Archive for the ‘Pacific Northwest’ Category

May 07, 2011
Forty-watt bulbs

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Despite an overabundance of deadlines and studio hubbub lately—well, beautiful spring weather and productivity just don’t mix. So I took a day off and made my annual pilgrimage Up Nort’ to the Skagit Valley to catch the end of the Tulip Festival.

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I’m glad I waited this year; not only did the blooms hit a late peak, but the weather was nearly flawless.

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Of course, a sunny Friday in the Northwest is basically a license to play hooky, so I wasn’t the only spectator.

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Finding a shot that didn’t include minivans, port-a-potties, cyclists in DayGlo jackets or entire families striking goofy poses was quite a challenge, and required a lot of waiting and creative cropping.

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This time I was interested in far more than the tulips, however; whenever I wandered away from the fields of pink and red, I seemed to have whole acres to myself.

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But that’s the thing about the Skagit Valley—

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the tulips are lovely, but the place is perfectly magical, all on its own.

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This year’s trip came with a little added bonus: I gave into the urge to just keep right on going up the coast. There wasn’t time to get on a ferry to the San Juans (off in the distance above) or head all the way to Vancouver, but I was curious about Bellingham, so that became the destination.

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(I took the back road, of course.)

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By the time I pulled into Bellingham, though, I’d spent so much time watching people harvest shellfish and falling down the rabbit hole of fantastic bookstores that the town was closing up shop for the day.

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I did fit in a stroll around downtown, though—

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and even discovered a ferry terminal to Alaska (and started plotting future “road” trips along the Marine Highway).

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Just as I began the internal debate over whether to stay for dinner, the last of the clouds disappeared, and Mt. Baker came out. (No, not the one on the left—the other Mt. Baker!)

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That put an end to the argument—I high-tailed it back to the tulips to catch the sunset. Dinner could wait.

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By then the last of the other tourists had gone home—

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it was just me, the mountains, and a sea of blooms stretching to the horizon.

Posted by Chandler at 12:21 PM in Adventure, Pacific Northwest, Travel  |  Permalink  |   Comments (4)
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March 16, 2011
S.O.S.

Not long ago I stood where the ripple of a far-away tragedy would soon wash ashore—just as we will send the Pacific rippling back westward when—not if—our time comes.

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We received the echo of Japan’s catastrophe like the other end of a tin-can walkie-talkie, string pulled taut. This time the waves are faint at our end of the cable, but the distress call is loud and clear.

It’s a one-way game of telephone. Operator? There is no ripple to relay back along the string. No words of comfort to speak into the mouthpiece. So we send out a beacon instead—and hope the message reaches the far shore.

On our coast, and in our hearts, we’re leaving a light on for Japan.

Posted by Chandler at 8:11 PM in Kindred Spirits, Life, Pacific Northwest  |  Permalink  |   Comments (1)
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January 20, 2011
Living history

Some blogger I turned out to be. The normal day-to-day juggling that comes with the territory has escalated into a death-defying circus act while I get ready to exhibit at Codex, the super-big-deal biennial international book arts conference in Berkeley, coming up in a few weeks. So now instead of a blog, a business, a bunch of Dead Feminists and a book—it feels like I’m juggling flaming torches. And I always seem to drop the blog first. Sorry about that.

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A composite of two image flats.

Anyway, after a good, long run, my Local Conditions exhibit is closing tomorrow afternoon, and this week I’ve been revisiting some of my favorite images from the book. This one always gets me thinking about how much a city can change over the course of a century, and how for a newcomer like me, that change isn’t always apparent. There aren’t always little plaques or signposts to tell you what used to exist where you’re standing now—or even any evidence at all of how things used to be.

This scene depicts the Drumheller Fountain (also known as Frosh Pond), located on the University of Washington campus in Seattle. Incidentally, on my first trip to the Northwest almost exactly four years ago, I was standing on this very spot when I saw Mt. Rainier for the first time. This is where the idea for the book first struck me—although at the time it was a very different, and much simpler concept. And at that moment, I had no idea that the view itself had a history all its own.

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Photo courtesy of the University of Washington Library

This is Frosh Pond in 1909, when it was called Geyser Basin (part of the so-called “Arctic Circle”), and when it was not a part of campus, but the centerpiece of the University’s predecessor, the Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition.

The A-Y-P showcased the natural and economic resources of the Pacific Northwest with pomp and splendor. To mirror the purpose of the exposition, the fairgrounds (designed by the famous Olmsted Brothers) brought the region’s greatest symbol into stunning focus. This so-called “Rainier Vista,” culminating in the Arctic Circle, helped draw in 3.7 million visitors over the fair’s four-month duration.

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Courtesy of the University of Washington Library

Very little evidence remains of the A-Y-P fairgrounds today; the vast majority of the fair’s buildings were temporary, and even the landscape design of the modern University has all but obscured the original layout of the A-Y-P grounds. But the Arctic Circle is still there, and when you step out from behind a row of blooming cherry trees in the spring, the Rainier Vista still hits you with full force.

Speaking of fairgrounds, closer to T-Town is another historical remnant—this time, however, instead of a long-past event with only a marker left behind to hint at what was, these fairgrounds still hold to their original purpose today.

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Illustration by Eddie Sato, Camp Harmony inmate and “staff” artist.

I’m talking about the Western Washington Fairgrounds in Puyallup, which are still in operation (though the event is now called the Puyallup Fair—that’s pronounced “Pyoo-AL-up”). In 1942, the U.S. government relocated and imprisoned over 100,000 Japanese Americans living on the West Coast; the internment began with the forced migration of families living on Bainbridge Island, across the Sound from Seattle.

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Courtesy of the University of Washington Library

While they awaited the construction of permanent internment camps further inland, many Japanese Americans were sent to temporary “assembly centers” to coexist in cramped barracks with other families, often in substandard living conditions. Thousands of Washington’s interred residents were sent to the assembly center nicknamed Camp Harmony, hastily constructed on the fairgrounds in Puyallup, right alongside the fair’s permanent buildings and rides.

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Three image flats; the mountain is almost completely hidden here.

Camp Harmony was torn down after just seven months, but the Fair continues to this day. And the wooden roller coaster that overshadowed Eddie Sato’s scene of the camp still stands. It made for an image that dovetails eerily well with the homage to Japanese art upon which Local Conditions is founded. Now that I’ve learned the history of the place, I’ve lost my appetite for funnel cakes and blue-ribbon vegetables—at least in Puyallup, anyway. This ain’t no Minnesota State Fair.

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Photo courtesy of Jessica Spring

And then there’s the kind of history that unfolds right before your very eyes. Remember the Luzon building?

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Two image flats; recognize the sky in the background?

Well, it was slated to be a part of the book from the very beginning—just by virtue of being a structure that caught my eye and that came with a good view of the mountain.

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But then they knocked it down in September 2009, and suddenly I became an eye-witness, with an opportunity to document history as it happened.

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Three image flats; same mountain, drastically different view.

I wish this were an imaginary scene, but I suppose it’s moments like this that the book is all about. Now you see it, now you don’t.

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Courtesy of the Tacoma Public Library

And to top it all off, it’s looking like Tacoma’s history is in danger of repeating itself. This is a postcard dated 1905, depicting what was an iconic view even then—the “Gateway to the City of Destiny.” The building on the left is the former Northern Pacific Railroad Office; on the right is Old City Hall.

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Postcard circa 1910—with clock edited out, oddly enough.

Tacoma built a new city hall a few blocks away in the 1930s, but both the Northern Pacific building and Old City Hall still stand—the addition of a freeway the only major change to the site pictured. But on November 24, 2010, after an unusual cold snap, a pipe burst in Old City Hall—soaking the walls, ceilings and floors with 30,000 gallons of water. With extensive flood damage and the building owner entering foreclosure, the building faces an uncertain future. I only hope it doesn’t go the way of the Luzon.

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Three image flats; there’s an individual print version here.

When I started this project, I had no idea of what I was getting into. I knew that I would stumble upon some pretty fascinating history, but I never would have guessed that a fountain, some fairgrounds and a pile of bricks would draw me in so completely. But now I’m hooked—and the best part is that after all this work, I no longer feel like an outsider looking in.

This is my history now, too. For better or worse, I want to see how it all plays out.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

P.S. The exhibit is coming down, but you can view Local Conditions online—both here on the blog (look for more posts on the book in the coming weeks), or as part of the Artists Wanted Year in Review competition. Pretty please, take a look at the book on my portfolio page and cast your vote for the People’s Choice award! You can vote once every 24 hours, so spread the word; voting ends on February 4. Thank you!

Posted by Chandler at 4:17 PM in Book Arts, Illustration, Letterpress, Pacific Northwest, T-Town  |  Permalink  |   Comments (2)
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December 25, 2010
Merry and bright

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I was afraid I wasn’t going to have any holiday photos to show you—when I was in Portland the other week, my camera took a nosedive after being bumped off my shoulder in a crowded room.

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Snippets from my daily journal

So I shipped the lens off to the good folks at Canon for repair, and switched to paper for awhile.

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One of Maurice Sendak’s eye-candy stage sets for the Pacific NW Ballet’s Nutcracker

My favorite thing about sketchbooks is that I can take them anywhere—including places where cameras, functioning or not, are strictly verboten.

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More Nutcracker scenery, plus Christmas on Pine Street in Seattle

The downside, though, is that it takes me a lot longer to draw a picture than to shoot one—so my output is always smaller than I’d like.

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But then the Fedex guy showed up with my lens, good as new and just in time for Christmas.

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I managed to refrain from hugging him, and then hopped around the house in manic glee, documenting the holiday the Tailor and I have spent all week creating.

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(We finally broke down and bought twinkle lights for the tree; which provided the perfect inspiration for this year’s card!)

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Wherever today finds you, have a warm, cozy, abundant, and very merry Christmas.

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Posted by Chandler at 1:29 PM in Book Arts, Drawing, Illustration, Life, Pacific Northwest  |  Permalink  |   Comments (5)
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December 13, 2010
Aboard the Pineapple Express

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One of the nerdy things I love most in the world is “collecting” regional nicknames for weather systems. I’ve lived in a lot of different places, and have become well acquainted with such things as the Nor’easter, the Albuquerque Low, the Alberta Clipper, and Blood Rain (which, I’ll admit, is as freaky as the name; watching rust-colored droplets fall from the sky and stain every surface—including you—is a disturbing experience).

Here we get the occasional visit from the Pineapple Express—a holiday guest from the South Pacific that overstays its welcome and eats everything in your fridge. And it thanks you with the gift of a warm bath—a gift that keeps on giving: namely, torrential rains, washed-out roads and rails, snowmelt at all but the very highest elevations, and areas of flooding which include, right at this very moment, our basement. (Not to worry; for us, at least, the rain trickles in, gathers in an interesting map of puddles, and trickles back out again when the storm subsides. And for all the well-meaning people who offer us unsolicited remodeling advice, it serves as an excellent illustration of our resolve never to have a finished basement.)

Anyway, while I concede that it made the drive more … er, interesting, the Pineapple Express served as an oddly fitting companion on my trip to Portland yesterday.

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For one thing, it gave sudden and perfect context to one hilarious interpretation of a Christmas tree.

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It made the bright spots glow—

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and turned even the most nauseating corporate decor into a sea of color.

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It got the old mental wheels turning by inviting me indoors, from a dose of crafty goodness,

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to an entire museum devoted to another kind of craftiness.

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And with nothing but a soggy hike waiting outside, it inspired me to take my time and have a good, long look at what I found.

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It encouraged me to visit my favorite bakery—

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—and warm up over a well-rounded lunch (sorry).

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It gave me an excuse to duck into the best bookstore in the entire universe.

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And just as daylight waned, it helped a certain somebody’s nose glow oh-so-bright.

Oh, and then, as I walked back to my car for the drive home, it made this song pop into my head. After all, paddling home in a canoe might have been a little more efficient!

Posted by Chandler at 1:05 AM in Adventure, Kindred Spirits, Life, Pacific Northwest, Travel  |  Permalink  |   Comments (4)
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December 07, 2010
Interview: Mirka Hokkanen

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I am always inspired by people who can create a whole world with just their own two hands. Take my friend Mirka Hokkanen—she’s a printmaker, illustrator and crafter who seems to be well on her way toward shaping her own universe with pen and ink, and needle and thread. And the best part: we’re all invited to the party. Tacoma folks might recognize Mirka from the Tacoma is for Lovers or numerous other Northwest craft fairs, where she never fails to draw a crowd to her table like kids to a candy store. But her toys and accessories are just one small facet of Mirka’s world—she is equally at home (and even more engaging) in a gallery, or a classroom.

Originally hailing from Finland, Mirka moved to the U.S. over a decade ago to attend college in Rockford, Illinois. She finished her BFA in 2002, and moved on to receive both MA and MFA degrees in printmaking from University of Dallas. She has taught printmaking and art history at the college level, and has exhibited her work both nationally and internationally. She currently resides in Dupont, Washington with her husband, an officer in the U.S. Army. I asked Mirka to chat with me about her work, and what it’s like to juggle teaching, a full-time fine art career, a small business, and life in the military.

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How did you get started with printmaking?

Ever since I can remember I have loved to draw. Paint just really was not my thing. I had never really tried printmaking, except for the random linocut in school, until I went to college in Rockford. I took printmaking my first semester and was hooked. I was initially drawn to the possibilities of making drawings that I could reproduce and the idea of multiples and all the possibilities that came with it.

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I’ve seen you work with many different printmaking techniques—from traditional to experimental. Do you have a favorite printmaking method?

Intaglio is my first love and still my favorite medium, because of the lines. I love the depth and variety of line work and marks that one can print from an etching plate- there’s nothing like the satisfaction of pulling off that first print from your plate. I am also hooked on really detailed work and love all the processes that go into a finished print. I have worked in just about every other printmaking media, relief prints, screen printing, letterpress, some lithography and mixed media work and encaustics and magnets.  I am working right now to learn more about engraving and letterpress.

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Because my husband is in the military, shop availability changes all the time as we move and I get to know the print community in a certain area. After the initial idea for a piece, I figure out what kind of equipment I have access to and then figure out what media to use for the print. I love that printmaking offers such a wide variety of techniques and I can change the technique to something else, when I get bored with it. On the other hand I do like to work somewhat consistently with a media when I get started. You get a feel for the material and tools you are working with, and it is hard to change daily from lets say a linocut that needs a strong hand to an etching with fine lines. I have slowly acquired an etching press and a small letterpress, so I am currently working on small relief prints and engravings to print in my home studio.

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What inspires you (other artists, places, objects, etc.)?

Oh my, so many things can inspire me. I have lived somewhat of a gypsy life since childhood. Nature and animals have always been a grounding and soothing element for me with all the hassles that come with moving. In the woods I can center myself, find peace and really appreciate God’s creation and the mind staggering diversity of it. I also am drawn to old worn out things, that you can find in antique shops and fleamarkets (to my husband’s joy). It’s fascinating to imagine who owned them and what kind of a life they lived. The torn, worn and tattered surfaces of the objects tell the story of how it was made, used and then cast aside.

Historical artists such as Joseph Cornell, Albrecht Dürer and Norbertine Bresslern-Roth are some of my favorite artists. I am normally drawn to a type of work more than a specific artist. In my studio lies a box with innumerable clippings and postcards of favorite works. When I am looking for inspiration to start working, I’ll often flip through pictures, to get my mind working. In general my eye catches things that I am conscious of in my own work- something that makes me chuckle, beautiful lines, earthy colors or a worn look.

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Your work often deals with animal themes, and runs the gamut between innocent storytelling and black political humor. How do animals tie these things together? What draws you to animals in your work?

I have always loved to depict animals over people. I found them more interesting to draw with fur and patterns than people with skin. As I got older and more serious as an artist, it seemed that depicting animals was a less confrontational way to address sensitive issues, like factory farming, than if I had directly pointed a finger at you. I wanted more of an open approach to let people think for themselves rather than forcing my opinions on them.

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Animals also hold so much symbolism and meaning in every culture. We can see them as gods, symbols, metaphors, heroes, food, clothing and objects. We reflect ourselves on them or give them anthropomorphic qualities, they are leading characters in folktales and modern movies. It is interesting to dwell in our relationship with them, and bring it out on paper.

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You also create stuffed toys, which are really beautifully designed and cleverly constructed. I tend to think of them as part of your whole body of work, but you seem to keep them pretty separate from your prints and illustrations. Is there a reason for that?

I have made some stuffed animals as part of an exhibition before but in general I have tried to keep them separate. I figured that to be taken seriously as a young artist, it was better to be just a printmaker and keep the cute handcrafts on the side. I originally just sewed little things for myself and for gifts. While in GA I had a hard time getting access to any printmaking facilities, so the handcrafts started to pile up on my free time. I started an Etsy shop, through which I was able to make enough profit to buy a small press to make prints. Another reason to keep them separate was that the art had a political bent on it (meaning behind it) and the stuffed animals and other things had no meaning behind them. They were just cute things for people to enjoy. For a long time I have been trying to think of ways to incorporate craft techniques with printmaking, but haven’t come up with a solution that I was satisfied with so far. As time goes by, it is harder to keep them separate, simply because there are a limited amount of hours in the day and everything in printmaking and crafts takes up a lot of time. I love what you did with the Mnemonic Sampler show and Whitney Lee’s latch hook art. Another great resource I go for inspiration is Embroidery As Art.

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How has Finnish culture influenced your work? Have you had any influence from American culture as well?

I get my love of nature and handcrafts from Finland, since that is what I grew up with. I learned to draw and sew early and to knit in first grade. We lived by woods and had a summer cabin in the country, so I spent countless hours outside playing and exploring and as I got older picking berries and hiking. My grandmother also loved collecting “antiques”, and I loved going through their drawers and nooks in the garage to see all the treasures they had stored up. Also the simplicity of Finnish design is more attractive to me than rich colors and pattern that I see more over here.

After moving to the US I have learned to speak up more and to adapt quickly to situations (which also goes for my art). After living in IL, TX, GA and WA- I am not sure if there is one culture here in the US. I think I am happier at the moment making my art here, because I can reach a wider audience and find printmaking communities just about everywhere.

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Translations—clockwise, from top left: “Yet a new day can change everything;” “Thank the Lord of my Soul!” and “Welcome to the house! As a guest in our cottage!”

Tell me about the Huoneentaulu Project.

The project came out of my love for handcrafts and my ongoing desire to incorporate them in the same body of work. These Finnish hand embroidered wall hangings were very popular in the early 1900’s, and hung in just about every house, but now they are becoming harder to find. They would have a center piece that had a short (most often religious) verse or saying. Sometimes embroidered embellishments were added and a fabric border. I think these wall hangings are very endearing, a sign of their times, but now they are becoming harder and harder to find, because they get worn out and thrown away and their original owners die. I wanted to save the story of this folk art by collecting as many pictures as I can, with stories, and then looking into them for common threads. I will use that as a jumping off point for more modern versions of the huoneentaulus that people could hang on their walls today.  I also think that now is a great time, with a revived interest in young people in things/traditions of old.

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Translation: “My home, my happiness.”

How will you be translating Finnish handcrafts to the medium of printmaking? What techniques or materials will you use to convey your ideas about the original textiles? Will the meaning behind the objects change as you recreate them?

I wanted to use relief printing and letterpress for the new wall hangings. I figured they are old techniques as well, so it would be appropriate to use them to revive an old tradition and they work well for large solid areas and text. So far I printed the first huoneentaulu with a letterpress on paper, but I am playing with ideas of printing on fabric, embroidering paper, or using fabric to print on paper.

I am currently doing research on the original wallhangings, to get a sense of what they meant for people. The method of distribution will change, since before women would embroider their own hangings to have on their own wall, so they would have something that spoke directly at them. Since I will be printing and other people will hopefully be hanging these in their homes, the maker and media changes, but I hope that people would still hang one because the message speaks to them.

This will be a pretty slow project, just because it is taking a lot of time to figure out how to reach people to get pictures/stories for the research. But as I dig in deeper, I am finding more interesting things. At the end, I hope to have a book printed with the original wall hanging pictures, my work and an essay on what I found out through my research.

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What does your ideal work space look like? Do you have any goals for your studio?

I dream about a great studio just about every day. Right now I work in a spare bedroom and garage which is cramped and rather gloomy. So far my husband is career military, so I don’t have high hopes of getting a great studio until he retires in our 5os. I imagine lots of space and large windows. I would love to have a communal shop in Finland that would bring in printmakers from the area to work together. It would be awesome to have a nice large press and equipment to make intaglio prints, and a letterpress or two, and a separate area for sewing and fiber work.

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Do you have any advice for people who want to run a business by selling their handmade work?

I would say make sure that’s what you want to do, because it is a lot of hard work. Have a clear goal in mind and an identifiable product. In today’s world networking is also key, so get plugged in your local art/craft scene. I am so happy to be in the Tacoma area, they have a great supportive community here.  Etsy and Artfire are also great places to sell, if you can consistently keep up your shop. Consistency is a key element. When people know where to find you and know what you do, things will roll along much easier. Military life makes things pretty hard, but I try my best to get settled in every couple of years. Having an online store and website at least gives people the chance to find me after I have moved away, but it’s easier to get work from the contacts around you.

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What’s next for you? Is there anything you would like to work on in the future?

I seem to always have many irons in the fire. Right now I am illustrating a Christian children’s book by Robbie Edgren and working to make prints for several upcoming shows in January and April. The wallhanging project is ongoing and I hope to concentrate on it full time after my last scheduled show in April 2011. I am really looking forward to this project and all the challenges it will bring with research, grants, writing and exploring new media.

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Thanks, Mirka!

Posted by Chandler at 9:20 PM in Book Arts, Drawing, Illustration, Kindred Spirits, Life, Pacific Northwest, T-Town  |  Permalink  |   Comments (3)
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December 01, 2010
Stalling a wee bit

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You know what? It’s pretty dark here in the winter.

No, I mean really dark. Not just a sunrise-at-eight-pitch-black-by-five dark, but a kind of silver pall that sets up a permanent residence, even at midday, and makes you forget about the sun. It’s absolutely beautiful when you’re taking a walk in the fog, or curling up with your trusty Rosie mug and a hank of yarn. Not so great when you really need a lot of natural light, though—like, say, for shooting photographs…

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…or mixing paint to fill in a huge stack of glorified coloring book pages.

So between the short daylight hours and a desperate need to reserve a little personal time, work on the book has slowed from a breakneck pace to a stately, clip-clopping trot. I still have so much to show you—so much to explain—but my head needs to catch up with my hands first (or is it the other way around?). I’m going, then, to break it up into a series of posts, and take a little extra time to gather my thoughts before I start. I don’t mean to string you along; because the process required working with a kind of tunnel vision for so long, I’m only just now seeing the “finished” product myself. So thanks for your patience—and for being interested enough to stick with me.

Thank you also for the huge outpouring of support you’ve shown since I posted this thing a couple of weeks ago. The comments, links, blog features, Tweets, emails, and amazing reviews are just overwhelming. I simply can’t find the words, except—thank you.

Part of what’s taking me so long is that at the same time, I’m working on a small series (like a baker’s dozen or so) of individual prints of images from the book (exhibit A above). There’s not a whole heap of rhyme or reason as to which illustrations I’ve chosen, except that these are some of my favorites. I’ll be posting them in the shop (believe me, they’ll be a lot more affordable than the book) as I finish them, and here on the blog (all at once) in a couple of weeks.

In the meantime, it’s time to light a few more lights, and keep the dark at bay so I can see what I’m doing.

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Which reminds me—Happy Hanukkah!

Posted by Chandler at 8:27 PM in Adventure, Behind the Scenes, Book Arts, Kindred Spirits, Life, Pacific Northwest  |  Permalink  |   Comments (2)
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November 22, 2010
Snow day

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Three inches of snow fell today while I had my morning cuppa. Since the region has possibly the world’s tiniest fleet of snow plows (Seattle has just twenty-seven; you can imagine what a tiny handful Tacoma’s got), and none of them are out thus far—’round here, three inches is enough to cancel an entire city, let alone school.

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Despite the lure of white beaches and urban ski runs, I’m not crazy enough to try descending the hills today. Instead I’m spending my snow day close to home, so I can marvel at how strange the rhodies look under a sugar dusting.

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On our rare doses of “real” winter, it always looks like Nature made some sort of clerical error—like the mailman dropping someone else’s holiday cards into our mailbox.

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Instead of a blanket of white over a soft grey world, everything glows in blues, greens, yellows … and reds?

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Yes, that is an apple, still on the tree—nicely chilled and ready to serve for Thanksgiving.

Let it snow!

Posted by Chandler at 2:55 PM in Life, Pacific Northwest, T-Town  |  Permalink  |   Comments (2)
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November 17, 2010
Local Conditions

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First of all, a whole lot of letterpress-printed, hand-bound thanks to everyone who came to my talk last week—your smiles went a long way toward erasing my stage fright. I only hope I didn’t say “Um…” too many times.

Second, I’ve been hemming and hawing about how best to share this thing with the rest of you—sorry for taking so long to show my face around here. Even with Sarah’s excellent photography, it’s just a lot more difficult to explain how it works when I can’t hold the book out into space and demonstrate in real time. It’s a problem with every artist book out there—an interactive sculpture, complete with moving parts, that also happens to tell a story is just dern hard to document.

So for now, I’m going to go through the mechanics of the thing, step by step, and go into the whys and wherefores in other posts. And for those of you who might not be familiar with the term “artist book,” you’re going to find out really quickly that this isn’t your basic hardcover book. The definition of “artist book” is way too broad to go into within this post, but I’m hoping that by the time you get to the bottom, you’ll have an idea of just how broad the term can be—and what crazy things can happily fall into the category.

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Okay, let’s start with the box. When it’s all closed up, Local Conditions is almost a cube (a 10-inch cube that’s heavy enough to be hiding a sack or two of flour inside). On the topmost face of the box is the frontispiece, containing the title and a topographic map illustration of the summit of Mt. Rainier.

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The north, south, east and west sides of the box are faced with illustrations of the corresponding faces of Rainier, each depicting the mountain from the same moment of the day: sunset.

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(That’s the eastern face on the left, and the north face beside it.)

Now, those two little bone clasps hold the thing together, and when you flick them out of their loops,

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the book opens up, revealing a chest of drawers. Keep pulling on the flap you just raised,

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and you’ll find that you can take the whole outer wrapper off and read the colophon (see below) printed on the inside.

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The other panels on the wrapper include detailed instructions on everything the book does—more on that in another post.

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Next, let’s open the drawers—nested in the bottom one you’ll find a Viewing Box (yeah, I know … a box, within a box, within a box … sorry.) that consists of a window, a background panel, and two tabs that stick out from either side.

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The tabs match up with the grooved unit at the top of the chest of drawers, and the Viewing Box slides into place.

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So now the box is fully expanded, and the book is assembled for use. Now comes the fun part.

Take a closer look at the Viewing Box, and open the top two drawers.

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Inside the drawers you’ll find a series of cut-out cards, each printed with a different image. These little image flats slide right into the slots of the Viewing Box,

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and face out the window to form an instant picture—kind of like an old-fashioned stage set.

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There are 120 flats to choose from, and by combining, layering and switching them in and out of the Viewing Box, you can create seemingly endless scenes of Mt Rainier. I came up with one hundred, and documented them as part of the book (again, I’ll elaborate later), but I’m more interested in how many you can dream up.

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(Hint: a lot. Thousands. Millions. To be precise, 1.4 x 1015, or 1.4 quintillion, if you really wanted to push the envelope.)

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Local Conditions: One Hundred Views of Mt. Rainier (At Least)
Edition size: 26
Book size: 10 x 8 x 8 inches when closed
Viewing window: 3 x 5 inches
Price: $2600

Artist book consisting of viewing box and 120 image flats, illustrated and compiled from data collected in person, on location, over the course of two years. Housed in a set of drawers with nested stab-bound book and Japanese-style outer wrapper.

Colophon reads:

Japanese artist Katsushika Hokusai (1759 – 1849) is perhaps best known for his seminal works, Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji and One Hundred Views of Mt. Fuji. The two series of woodblock prints, published from 1829 to circa 1847, depict the sacred peak within the context of landscapes and scenes of daily life. At the heart of the series is Hokusai’s own obsession with immortality, and his fascination with Fuji’s eternal presence.

Therein lies the rub: Fuji is anything but eternal. Beyond the usual, abstract geologic transience of eroding rock and drifting continents, Fuji is an active stratovolcano. Its days—and those of the lives and lands at its base—are numbered.

Here in Washington state, just forty miles southeast of my home, lies Fuji’s taller, more volatile, American twin. Variously named Tacobet, Tahoma and Ti’Swaq’, among others, by the region’s indigenous peoples,  or simply “The Mountain” by contemporary locals—its most arbitrary moniker, coined in 1792 by Captain George Vancouver, is the one that stuck: Mount Rainier.

It’s easy to forget Rainier’s impermanence. It has presided over thousands of years of indigenous culture, followed by the encroachment and permanent occupation of white settlers. It oversaw the construction of the Northern Pacific Railroad, the fever of the Klondike Gold Rush, the splendor of the Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition. It stood in judgment while the American descendants of Hokusai’s countrymen were imprisoned beside the wooden-frame rollercoaster of the Western Washington Fairgrounds, at the internment center nicknamed Camp Harmony. And it has watched the rise and decline and rise again of Tacoma, the City of Destiny lovingly misnamed in its honor.

Yet all the while, Rainier has changed as much as the tableau at its feet. Its volcanic restlessness shifts its form, as our capricious Northwestern weather masks its appearance. It hides, or dominates, depending on the time of day or year. Even we have proved a catalyst, as our warming climate chases its alpine glaciers into retreat at the speed of industry.

And one day—whether tomorrow or in a million years, in an explosion of ash or by the erosion of time—Mount Rainier will disappear completely. I can’t begin to predict the future, but I can attempt to capture the present moment. One hundred present moments, to be exact. If nothing else, Local Conditions is a reminder of the lesson of this place: that here in the Ring of Fire, we never see the same Mountain twice.

* * *

Illustrated, designed, printed and bound by Chandler O’Leary, through freak snowstorms, record heat, and a thousand gentle rains in Tacoma, Washington. Each of the book’s 120 image flats is illustrated and compiled from sketches, photographs and data collected in person, on location, from September 2008 to October 2010. All text and images were letterpress printed in Hokusai’s indigo ink, down the street at Springtide Press. Images and topographic map patterns are hand-drawn and watercolored.

For making it possible to turn this crazy idea into an even crazier reality, many heartfelt thanks to [the Tailor*], Jessica Spring, [Zooey*], Sarah Christianson, the Tacoma Arts Commission, the University of Puget Sound Collins Memorial Library, and the Book Arts Guild. Thanks also to the weather, for always, despite a notorious reputation, seeming to hold just long enough for me to grab the camera and jump in the car.

Produced with the support of a Tacoma Artists Initiative Program grant from the City of Tacoma Arts Commission.

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* Names changed, as per usual.

Posted by Chandler at 5:07 PM in Book Arts, Illustration, Letterpress, Pacific Northwest, T-Town, Travel  |  Permalink  |   Comments (15)
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November 09, 2010
Suffragist City

Now that was a blog break. Holy cow, I didn’t think I’d be trapped below the surface for so long—thank you to all the rescuers (especially you, Sarah) who dived in after me! We had a huge turnout at the Local Conditions opening, and an even huger showing at Studio Tour this weekend. So to the two-hundred-some generous people who came to either or both, thank you for the enormous display of support and good karma. For you friends afar, we’re finally ready to get this show on the road—starting with the new broadside tomorrow!

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I woke up this morning after the first full night’s sleep in over a month, and celebrated by breaking the recent routine of studio-studio-studio entirely. I ignored the computer, bundled up, and headed to beloved Oly for a once-in-a-century party.

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One hundred years ago today, the state of Washington approved an amendment to the state constitution granting women the right to vote. To celebrate the occasion, the state capitol played host to the Centennial Day of Jubilation. Forget collaborating on Jell-o recipes; I think even May and Emma would have agreed on how cool an idea this was.

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Everyone in the Rotunda got in on the action. The Lieutenant Governor’s office, here, was transformed into a picket line,

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while reenactors turned the foyer into a debate chamber.

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And upstairs, in the Reception Room, a feisty demonstrator channeled May’s spirit—

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and did her best to drag the audience into the past with her.

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It’s too bad I don’t own any Edwardian clothing—I felt a bit underdressed for the occasion.

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Even in my twenty-first century overcoat, though, I found a way to wear a little pride. Thanks, May, Emma, Cora—and all of the Washington suffragists. We couldn’t celebrate without you.

Posted by Chandler at 12:28 AM in Dead Feminists, Mumbo-Jumbo, Pacific Northwest  |  Permalink  |   No Comments
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