The Halfway Mark, for Reals

Tomorrow is my 6-week or half-term review. It’s nearly impossible to believe that so much time has passed. Thanksgiving has gone by, and Christmas is in two weeks, and the desolate lonliness has been replaced by frantic production and deep-seated worry that amidst the labor, there’s something I’m missing conceptually.

There comes a time in every creative project to turn off the ideas, the intellectual refinement, and even the prototyping, and turn on the muscle, so to speak. That moment has never been clearer than in my experiences here. Two weeks ago, a conversation with one of the staff members about why one of my castings was cracking (is it the clay? Does it need to have paper pulp or molochite to hold together better? Is it me? Is my barely-developed technique still a little too flawed?) I mentioned another project I had just sketched out.

Oh yeah? Lemme see it.
M’kay – let’s move to the computer.

I showed him this:
Which was a study of different conceptual systems for transforming bollards into street furniture: prosthesis, wubby-organic shapes, and finally gamescapes. And in 30 minutes, a clay body and mixing receipe for – yup – paper pulp and molochite (the fibrous pulp binds the clay together better, and the molochite controls shrinkage so I’m told) had been designated as had been a rough work plan outlining the 23 initial steps to address before even touching the clay. This list included simple things like ‘get drying rack in studio’ and not-so-simple things like ‘learn how to mix clay’ and 'make patterns that calculate for shrinkage'. And before I knew it, I had started my final project.

Big thanks to Marina for her tough love and insistence that I go back to the site I’d chosen and study it more and make more drawings before she could thoughtfully comment.
I can’t, I have to start making things tomorrow.
Take a day, and make more drawings. You’ll be happier that you did.
Of course I was too overwhelmed the next day to go near the clay. The list was exhausting. So I went and took more pictures and sat the ideas in situ:

And thus, a MicroparkTM was born for the mean streets of Den Bosch. I also have to say thanks to Georg and Stephanie – Stephanie’s another resident here, and Georg, her boyfriend – who are both architects and coincidentally enough teaching a class at the University in Aachen using video games to develop architectural strategies. They were a willing set of critics, who, after looking through
my series of rhino models, lego studies, topographic drawings, and brick pile, kindly said

Why are you trying to build so much?

I had been considering a system of ceramic blocks that could be added to any pile of bricks to make well, a more artful pile of bricks for sitting. The idea hadn’t been settling well for a week, although I liked the idea of a system leveraging castoffs. Georg continued: You didn’t invent Ice Cream or Karaoke, why are you trying to invent all these big things? Why don’t you look for places that already exist in the city for intervention?

Of course.
Iinstead of creating brand-new terrorist-barrier systems – at least fresh out of the gate – and habitable ones at that (for an inspiring example, though, go to Rogers-Marvel NoGos) – how about trying to transform an existing ‘security environment’ into a social environment? I know that even this much information is too much, but stay with me, and know that I’m having a hard time keeping up, too.

This is getting long again, so I’ll skip ahead to the current sketches I’m working with:




I’ll also say that now that I have an idea of the work involved (and money, too: yipes!) I will most likely only be able to make one cluster of the park in clay over the next 6 weeks. The bottom piece of each large hill measures about 90 cm x 40 cm x 3.5 cm, and each hill requires 20 pieces. I can make 9 pieces at a time now – which take about 3 hours of clay mixing, 6 hours of clay pounding to fashion it into large slabs, which like cookie dough can then be cut into elliptical rings in 5 hours. Allowing 2 days of drying time after pounding and then cutting before moving, that brings us to approximately 5-6 days for each 9 pieces. To make the 30 -35 pieces necessary for a large hill, small hill, flower and cloud, we’re looking at 2-3 weeks’ production time. All those pieces then need another 2-3 weeks to dry before firing which will take upwards of 2-3 days in the kiln, and blammo, it’s time for me to leave.

There’s a chance, then, that the resulting group will be too wimpy for the busstop. On drying days, I plan to go scout for other, smaller, bollard groupings that might be suitable for the hills. There’s a cluster near the drawbridges – yeah, there are a long string of them along the canal and they’re in heavy use during the week. So might be a nice place for a perch. We’ll see.

In addition to the parkscape, I’m planning to make smaller ‘narrative objects’ to activate a large radius of space and begin to give information about the world from which the landscape pieces come. What does that mean, Nancy? Could you speak English? What that means is that I’m thinking about the elements of danger (obstacles) and power (energy to fight the obstacles) in video games (space aliens, ghosts, tanks, dudes with guns; and power: cherries, pretzels, power pills, magic tools, secret doorways, buried treasure) and those elements in our own lives – strangely, they’re not too different: terrorists, presidents, natural disaster, war vs. family, love, chocolate, protein shakes, good books, etc etc – and how they might be represented in game language. I imagine the microparkscape becoming a moment of repose in the fantasy version of our own lives. After all, isn’t that what we’re all a little bit looking for? A place that’s not too terribly different, but feels a little safer, a little bit slower, a little bit magical? Or is that just me?


Oh and did I forget to mention that in a head-nod towards developing a series of studies for microparks composed of lace hillsides? Another story for another time as they say, but I will show this first study:
Anyhow -- that's where we are. Glass empty and half-full all at once.

Going Walkabout

Between having to shop and cook dinner for everyone last night and being at a bit of a cross-roads workwise, I ended up walking most of yesterday away. Thought you'd like to see a bit of Den Bosch:

Here's the very edge of the polder and part of what I think is one of the old city motes. Mote in foreground; polder stretches way into the distance. It's 3:30, but it feels like 5 or 6. Behind me is the city, 4 lanes of traffic (albeit miniature traffic by US standards) -- but you'd never know it once you walk down into its fields. It's about 20 feet below street level. Who knows how many feet below *sea* level it is.

Crossed back into town and Whoop! There he is . There's at least one in every shop window if not 6-8. I would have catalogued them all for you, but to be honest, most of them are really dopey looking.Here's Verghtustraate -- it's one of the longest shopping streets in the city, making quite a sweeping arc. Looks like a ghosttown because 90% of shops are closed on Monday. And if they're not, they don't open until 1.

This particular building shook me out of my Medieval boredom -- there's so much of this everywhere I keep forgetting that it's not *everywhere*. I wish I could have snapped the photo with myself at the front door for scale. It's tiiiiiiny. I'm sure the front door is not even a foot taller than me. Feel sorry for the increasingly large Dutchmen and women who probably bang their heads on these sorts of squat places all the time.
No I don't.

And of course.It's true. They're everywhere. Gnomes. Mushrooms. Gnomes and mushrooms. These ones clearly are about to have a melt-down. Brrrrrrrmmmmm-ching. Have a little red wine with your dinner, folks.

All for now. The clay calls. Hope this Tuesday is treating you well.

Happy Black Friday

I'd forgotten about Black Friday until those words jumped out of the Volkskrant (the Dutch paper) yesterday morning, in what I could only guess was an article about the US economy. I'm still in far more support of doing *nothing* the day after Thanksgiving, besides watching movies in bed (in the morning!) maybe taking a walk,or doing some yoga.

So how was your Thanksgiving?
Here, it was a day like any other here for the most part -- although there were ripples through the staff and non-Americans (everyone but me, that is) about it maybe being an important American holiday. It was a day of plaster and molds and then trying to explain the meaning of Thanksgiving to everyone over coffee and later, dinner. Its an explaination that gets very absurd quickly. I haven't had to explain Thanksgiving to anyone as an adult and, well, try it yourself. Just think through it as though you're trying to talk to foreigners. Maybe it goes something like this: It's a celebration of when the Pilgrims arrived at Plymouth rock and the Indians (clearly good with crowds) threw a big dinner party in their honor.: a celebration of new friends and the abundance of the fall harvest. It then ends with, 'and then the dinner guests took their land and gave them diseases and killed most of them.'

Props to Tracey Whose-last-name-I-don't-know (I don't know anyone's last name here -- it's kind of like a treatment center or witness protection program in that way), Jeremy's girlfriend from Providence who is visiting this week: she came armed with cookbooks and her own apron to make us all a proper Thanksgiving. They rode around for a good part of the day and found several Grouse for sale but no Turkeys. Grouse are described as 'Wild Chickens Who Live In the Mountains' by one of the staff members -- although how can that be? There are no mountains here. 'But there are big mountains, 300 meters high!' says Jakob, one of the Dutch residents. I suppose perspective is everything, and when you're starting below sea level, well, ok.
Anyhow, it was a swell piece of home, and made me think of everyone and everything for whom I am thankful, including you.

Speaking of explaining cultural differences, this just came in from John Keith, and maybe you know it, maybe you don't. But it's a far better explanation of Christmas here than I could ever muster. Thanks John, and thanks David. So to start your Christmas season, whatever that might mean:

http://people.cornell.edu/pages/bs16/Christmas/6_to_8_black_men.txt

Request and dedication

There's been a couple of requests for more pictures of me in action on the blog. So to those who asked, I dedicate the following acts of simultaneity in the isolation chamber before the day gets under way and is once again lost in a cloud of plaster.


This is for the clay:

And this is for all the stoneware legos that came out of the kiln pretty ok: and this is for my homies:

from Yoga to...

Went to my first yoga class Sunday -- small class, nice teacher, new stuff, followed pretty well in dutch. Afterwards, the teacher smiled and agreed that much of what we'd done in class was new. I just made it up, she says, big smile.
Indeed. Glad I went, not sure I'll go back. If anyone has a good yoga CD out there, let me know.
But that's not the main event.

I exited Yogawinkel (literally 'Yoga Shop') into a street filled with sounds of a marching band, and a big crowd just a block down.
Not a boat passing under the drawbridge this time, but a parade. Apparently, Sinta Klass had just arrived by boat along the canal ( as he always does), with his helper, Black Peter:


No, I didn't take these photos. I was with yoga mat, not camera. But you can imagine the shock and again, the shear absurdity. Not only were there adults like these dressed in blackface and courtly costumes, but children, too. So many children. Mostly the palest, blondest, bluest-eyed variety, in winter coats and gleeful smudgy darkened faces. I just kept thinking, I'd like to see that in Park Slope.

Here's the link to the legend that everyone at dinner Sunday night was struggling to explain:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Peter

There is no acknowledgement of the racial element here amongst any of the Dutch I've spoken to. They love Black Peter and they accept him for his blackness...I suppose.

Humility, thy name is Lane 3

I was bragging about getting invited to join the Bossche Zwemvereniging (BZV for those in the know) -- or the local swim club. Last week, during the Monday lap morning lap swim a nice man -- one of the other few swimming something besides breast stroke -- and fast, too! -- came over and complimented me on my form. Said he was a pentathlete (what could the other two events be?? For me: TV watching and hanging out with Charles-Willis and Jelly) and a trainer for a swim club. And I should come. Would fit right in. Left the pool feeling pretty good about myself -- I'm getting out, meeting people beyond the compound here and staying fit, even though the steady diet of cheese and yogurt and bread is telling my pants otherwise.

So last night I go. Tell everyone here I won't be around for dinner because I am Going To Train With BZV. Admittedly, stuffing my ipod buds in my ears, and setting out for the pool, the stomach was a little nervous because years have passed (think High School) since I Worked Out with a team, but a little excited, too. This could be my ticket to better health here, and relief from the stress of the art-making. Running is getting boring and with a yoga teacher who just makes things up, and no bicycle, options are limited.

After some confusion with the staff at various checkpoints (the Sportiom is a different world at night: there are people in every corner, and a bar filled with smoke) perhaps because I kept saying, I am here for the BVD, I ended up in the same locker room as I do every morning I swim. But yet, at night, with so much expectation, it felt different.

I should have known when I stepped out onto the deck and saw all the parents.

Found Ronald, and for those of you who are pronunciation-specific, roll that R. They do it here. The roll. And I can't, but I try. Found him, he gave me a warm hello, and says he thinks lane 3 would be good. 'May be a little fast, but we'll see.' Ok. Sure. Clutching my cap and goggles in the confusion of the crowded deck and noise, I picked my way through to Lane 3. And at this point, I'm still expecting to find a lane of 20- & 30-somethings trying to get in better shape.

Instead: Tweeners. Maybe they're fully-fledged teenagers, but they're not out of puberty yet. They're more like rubber bands than girls. And then there's me. Lording over them in size and age, definitely *not* a rubber band. In the minutes while we waited on the side to get our workout, I tried to sort through my horror and the absurdity of the situation to know avail. Stubbornness took over. So in I jumped, feeling a bit like a troll amongst fairies. I let them go first.

I'll spare you the further details, except that
A. I did keep up...for the most part.
B. They were all much better behaved than their elders who swim in the morning. Polite, well-trained, and know how to pass in the center.
C. A massive leg cramp saved me after 40 minutes.

God bless Ronald, who, as I struggled to get rid of the cramp, walked over, shrugged with a smile and said, I thought it was good to try. Maybe you can come with us to the Masters swim Saturday.

Yes...maybe...but only if they're out of college.

'It's Ok.'

So far in my experience, this is the Dutch at their most expressive: modest and deadpan. It's the response I get in agreement (at least I think it's agreement) when I say, 'That's fantastic!' 'Wonderful!', or 'How lovely!' And yesterday morning, when I had to stand in front of the entire staff, the director, and all the other participants to present my work, that's the best I got:

'It's Ok.'
Tough crowd.
But good for shaking off any need for external approval.

But let's rewind: where have the past 10 days gone?
I want to give a special shout-out to my nephew, who celebrated his big 4th birthday with good rowdiness; and to my magical new niece, who apparently sailed through her baptism, looking like a victorian doll in an antique gown, melting the hearts of everyone in the congregation. Also, props to Georgia Chesler Emmanuel for logging birthday no 2, with style and sass, no doubt.

As for me, I've been celebrating over here. Tiny victories after *days* of slow learning and waiting. This is what I've learned so far: there is alot of waiting involved in ceramics, and that the clay is smarter and I am merely trying to trick it into doing what I want it to. Also, I am Nature's bitch: ceramics comes down to physics, chemistry, water and air -- and I never did particularly well in those subjects in school.
And I am still not a savant, although I am learning patience and slowness on a whole new scale.

It is primitive and slow and works on the earth's clock it would seem. Processwise, I've been learning how to make molds and cast them. Thought maybe I'd be able to lay it all out for you, but each part has pages of steps, and there are many parts. But the highlights are these: plaster is magic. Slip (liquid clay) looks like the yummiest chocolate milk you could imagine, and extracting molds should not be hard, but when they are, they'll give you a heart attack.

Plaster is magic for several reasons. Plaster and water have to be mixed by hand, and although it is liquid, it feels like velvet. I've never felt anything like it. Once poured, it kicks into high gear and starts drying -- when it's dry enough, it's really warm to the touch. And in a cold place, that's a gift. However, you know it's not dry enough to receive clay yet if it's still cold to the cheek. Yes. You put your cheek to the plaster mold to check it, and if it's cool, that means there's still too much water in it and it has to dry longer. Ie. days more. Here are the first two molds. I will explain the lego later.




So my past week looks like this: Thursday, learn to make molds. Make molds. Thursday night and Friday, look lovingly at molds. Saturday, get told that the molds are so big, they're never going to dry and I should put them in the drying machine. Drying machine? Doh. Put one of the two in the drying machine; advised that the other can't be used for slip casting and that I should try a press mold. Press mold? By hand, you press bite-sized pieces of clay into the mold. Ok. Saturday night: go to Amsterdam to escape the isolation chambers: watch football with a pack of artists at a pub (Liverpool 2, Fulsom Nil), have cheap but delicious Surinam roti dinner, and then some belgian beers at a belgian bar in S.Amsterdam, or, what might be considered the Lower East Side of A-dam. Apparently, gentrification can happen even in such a tiny old city as this, and it's happening fast. And maybe once smoking is banned in the bars here next summer, it will happen even faster. Everything I own it seems smells of smoke now. But I digress. Sunday: return and prepare for presentation.


Monday: find out that the first mold in the dryer is still not dry enough for slip casting. Also find out that slip must be mixed at least 24 hours before use. So we mix the slip. It's like cooking -- I am given a receipe that involves alot of clay dust and a couple spoonfulls of really toxic stuff called deflocculants. And then we put in the mixer. Stop me if this is boring. But it's quite lovely to watch. Mix for 20 minutes on high, 60 mins on low -- although one of the pros here says he mixes his *all night long*. Not what Lionel Ritchie had in mind, but that's the kind of party we've got going on here. And then it gets covered and it sits.

Also, Monday: I was invited to join the local swim team.
Will explain more later.

Tuesday: finished pouring the molds for my CNC models -- remember those? -- they had to be varnished several times to seal the foam from which they are made. That took 4 days. These molds are three-part molds and my eyes glazed over the first time the plan was broken down for me. Molds can get quite complex quite quickly. It's a new kind of thinking -- in invisible volumes pulling themselves apart. That probably makes no sense, but it's the best I can do right now. So proceeded through each of the 3 pieces of each of the 2 models -- which requires applying layers of soapy lather followed by a layer of grease before the plaster can get measured, made and poured. Realized that the forms look like the commonwealth of Virginia. Freaky. Had to repour one -- not enough soap and grease -- lesson learned.

Which brings us to yesterday, if you're even still reading.

Yesterday: presentation, Ok. Trip to the Big Wednesday Market in the middle of town: think Union Square Greenmarket PLUS textile stalls, sock stalls, foam stalls, electronics stalls, bicycle equpment talls (!), flower stalls, and the lace stall, which was my market. Interested in casting lace. we'll see if it works. Back with my lace, I wait for a couple more hours for the staff to get out of rounds of meetings.

And then I learn to pour the slip. This is dragging on I know, so I'll keep it short. The first pour was a disaster. The slip looks like chocolate when it dries and it's hard not to want to lick it. But extracting these first molds nearly gave us a heartattack because everything was breaking. Well, I had the heart attack. Marc, the staff member said, so now you know these forms don't work so well. He likes to play the cynics' card and I like him for it.

Against his advice, I poured them again. Went to dinner. Came back, a little more fearless for the wine at dinner, and started extracting. Figured they would break anyways, so I just went at them renegade style with an air-pressure gun and a rubber mallet. Yes, let's just imagine me doing this. Furrowed brow. Tongue sticking out at strange angles. Good comedy.

But they worked.
Everyone here watched me make these things and with an encouraging smile, said Yeah! Try it! It Probably Won't Work But Then You Will Know.'

So cue the Phil Collins, here's what I made:

Broken first pour stands by and watches second pour harden.

Second pour: the jaunty little things from above and in elevation.
I got a great Ooooh! from the Canadian who is a pro. O, Canada.