(l)s. And sharing a love of nests with Eartha Kitt — another lover of nests: http://tim.girvin.com/Entries/?p=328; or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:
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).
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.
Wonder, I do, about the weaving of things.
What’s nest, next?
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