“As in the pseudoscience of bloodletting, just so in the pseudoscience of city rebuilding and planning, years of learning and a plethora of subtle and complicated dogma have arisen on a foundation of nonsense.”
—Jane Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities
For the past several months, the buzz here in T-town has centered around the Luzon building on Pacific Avenue, a 119-year old structure that, depending on whom you ask, is either an architectural gem or a decaying eyesore. (As you can probably guess, I fall into the first category.) Above is an image of the Luzon in its infancy; this photo is printed from a turn-of-the-century glass plate negative found in Jessica Spring’s attic (and is part of her artist book, Parts Unknown). The thing about the Luzon that has made it such a sore spot around here is that it’s not just a living piece of history—at the time it was built, it was something of an engineering marvel. Co-designed by Daniel Burnham, who went on to design the Flatiron Building in New York and became one of the pioneers of modern multi-story structures, the Luzon was one of the first buildings in America to have steel columns. That makes it a direct ancestor—the great grandpappy, if you will—of the American skyscraper itself.
This is the sorry state of the Luzon today. Even though it is on the National Register of Historic Places, and is one of only two Burnham & Root buildings remaining on the West Coast, it has been allowed to decay, apparently beyond the point of no return. While each of many redevelopment schemes over several decades has fallen through, the building has become increasingly derelict. Now that the adjacent property—which provided structrual stability—is long gone, the Luzon is crumbling under its own weight. The City has even closed the surrounding streets in case of a collapse.
Oh, and there’s a tree growing out of it. I don’t think that was part of the original plan.
Well, whether it was a ploy to get around the Historic Register for a development scheme, or the powers that be just dragged their feet for too long (or some combination thereof), the detractors are finally getting their wish. The building is slated for demolition tomorrow morning. So now everyone (including me) has got the Luzon on the brain.
Last week the inimitable RR Anderson (who has a few choice words himself about the Luzon’s fate) challenged me to compete in his weekly sidewalk chalk contest, the Frost Park Chalk Challenge. I was looking for an outlet for my Luzon frustration, so I accepted. I grabbed a hunk of charcoal, a handful of communal Crayola chalk, and headed for a highly visible chunk of concrete wall to create a public altarpiece.
My little Ascension doodle earned me a lot of comments from passers-by and the title of BEST ILLUSTRATOR IN THE UNIVERSE (OF TACOMA) for the week (thanks, guys!).
But sidewalk chalk isn’t exactly archival, and I wanted to make a somewhat more lasting statement. Here’s where letterpress comes in. Jessica and I were commissioned to design and print this year’s poster for Art At Work Month, hosted by the City. So since the theme for the overall Art At Work design this year is “ghost signs,” we decided the poster would be the perfect opportunity for a little cameo.
The original posters are letterpress printed in an edition of 100, and will be sold by the City in November, as part of the festivities. But a reproduction will also be inserted into every Art At Work brochure—over 10,000 of them. So come November Burnham’s gift to Tacoma will be long gone, but it’ll feel good to know that we did our part to make sure the Luzon is everywhere we turn—at least for a little while longer.
One of the things I miss the most about living in Minneapolis is the Minnesota State Fair. Where else can you find cheese curds, dairy cows, hand-carved butter effigies of beauty queens, and seed-mosaic portraits of Farrah Fawcett, right in the middle of a major city? Since in my mind you can’t really top that, I wasn’t planning to visit the Puyallup Fair—this region’s answer to The Great Minnesota Get Together—this year. That is, until I learned that there would be a Charley Harper exhibit there.
Yes, that’s right. Thirty-six originals by one of my favorite illustrators artists, next door to that thing about Weird Al’s brain and the booth hawking teriyaki doughnut pies—or whatever—on a stick.
The exhibit was a little hard to find, tucked away on the second floor of the pavilion building, amongst the 4-H entries, prize-winning quilts and glass cases of semi-mummified, weirdly archaeological cross-sections of blue-ribbon baked goods and Spam-dinner specimens (I kid you not). And to send the whole experience completely over the top, the artwork was displayed on the kind of faux-wood paneling found in every 1970s-remodeled, Midwestern finished basement. Definitely a change from your average trip to the museum.
But you know what? That made the experience so much better. For one thing, I can’t exactly imagine Harper’s work adorning the walls of the National Gallery or the Met (not that they’d let him in; he’s an illustrator, remember?)—his punny titles and down-to-earth sensibilities would seem out of place there, despite the level of sophistication in his design. For another, the kitschy atmosphere was a perfect, unwitting match for Harper’s retro style, and just heightened his sense of tongue-in-cheek humor; I think he would have approved (especially of the wood paneling).
There are so many things to love about Charley Harper. Not only are his pieces completely timeless (a classic never goes out of style, after all), but his images are dead on (just like Andrew Wyeth, though in his own, completely different way). Every line, shape, and color is carefully considered, and nothing is accidental. Harper was able to distill all of nature into simple, geometric shapes, and yet everything is still immediately recognizable, and absolutely perfect. The precision of his design sense is closer to architecture than illustration, but his images convey so much warmth you can’t help but smile.
So if you’re local, get into the cheese-curd spirit, head down to The Big Fantastic, and check out the exhibit, which runs through Sunday. If you’re not, visit your local library or snuggle up to Google Images and spend an hour with Charley Harper. He’ll make your day, I guarantee it.
Swatch books are very near the top of my list of Favorite Things Ever. There is something so satisfying about having every color, pattern, texture, or finish right at your fingertips. I love sitting at my table, with a cup of tea in hand and six hundred sample chips spread out before me, ready for some serious color theory. (In case you’re wondering, this is the amaze-a-crazy DMC embroidery floss über color card. Well-made swatch books like this tend to be expensive to produce, and impossible to find once they go out of print. So if you’re into this sort of thing, I’d suggest snagging your copy before they decide to quit selling them.)
These days the studio has been an explosion of choices. Snippets of fabric and open dictionaries have taken over my life as I get ready for a new solo show, which opens October 14 at the Pacific Lutheran University Gallery. Stay tuned for more details in the next few weeks.
I wish I had something more concrete to show you, but this is one of those projects where everything comes together at once, right at the end (which can be as nerve-wracking as it is rewarding). I’ve got to say, though, that calico—finished or not—sure makes for pretty pictures.
When I was in high school I remember returning again and again to my mother’s bookshelf to peruse her copy of The Helga Pictures by Andrew Wyeth. The book (now, sadly, out of print) contains incredible reproductions of all 240 paintings and drawings Wyeth made—in secret, over the course of fifteen years—of his neighbor, Helga Testorf. At the time I wasn’t aware of the controversy behind these works (especially concerning rumors of his relationship with Helga); all I knew was that I wished I could paint like that.
Last week I had the chance to “meet” Helga in person: the Seattle Art Museum currently has seven Wyeth paintings (including five Helgas) on display in their Andrew Wyeth: Remembrance exhibition. It had been years since I last laid eyes on Mum’s book, but seeing Braids (above) on the wall was like watching my memories transform into a living, breathing person.
I leaned way in, my nose an inch from the glass (I love museums that let you do that), getting lost in the details. I heard someone to my left use the term “hyperrealism,” but I hate assigning labels to a work of art—it seems to diminish the beauty, somehow. This wasn’t realism, or “illustration” (Wyeth was a kindred spirit, in that he was often accused of not being a “real” artist), or portraiture, or anything else but pure magic.
Some find these images disturbing—their detail wanders way past Meticulous and into Obsessive. Helga is more Specimen than Model, like a butterfly pinned down in a shadow box.
Speaking as an artist (or “non-artist,” as the case may be) myself, though, I know where that kind of obsession comes from. There’s an urge to Get It Right, to do justice to one’s subject, regardless of any personal connection. And Wyeth sure does Get It Right—look at what that man could do with watercolor. That’s watercolor!
For me, it really doesn’t matter whether Helga was merely his model, or his long-time mistress; or whether Wyeth was a brilliant, driven painter or a controlling stalker. I think it’s necessary to separate the work from the author, at least to some extent (after all, Picasso was a terrible misogynist, and Gauguin impregnated half of Tahiti). We all have an ugly side, but not everyone can leave behind a legacy of great beauty.
But who am I to be the judge? Come make up your own mind. Remembrance is on view through October 18.
The season is turning ’round these parts—it seems the whole world is tinged with hints of red and gold. We had another warm weekend, but I’m not fooled; behind the hot sun are chill mornings and the rush of the harvest.
So it was another canning weekend for the Tailor, supplied by our latest farmer’s market haul and our final trip to the Blueberry Park for the year. We had to work hard for it yesterday, but amongst the nearly-spent, now-crimson bushes, we found just enough berries for one more batch of jam. Our total haul for the year? Over fourteen gallons of blueberries! In the spring we’ll return the favor by volunteering.
There’s no time to pine for berry season, though—now we’re up to our eyeballs in heirloom tomatoes (like these beauties from our friends at Zestful Gardens, splashed with a little oil and balsamic). And soon it’ll be time to get the root cellar and attic ready for a winter’s worth of squash, onions, potatoes, and pumpkins (more on that later). Marking transitions is my favorite part of eating seasonally, and autumn is my favorite time of year. I’ll be ready for fall’s bounty—camera in one hand, fork in the other.
As I’ve mentioned before, I’m currently in the process of researching Mt. Rainier for my next artist book. This involves drawing and photographing the Mountain over and over (and over and over) again, in as many different conditions and from as many different vantage points as possible. I’ll get into the whys and hows some other time, but for now, suffice to say this is a huge challenge. Not only do we have incredibly unpredictable weather here, but Rainier also tends to play by his own rules, appearing and disappearing regardless of any logical connection to the forecast (which, somewhat ironically, is the entire point of my book…).
I’ve done my best to even the odds by doing the bulk of my research during the summer and early fall—traditionally the dry season here. This summer, however, has proven to be about as nontraditional as possible, and has thrown a whole lot of monkey wrenches into the works. For weeks I had planned a long trip to various points east, where the landscape is drastically different than here in the west. But here’s the rub: not only did I require a flawlessly sunny day to view the Mountain from so far away, but the best time to view Rainier from the east is in the morning—I’d have to leave too early to see that day’s weather report. So I waited, and stalked the National Weather Service, and packed and unpacked my gear. During our ridiculous heatwave we had day after day of beautiful sun, but hot weather makes the atmosphere so hazy that even from here, just forty miles away, Rainier was just a faint silhouette. And then it was one excuse after another; either I had an appointment or deadline I couldn’t change, or it was raining, or it was hot and hazy east of the Cascades, or there was a forest fire blocking my path (no joke!). Over a month went by like this, and I could feel my window of opportunity shrinking—many of the roads included in my plans are closed from October through June.
And then, a couple of weeks ago now, it seemed I’d finally get my chance. Every weather report promised dry, cool, sunny weather, for one lovely day, before the gloom closed in again. I packed my drawing paraphernalia, both cold and hot weather gear, a picnic lunch, a pile of atlases and topographic maps (you didn’t think I’d be using GPS, did you? When a letterpress printer marries a geologist, topo maps become a permanent fixture of both studio and science lab!), my camera, and plenty of music in the car, set the alarm for 3:15 am, and went to bed early with my fingers crossed.
By 3:30 I was ready to go. I poked my head outdoors, saw stars overhead, and decided to make a break for it. Two hours later I arrived at my first stop: Tipsoo Lake, just off the road in an alpine meadow. To my immense surprise I wasn’t alone, even at that absurd pre-dawn, Wednesday hour, with the entire meadow blanketed with frost. A pair of photographers arrived just minutes after me and set up tripods nearby, and a friendly Slovak couple emerged from their tent to introduce themselves while we waited for the sun to rise. The biting cold made me question the sanity of this trip, but when the light finally spilled over the ridge to dye the Mountain pink, all my doubts disappeared.
I stayed just long enough to block in a composition and shoot a few reference photos before the light changed and I lost the moment (I was on a tight timetable all day, so I finished all of these sketches back in the studio). I checked my watch and hit the road again (and waved to the Slovaks as I passed them again, thirty miles later).
From here onward I had to work entirely on conjecture. Tipsoo Lake is a famous, oft-photographed spot, so I knew what sort of composition I wanted. But I had no photo reference for the rest of my guesses that day, only an idea of what I was looking for and a lot of half-memorized topographic maps. I was hoping to capture a scene of Rainier through the iconic apple orchards of Yakima, but I knew (from all the neck-craning I’ve done on previous drives through the region) that for the most part Rainier isn’t visible from the Yakima Valley, where most of the fruit trees are. According to my maps, though, there were some flat, gridded regions at the top of the bluffs overlooking Yakima—I hoped the grid meant farms, and that the extra 600 feet in elevation would be enough for a glimpse of the Mountain. So I made for Selah Heights Road—a hairline even on my most detailed map.
The road climbed past rows of poplars, trees laden with fruit and sweeping views of the valley; so far, so good.
And then I found it: just the tip of Mt. Rainier visible between the apple trees. I couldn’t believe my luck. And just as I finished roughing out my drawing (I still had a lot of miles to cover before my next destination, so I worked fast and loose), I glanced to my left and discovered another treat:
Mt. Adams, for a little extra credit.
After a quick, desperate and delicious coffee in Yakima, I turned south. My next stop was a place I’d never been: the Centerville Valley, a high-plains agricultural area just beyond Goldendale.
I knew that Adams would be prominently visible from here, but I could only hope that Rainier was as well—it sure would make a pretty picture if it were, I thought.
Nope, still Adams—although from this angle it tends to fool people (and cows).
I looked behind me, and saw that the farmland sloped upward a bit, before giving way to the Columbia Hills. So I headed south along a dirt road for about a half mile, parked, and trudged a few yards into a field of wheat stubble.
Bingo.
The alfalfa blossoms were sheer luck, just like so many other things that day. And that irrigation rig was moving—so I was never more thankful for digital photo technology than that moment (as a die-hard darkroom enthusiast, I never though I’d say that!).
Only one item remained on the itinerary: a narrow, winding goat track called the Dalles Mountain Road.
The spectacular vista of Adams, Rainier and the valley was just the beginning.
The road snakes over the top of the Columbia Hills, providing views of five volcanoes (that’s Hood there)…
pockets of stunning wildflowers…
and plenty of road-side snacks.
On the southern slope of the Hills the landscape turns suddenly rocky,
and the mighty Columbia River bursts into view.
My research had gone off without a hitch, and right on schedule. It was only just noon: mission accomplished. So to celebrate I stopped for lunch at one of the most stunning picnic spots I’ve ever seen.
From that little patch of grass I could have chosen to go home the way I came, or finish the loop and return along the western side of the Cascades—it was almost perfectly equidistant. So as usual I chose the unknown road, and zipped home via the historic Columbia River Highway.
Fifteen hours, 515 miles roundtrip. And perfect conditions every step of the way. I think that after a summer of total frustration (remember the airplane incident?), maybe the universe decided to give me a break.
I’ll be sure to send a thank-you note.
When I moved to the Pacific Northwest last year, purchasing my first ticket to Bumbershoot was like a rite of passage. The music, artwork, and atmosphere make it the place to spend Labor Day weekend in Seattle—for tiny children, hipsters, and grandparents alike. This morning, Maggie from Uncommon Envelope and I had the chance to experience the other side of Bumbershoot, this time as participants. Today we represented Seattle Center for Book Arts, to proclaim the joys of printing, binding, and creating books.
Let me tell you, it’s a weird feeling to bypass the crush of humanity and enter the city’s biggest festival through your own private entrance. This is how the booth looked in our last moment of calm, just minutes before the gates opened and half of Seattle poured onto the grounds.
Before long we had a steady stream a visitors—and we were ready with lots to say and share. While many kept busy creating their own keepsake books at our binding table, others perused the merchandise and exhibits, and learned that binding can transform a book into a work of art—
—and turn everyone’s preconceived notions upside down. This book, made by Dan Schafer, was my favorite show-and-tell item of the day. I always suspected cream cheese to be one of the world’s all-time best substances, but now I’m absolutely convinced of it.
Here’s another treasure: these postcards by Lisa Hasegawa are hand-printed from antique metal rule, to replicate the yummiest of school supplies. Welcome to autumn and hello, nostalgia!
Maggie made her own contributions to the display, and I sneaked in a few Dead Feminists—one of the perks of volunteering!
It was a fantastic day—and even the weather cooperated (no bumbershoots for us!). Thanks to everyone who made a book, asked a question, or signed up for a class. You confirmed our suspicions that participating today was a great idea. We book artists might be an odd addition to Bumbershoot, but we sure know how to make our mark!
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