Posts Tagged ‘artist book’

December 31, 2009
Year in review

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End-of-the-year summaries have never been my strong suit, not least because I tend to measure time on completely different terms than the standard calendar (like counting up from the anniversary of an important event, for instance). And since nobody seems to be able to agree on whether the decade ends this year or next (anyway, doesn’t any ten-year span count as a decade?), I think I’ll leave that one alone as well.

Instead, I thought I’d share my own way of marking time—an experiment that I’ve been working on for two years now.

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You might remember my friend Sarah Christianson, who has spent the last several years documenting her own family history. Among her family artifacts are several of her great grandmother’s daily diaries, which Mrs. Anderson faithfully kept for many years. As you can see, there isn’t much space to write (so most entries say things like, “Went to the store, visited with Mildred,” etc.)—but what really interested me was how the five-year format of each page paints a larger picture of a woman’s life.

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Sarah and I were both inspired to start five-year journals of our own, but I decided to turn mine into a sketchbook. I loved the idea and the challenge of documenting each day with a tiny, panoramic image.

Almost every drawing depicts something mundane, even trivial; it might be a sliver of that day’s activities, or just a snippet of an object that caught my eye. I’m almost never specific in the brief phrase written in each space—in fact, already I find myself forgetting what I was referring to when I go back to look at past entries. When I do remember what I was talking about, though, each illustration triggers my memories better and more richly than any of my photographs or writing can.

But that’s not the point of this project; this was never meant to be a detailed journal of my every thought or action. Instead, I’m trying to remind myself to really look at the world around me, and to live in my own present.

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Now, exactly two years into the project, the same type of narrative I found in Claire Anderson’s diaries is already beginning to emerge. The drawings serve as a sort of flip-book; as one pages through the journal my personality, tastes and interests come to life, and the result is a more complete picture of myself than I ever could have come up with consciously. And an interesting by-product of all of this is the sometimes-unwitting documentation of the current era—this book might prove to be useful in other ways, someday.

The really curious bit is how the book is both intensely personal and completely ordinary. There isn’t a single image in there that I couldn’t share with a total stranger (no nudity, no embarrassing missives, no dirty laundry, etc.), and yet I’ve only actually shown it to a handful of people. I’m not sure why that is, but now that I’ve gone “public” about it I’m sure I’ll post occasional excerpts from here on out.

At the very least, maybe this will tighten the screws on my discipline a bit. Sarah and I learned quickly how difficult it is to keep a daily journal like this, whether in words or pictures (I doff my hat to Mrs. Anderson’s habits)—it’s all I can do to keep up with it, and I’m often playing catch-up. But now that I see how worthwhile the effort has been, I find myself excited for whatever tomorrow brings.

And isn’t that the whole point?

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Wishing you a happy New Year full of wonderful events and tiny moments worth savoring—however you choose to remember them.

Posted by Chandler at 3:10 PM in Behind the Scenes, Book Arts, Drawing, Illustration, Life  |  Permalink  |   Comments (3)
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December 10, 2009
Third time’s a charm

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After nearly a year, image-gathering for my Mt. Rainier artist book is finally coming to an end. I have a huge stack of sketches, scribbles and recorded data, and thousands upon thousands of photos to sift through. This month and next are scheduled for the all-important (and terrifying) process of Figuring Out How the Heck to Make It Work—physical mock-ups, final compositions, text-writing, etc. But before I could move on with a clear conscience, I had one last far-away location to cross off my research list: Portland. And for some reason, the stars just weren’t aligning for me.

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My first attempt this summer was also my first-ever trip to the city, so I had to location-scout with a blank mental map—and when I finally found what I was looking for, it was too hazy to see anything anyway (hence the dotted line where Rainier should be). Since Portland is 140 miles away, I couldn’t just try again any old time I pleased. As the months went by, I became increasingly frustrated—the location I visited over the summer (Larch Mountain) is inaccessible in the winter, and although I had another spot in mind, my schedule and the weather (which was way harder to pin down than an open travel day!) just couldn’t find anything in common; the last few months have been typically Northwestern, with plenty of rain, fog and drear for a volcano to hide behind. Finally, last Friday, it seemed I had my chance. T-town was socked in with pea-soup fog, but since the previous day had started the same way and ended in sunshine, I decided to go for it. As I cleared the Puget lowlands and the fog lifted, I caught crystal-clear glimpses of Rainier to the east as I went, and my confidence rose. I wouldn’t know for sure until I got there, but the sunny weather seemed like it would hold. I made good time to Portland, wound my way up to Council Crest Park, jogged up to the viewpoint and faced north—

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—and saw that Mt. Saint Helens didn’t get the memo. She was having her own private little weather system, blocking Rainier from view. It was a long drive home that night.

The last few days were torture. The weekend taunted me with sunny mornings and cloudy afternoons (good thing I didn’t take the bait), and the perfect weather went untested Monday and Tuesday while I taught class and kept appointments instead. By Tuesday night, I was sure I’d missed my last chance, and resigned myself to leaving Portland out of the book. But yesterday dawned cold and flawlessly clear, and I was astonished to find my calendar empty. I left the Tailor an incoherent voicemail at work (”I’m going right now! I’ll be back tonight!”) and jumped in the car. Exactly two hours and twenty-three minutes later, this is what I saw:

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That’s St. Helens in front, with Rainier just peeking around her left shoulder. And in case I had any doubts about one image being worth all this trouble, Portland offered me a little bonus for the illustration that will eventually come out of this research—a compositional jewel that I could never have dreamed up on my own:

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The City of Roses was still, impossibly, in bloom.

Posted by Chandler at 9:57 PM in Adventure, Behind the Scenes, Book Arts, Pacific Northwest, Travel  |  Permalink  |   Comments (7)
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October 14, 2009
Opening night

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When I walked into the PLU Gallery this morning to document the Mnemonic Sampler show when it opens, my brain had somewhat of a short circuit. Since I was out of town for the past few days, all of the installation work was done for me (thank you a million times over, Heather Cornelius!)—so this was the first time I’d laid eyes on the work since framing it up and chucking the pieces in a box. I somehow couldn’t connect the finished work on the walls with the crazy, chaotic process of the past few months. It seemed so simple, like this was somebody else’s show, and all the nail-biting and never-ending futzing I’d been doing was for some other project that would remain unfinished forever. But I did finish it—and there it is!

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I was nervous about the possible absurdity of having twenty-six small pieces in a colossally huge space, but somehow, it works. Heather ingeniously used lighting and visual breaks to transform the gallery into a space that draws the viewer in and creates an intimate experience—which is exactly what I hoped for. Heather, I owe you big.

On to the work itself. Here is the artist statement for the exhibit:

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The alphabet is one of the first lessons we learn as children. From the beginning we learn to use it as a mnemonic device—just like “Roy G. Biv,” or “Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge”—assigning meaning to our world by associating symbols with each letter. Because the alphabet is one of our most basic and effective memory tools, we are drawn to it as both a visual and narrative archetype. It’s not surprising, then, that the abecedary is somewhat of a staple among book artists.

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Just as we use our ABCs as a memory aid, our possessions help us create the concept of Home. No matter what our economic station, living situation, or domestic permanence, we all tend to share similar symbols of comfort and nostalgia. These ideals are embodied in the everyday objects around us—those mundane materials we take for granted, yet without which we would sense something lacking. As someone who has never had a picket fence, who grew up in a nomadic military family, and who has lived her entire life with relatively few possessions, the archetypal Home should seem foreign to me. Yet the same mnemonic triggers exist in my mind; the same objects attract me.

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Mnemonic Sampler collects and files our household icons, gathered together like the stitched and quilted samplers of our mothers and grandmothers. The hand-stitched alphabet enumerates my, your, our trappings, shuffling our collective domestic inventory like the old card game of Memory. Each symbol is familiar; each object is Ours, whether we actually possess it or not. Together they sketch out a Home—real or imagined; longed-for or spurned; past, present, or future.

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Mnemonic Sampler is a collection of monoprints, which means that instead of an edition of multiples, each print is created in such a way that it can’t exactly be reproduced. This technique results in a one-of-a-kind, totally unique piece—and is often more closely related to painting than printmaking. These pieces are printed from reduction-cut linoleum blocks—meaning both print colors are carved from the same block.

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So once the second design is carved, the first color cannot be printed again.

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Designing these pieces was an intuitive process, consisting of both logical and intangible choices of fabric and pattern compositions. Because the design stage was so fluid (almost semi-conscious at times), it really wasn’t possible to do the printing on a press. Instead, each impression was made literally by hand, using masking tape to aid in color registration.

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“Q” has an extra conceptual level, since the fabric background is a patchwork “quilt” in its own right. Like everything else about the series, the patchwork is sewn by hand, using the English paper piecing technique.

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This was my first attempt at paper piecing, and I’m pleasantly surprised at how quick and accurate it is. Instead of folding and ironing every tiny piece, then wrangling a sewing machine, each patch is wrapped around a paper template and basted down, then whip-stitched together into a block.

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The result is a precise little quilt—perfect for embroidery.

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I can’t believe how long it took to complete every step of the process—and yet how quickly everything came together at the end. So you can bet I’m excited about celebrating at the opening tonight. And besides, I’m interested to see if the household objects I chose will resonate with viewers; it wasn’t easy to narrow things down to twenty-six letters of the alphabet, so I picked those objects that had the most meaning for me.

So how about it—what spells “Home” for you?

Posted by Chandler at 3:56 PM in Behind the Scenes, Book Arts, Illustration, T-Town  |  Permalink  |   Comments (9)
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October 02, 2009
On display

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Finally, something tangible to show you! This is the point where all of the elements for my new body of work are just starting to come together. The past couple of months have been somewhat of a nail-biter—sometimes I wonder what possessed me to create twenty-six new pieces for a last-minute show. Now that the promo postcards (see above) are in hand and I can see the finish line, however, I can tell that my instincts knew what they were doing.

Mnemonic Sampler is my new solo show, opening October 14 at the PLU University Gallery. Here are the details:

Mnemonic Sampler: An Abecedary by Chandler O’Leary
October 14 to November 11
University Gallery, Ingram Hall
Pacific Lutheran University, Tacoma, WA
Opening Reception: Wednesday, October 14, 5-7 pm
Open Monday – Friday, 8 am – 4 pm
For more information, call 253.535.7573 or email soac [at] plu [dot] edu

On display will be something of a room-sized artist book, consisting of twenty-six hand-embroidered monoprints on calico (a monoprint is the opposite of an edition, a one-of-a-kind piece). Together the prints form an abecedary, or alphabet, and tell the story of how our concepts and ideals of “Home” are linked to the everyday objects that surround us. More on this topic when the show opens, but for now, here’s a peek (since the work is not quite finished, a peek is all I’ve got for now):

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Many, many thanks to the talented and infinitely helpful Katie Skovholt at PLU, who took care of having show postcards printed and mailed (!), orchestrated every logistic detail, and who has made the whole process as smooth as pumpkin pie. I would have long since lost my mind if it weren’t for you, Katie!

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Speaking of amazing women who run galleries, another big thank-you and shout-out to Laura Russell of 23 Sandy Gallery in Portland, for featuring End of the Line on the promo materials for another new show that opens tonight. Broadsided! is national, juried exhibition of letterpress broadsides featuring the work of thirty-four artists. Here are the details from the 23 Sandy website:

Broadsided! The Intersection of Art and Literature
October 2-31, 2009
23 Sandy Gallery
623 NE 23rd Avenue
Portland, OR 97232
Opening reception: Friday, October 2, 6-9 pm
Open Thursday-Saturday 12-6 pm and by appointment

Before books, before blogs and before broadcasts, there were broadsides. Historically, single sheet broadsheet posters were ephemeral in nature. They were developed in the fifteenth century for royal proclamations, official notices and even advertisements. Today, broadsides hang at the intersection of art and literature. Letterpress printed broadsides are valued as fine art designed and printed by a true craftsperson; but also as fine literature featuring stellar poetry or prose.

The best part about the Broadsided! exhibit is that you don’t have to be local to see it! Laura has set up a fantastic online catalogue of the work in the show, with photos and the complete text from each broadside. Nothing beats seeing art in person, of course, but if you can’t make it to Portland this fall, this is a brilliant alternative.

Posted by Chandler at 9:27 AM in Behind the Scenes, Book Arts, Dead Feminists, Illustration, Letterpress, Pacific Northwest, T-Town  |  Permalink  |   Comments (1)
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September 22, 2009
Work in progress

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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.)

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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.

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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.

Posted by Chandler at 6:38 PM in Behind the Scenes, Book Arts, Illustration  |  Permalink  |   Comments (3)
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September 08, 2009
Road trip, solo

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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.

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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.

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The road climbed past rows of poplars, trees laden with fruit and sweeping views of the valley; so far, so good.

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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:

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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.

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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.

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Nope, still Adams—although from this angle it tends to fool people (and cows).

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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.

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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.

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The spectacular vista of Adams, Rainier and the valley was just the beginning.

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The road snakes over the top of the Columbia Hills, providing views of five volcanoes (that’s Hood there)…

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pockets of stunning wildflowers…

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and plenty of road-side snacks.

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On the southern slope of the Hills the landscape turns suddenly rocky,

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and the mighty Columbia River bursts into view.

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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.

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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.

Posted by Chandler at 11:43 PM in Adventure, Behind the Scenes, Book Arts, Drawing, Illustration, Pacific Northwest, Travel  |  Permalink  |   Comments (9)
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July 26, 2009
Interview: Sarah Christianson

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Portraits of the photographer by Jesse Mullan

Photographer Sarah Christianson has captured the history, beauty, and social relevance of her family’s independent farm in her latest body of work, Homeplace, a series of images that will later be collected in a limited-edition artist book. I’ve had the privilege of watching this project take shape, beginning with a pile of contact sheets littering Sarah’s living room floor. The photographs were full of enormous potential, but the over-abundance of information made for a frustrating and daunting task ahead. Over the next three-plus years, Sarah returned again and again to the farm for more images. She ruthlessly self-edited, cutting exquisite photographs out of the series when they didn’t fit the project. She mined her family archives for documents and vintage photos, and made the decision to include them as part of the artwork itself. The result is a pictorial narrative that transcends its rural setting to tell the story of American labor, family life, and the sense of place that is so important in our culture. I asked Sarah if she would share some information and imagery from Homeplace—below is our conversation.

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Christianson Farm, Cummings, ND, August 2007

Could you give me a brief description of your background?
I am a photographic artist and recent MFA graduate of the University of Minnesota. I grew up on a farm in eastern North Dakota, immersed in family traditions and the endlessly flat landscape of the Red River Valley. Because of this deep connection to family and place, my work explores the many facets of Midwestern experience.

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Homestead Certificate, 1884 (Family Archive)

Tell me about Homeplace.
Homeplace is a project I’ve worked on for the past three years. It examines the history and potential future of my family’s four-generation, 1200 acre farm by combining my images with materials from our family archive, such as maps, snapshots, diary entries, etc. The farm was started in 1884 by my great-great grandfather, Hans Olai Cornelius Christianson. Now, my parents will probably be the last generation of Christiansons to run it, as my siblings and I have chosen other careers. I felt compelled to document this place and make sense of its history before it was gone, especially because so many family farms are disappearing across the country.

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Traces, 2007

In some of your statements about this project, you mention the word “palimpsest.” Can you explain what you mean by that, and how it relates to the farmland in your photographs?
Palimpsest refers to an ancient text or manuscript that has been reused: the text has been scraped off its surface so another text could be written on it. This was done before the widespread use of paper when writing surfaces were more expensive and scarce. However, traces of previous text layers were often still visible and mixed with the layers on top of it. Just as these texts intermingle, I weave together different layers of the farm’s history and identity in Homeplace, jumping backward and forward with chronology.

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Rain (Section 23)

One recurring element I document is the marks made on the land. Like a palimpsest, these marks mix time together, evidencing seasonal agricultural practices (planting, cultivating, harvesting) and older traces of habitation that can’t be erased from the land’s surface.

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Left: Living Room-Dining Room; Right: Barn;
Former Anderson-Christianson Farm 2006

Please explain your creative process for Homeplace. Has the project gone how you expected it to?
When I started this project, I was documenting the farmhouse my grandmother had just moved out of. It was a natural transition from the project I had just finished (Merricourt:  Somewhere & Nowhere, North Dakota) in which I was documenting an abandoned town. But I quickly realized it wasn’t just one farmhouse passing out of the family: the original Christianson homestead had already been demolished, and the farm where I grew up (where my parents still live & work) would eventually be gone too when my parents retire. There was a larger story to tell about its history and future. That’s when I began exploring our family archive, searching for photographs and materials that contextualized the different images I found myself making. It was definitely an unexpected turn, but I went with it and let the project naturally evolve.

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From Homestead to Field (Out West/Uncle Bud’s, Section 5): 1942 & 2007

Why do you combine your photographs with old family photos in this body of work?
As I said, these family mementos provide a larger and historical context for my images and build on the idea of a palimpsest. They also serve as an easy way into the work, as many people have similar photos and items in their family collections. It’s something people can easily relate to.

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Christianson Cutter: 1941 & 2007

You seem to prefer working with series of images that tell a story. Why are you drawn to this method? Why a series, rather than an individual photograph?
I enjoy building complex narratives, with images that interconnect and play off of one another. An individual photograph is too limiting for the statement I want to make.

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From Claire Anderson’s 5-Year Diary, 1945-1949 (Family Archive)

You have been exploring the medium of artist books over the last few years. What drew you to artist books, and how does the medium fit with Homeplace?
The book is a narrative vehicle, which fits perfectly with my intimate and personal style of photography. The book is a great equalizer, too, for all the disparate materials I’m using. For Homeplace, I’ve made several mock-ups via online self-publishing services. Now that I have figured out the editing and pacing, I’m looking forward to creating a limited edition, handmade artist’s book for the project.

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Equipment, Christianson Farm, January 2008

How do you see yourself in today’s art world? Have you found it difficult to work with traditional, black-and-white film techniques in a world full of instant, color, digital photography? Have you received criticism or resistance from others for that?
So many people get caught up in the latest-and-greatest trends in art, and they feel pressured to conform to these trends in order to “make it.” But art-making is full of approaches and possibilities that are as valid and valuable as the next. I use materials and techniques that support my concepts. For Homeplace, a project about family tradition, I wanted to draw upon the traditions of black and white documentary and landscape photography. A black and white palette also equalizes my images with those from family albums, again playing with time and the idea of a palimpsest. I use color selectively to further mark time and to reference a change in family tradition and the trends of contemporary photography.

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Soybean Harvest (Section 36) #1, October 2008

There was some resistance at first to the choices I made for Homeplace. Why are you using film? Why are you using black and white? Why are you even making prints? But this mostly occurred when I hadn’t fully developed the project yet and didn’t quite realize how it all fit together. It was hard for others to envision the work coming together until they had seen the final product. At that point, all resistance disappeared. What’s important is that I trusted my creative instincts throughout the process, even if I couldn’t fully explain these instincts until later.

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Driveway, February 2009

You tend to take on projects that consume your time and energy for long periods of time—years, often. How do you keep your enthusiasm going? How do you get over creative blocks?
I need that time for ideas to fully mature because I tend to work with complex narratives. It’s not easy to undertake and complete these projects, but I’m driven by the desire to make others aware of these stories, that what I have to put out into the world is important. Creative blocks are a natural part of the artistic process. It definitely helps to have a core group of people you can turn to that understand your work when you lose momentum. They’re a step removed from the process, and bouncing ideas off them can show you possibilities and solutions you can’t see when you’re stuck in the middle.

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East Blanchard Township (Bloomfield), from Traill County, ND Plat Directory, 1892 (Family Archive)

What projects are on the horizon? Will you continue Homeplace, or is there another project you’re working on?
Homeplace is done, for the most part. I’m currently working on creating a limited edition artist’s book of it and finding a commercial publisher. I anticipate also creating a sequel over the next 20 or so years—Homeplace: Revisited, or something like that—that examines the farm as my parents age and its ultimate fate is decided.

In the meantime, another project, Gamlelandet (Old Country), grew out of Homeplace about a year ago. As I dug deeper into our family archive and heard more stories from my grandmother about our family, I grew increasingly more curious to know what happened to the farms my ancestors left behind in Norway. After extensive genealogy research, my grandparents visited these farms in the 1970s and 1990s. But I wanted to see them for myself, to reconnect with this distant past, and to add another layer to Homeplace. With a fellowship from the University of Minnesota, I photographed these Norwegian farms that were no longer associated with my family and the current farm owners now operating them.

This project is still in its infancy, even if I have exhibited some of the photographs from it already. I’m still working out the relationships between images; I’m again pairing them with family archival materials, juxtaposing my ancestors with the current farm owners and the land/place they have in common. It’s a much more complicated relationship than the diptychs and triptychs in Homeplace, for those were fairly straightforward rephotographs. I’m finding that Gamlelandet relies much more on text to explain image relationships. And I’m still trying to sort that out because it’s something I’m not used to in my work. I would love to return to Norway to expand this project—I was only there for three weeks, barely enough time to scratch the surface of potential. As with Homeplace, I’d also like to create a limited edition artist’s book for this project once it reaches maturity.

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Christianson Farm

You’ve just moved to the Bay Area of California—a very different world from your roots. How do you see this affecting your work?
I feel this change will only strengthen my work. I’m still very passionate about the Midwest and my roots there and probably will be my entire life. Moving to the west will freshen my perspective on the previous work I’ve created and the future work I hope to create when I periodically return to North Dakota. But I don’t want to limit my artistic investigations only to the Midwest. I’m excited about researching and finding stories to connect with in the Bay area that may become part of my work. No matter where I am, the core of my work will remain the same: I love exploring places, their history, and my relation to them.

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Front Door Looking East, April 2008

How do you promote your work? How do you find funding or gallery shows? Any advice for emerging photographers or artists out there?
I send regular updates on my work and exhibits via my mailing list, which consists of photo and gallery professionals as well as friends and family. I also send physical postcards to the list members for exhibitions I’m in. These updates promote my work by keeping it fresh in people’s thoughts. Many surprising things have happened through my mailing list. In fact, as I was moving across the country, a gallery director from my mailing list called me out of the blue with an offer to exhibit Homeplace. And this was a person I added a few years ago (when they purchased one of my pieces from a juried exhibit they hosted) that I really hadn’t heard anything else from.

I’m an active member of the Society for Photographic Education, an organization where I can meet other photographic professionals and learn about the latest in my field. Their conferences are a great way to promote your work via portfolio reviews and networking.

I’m constantly researching funding and exhibition opportunities. While I certainly don’t apply for everything, it’s good to know what’s out there, especially for the future. And for the applications I do send, I get a lot of rejections! But I’m persistent. Probably the greatest resource for photographers is Mary Virginia Swanson and her blog; it’s full of photo opportunities.

My advice? Promotion & professional development is hard and never-ending. Try to set aside time each week for this. And only create work you’re passionate about. Why waste your time otherwise?

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Grandmothers & Granddaughters

Thanks, Sarah! I can’t wait to see it in artist-book form.

Posted by Chandler at 4:51 PM in Book Arts, Kindred Spirits, Life  |  Permalink  |   Comments (4)
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July 06, 2009
Stand-ins

In my (so far) limited experience, Washingtonians tend to be outdoor types—and with good reason. With so much beauty at our fingertips, it’s no wonder that with the first hint of a sunny day, we’re out in force. Add to that the near-clockwork arrival of the dry season by Independence Day, and the fact that huge swaths of the mountains are inaccessible for nine months out of the year—well, you can see where I’m going with this. Since the Fourth of July was kind enough to fall on a Saturday this year, the cities emptied and thousands headed Outward. And this year, though we’re normally Off-Season, Off-the-Beaten-Path types, the Tailor and I were no exception. Like zombies we staggered outdoors to pack our tiny Subaru sedan—must … go … camping!

We knew it was probably folly, but we had a goal in mind: find a beautiful, mountainous campsite away from the teeming hordes. We knew Mount Rainier would be out of the question, as were the Olympic Peninsula, Mount St. Helens, or any other popular tourist destinations—but even though we had a head start by leaving on Thursday afternoon, our hope faded as we saw the crush of fellow vacationers on the freeway. “Camper … camper … RV … canoe … RV … kayaks … cyclists … camper,” the Tailor droned, counting cars, “this was a dumb idea.” Yet as our route took us on smaller and smaller roads, the number of fellow travelers dwindled almost to none. It began to seem like our instincts were right after all.

Our destination? The Morrison Creek Campground, located on the southern slope of Mount Adams, Rainier’s slightly-smaller, lesser-known brother.

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While we were nervous of the possibility of any volcano attracting busloads of holiday tourists, our choice had a couple of points in our favor. For one thing, one can’t reserve a campsite in a national forest; all sites are taken on a first-come, first-served basis. For another, Morrison Creek is in the middle of freakin’ nowhere.


View Larger Map

The only way to get there from the north is to use the system of Forest Service roads that wind through the Gifford-Pinchot National Forest. The paved sections are breathtakingly beautiful and awfully fun to drive (especially with a stick shift; I felt like I was filming a car commercial). The “unimproved” stretches, on the other hand, range from challenging to terrifying. Mindful of the consequences of puncturing an oil pan or snapping an axle on a holiday weekend in one of the most remote pockets of the state, I took my sweet time picking my way around the detritus of recent rock slides and dodging monstrous potholes.

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When we pitched our tent just as the last light faded, however, we knew that it was absolutely worth the trip. Our campsite was in a lovely, secluded spot, adjacent to the Creek, just below the last traces of mountain snow, and surrounded by pockets of blooming beargrass. And to our immense surprise, we had Adams almost entirely to ourselves, for the whole weekend—funny, considering that the next campground, three miles up the road, was crawling with mountain climbers.

I was hoping our travels would afford us at least one view of Rainier in the distance—that way I’d have another sketch to add to my store of potential artist book imagery. FS Route 23, however, doesn’t afford such a vista, and any potential viewpoint reached by hiking trail was well out of range of our abilities. A two-mile hike from our tent did give us a spectacular, alpine-meadow view of Adams, though—and I realized that for my research purposes, I could use the peak as a sort of stunt double.

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From certain angles, Adams is remarkably similar to Rainier (and the two are often mistaken for one another when viewed from a distance). All the more reason to use my time there for drawing. I was surprised to see, however, how drastically Adams’ appearance changed, depending on the vantage point. This is the view from Bird Lake, on Yakama Nation land, just a couple of miles (as the crow flies) east of Morrison Creek:

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And though there was nowhere to sit to capture it in my sketchbook, a gap in the trees gave me the chance to glimpse another stand-in to the south: Mount Hood.

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What an incredible weekend. As you can probably guess, Adams is on the short list for Best Camping Spots Ever, and I’m sure we’ll end up returning again and again. Next time, though, it might behoove us to reconsider our mode of transportation; it’s doable in a compact car (just barely), but I think I’d rather rent a pickup truck—or a mountain goat.

Posted by Chandler at 6:30 PM in Adventure, Book Arts, Drawing, Pacific Northwest, Travel  |  Permalink  |   Comments (2)
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June 30, 2009
Turbulence

A few months ago I was granted funding by the City of Tacoma Arts Commission to create my next artist book edition. Since this is the first of what will probably be a long string of posts over the next eighteen months, I’ll save the details for later. For now, I’ll just say that the book deals with the changing appearance (and intrinsic nature, since it’s an active volcano) of Mt. Rainier. At the moment I’m knee-deep in research, trying to capture the Mountain in as many different—well, attitudes, as Jane Austen would put it—as possible.

The Tailor and I spent last week visiting old friends and haunts in Minneapolis, and as luck would have it, I had the window seat on the south side of the plane on our flight out. I had my paints, brush, and film canister full of water ready as we taxied, so that when we cleared the cloud ceiling I had a solid two minutes or so for a sketchbook snapshot.

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It occurred to me, though, that while a 120-second gesture painting (complete with frantic paint spatter) would be a nice addition to the sketchbook, it wouldn’t provide nearly enough reliable detail to serve as the basis for a future letterpress print. So on the way back, I requested another window seat (I think the fact that I’d sprained my ankle on our last day of the trip, and had to hobble to the counter, might have helped my case a bit) so as to document any Mountain sightings with the camera.

The counter attendant had been kind enough to place me on the correct side of the plane again. And the weather was crystal-clear, affording the passengers with stunning, morning-lit views of Rainier and the entire Cascade volcano chain. The cabin was filled with sounds of hushed awe and clicking shutters. There was only one snag in my research scheme—Row Nine, in which we were seated, seemed to use the term “window seat” loosely.

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And the universe kept right on laughing.

Posted by Chandler at 7:23 PM in Behind the Scenes, Book Arts, Drawing, Pacific Northwest, T-Town, Travel  |  Permalink  |   Comments (4)
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April 01, 2009
To the Letter

totheletter_blog_graphic

Well, the threads are tied, the cases full, the tags in place, and I’ve scanned for typos at least six dozen times. I think we’re ready.

Tomorrow evening is the opening reception for To the Letter, my debut solo show. On view are letterpress prints, textile typography, the Feminist Broadside series, artist books, sketchbooks, and a few surprises. Stop by and say howdy!

To the Letter: Works by Chandler O’Leary
April 1-30, 2009
Collins Memorial Library, University of Puget Sound

Opening reception:
Thursday, April 2, 4:30-7:00 p.m.
Campus map!

Since handwork is the theme of the show (hand-lettering, hand-binding, hand-stitching, etc.), some of my process materials are also on display. Weirdly, this detail is the part I’m most excited about—I’m forever encouraging my students to include sketches, supplies and other behind-the-scenes objects in their gallery shows, but this is the first chance I’ve had to do it myself. My process tends to be particularly convoluted (probably a symptom of O.C.D. or something), so I’m hoping the sight of things like tabletop platen presses and double-pointed knitting needles will spark some interesting conversation.

Speaking of which, Jessica Spring and I are doing a double-header on Sunday. I’ll be giving a guided tour of the exhibit, and Jessica will give a lecture on her newest artist book, Parts Unknown. There’ll be plenty to talk about, so come and pick our brains!

Sunday, April 5, 2009
Collins Memorial Library (click for gallery talk info)
1:00-1:45 p.m. To the Letter gallery talk with Chandler O’Leary
2:00-3:00 p.m. Parts Unknown presentation with Jessica Spring

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d better go check for typos one more time.

Posted by Chandler at 9:51 PM in Behind the Scenes, Book Arts, Dead Feminists, Kindred Spirits, Letterpress, T-Town  |  Permalink  |   Comments (2)
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