Traces of Existence
This body of work began as an exploration, partially borne of the love of genealogical research translated into visual art by exploring the things my ancestors touched, be it ephemera, the soil they lived on, or artifacts they left behind, and partly as a pathway through which I could learn to understand more about my own identity, all the while finding beauty in the mundane. Although the works are personal, it is my hope that the viewer will respond to them in his/her own way, and that considering them will create an interest in the viewer to discover more about his/her own lineage.
What made people do the things they did, and where did they get the will to do it? People and their individualism have always interested me, and this infatuation was nowhere more evident than in my desire to find and relate to my ancestors. I wanted to know them, not just find facts that would fill a pedigree chart. I wanted to understand the environments in which they lived, learn of the struggles under which they toiled, and discover what their daily lives were like. Understanding something about my ancestors has driven me to create artwork that includes and celebrates various aspects of their lives. Within each of these boxes is a hidden handwritten message to the person about whom the box was created.
When all that is left of my existence are a few trinkets, words scribbled on paper, and pieces of art I created, I want my descendents to know what was important to me. I want this body of work to capture a slice of history, when this ordinary family I was blessed to be a part of was busy making their small mark on the world, and in so doing, created a legacy for
those who would follow.
Through the traces of their existence I make sense of my own.
What made people do the things they did, and where did they get the will to do it? People and their individualism have always interested me, and this infatuation was nowhere more evident than in my desire to find and relate to my ancestors. I wanted to know them, not just find facts that would fill a pedigree chart. I wanted to understand the environments in which they lived, learn of the struggles under which they toiled, and discover what their daily lives were like. Understanding something about my ancestors has driven me to create artwork that includes and celebrates various aspects of their lives. Within each of these boxes is a hidden handwritten message to the person about whom the box was created.
When all that is left of my existence are a few trinkets, words scribbled on paper, and pieces of art I created, I want my descendents to know what was important to me. I want this body of work to capture a slice of history, when this ordinary family I was blessed to be a part of was busy making their small mark on the world, and in so doing, created a legacy for
those who would follow.
Through the traces of their existence I make sense of my own.
Powder and Lace
Powder and Lace was the first box I created during my graduate studies. It was made from a cigar box which I stripped down and resurfaced with a map of the Parisian environs. It contains belongings from my Grandma Freer who is affectionately known to her grandchildren as “Grammy”. The inside of the box has been divided into sections, each housing an item that was amongst Grammy’s effects when she passed away, including a lacy fan, a powder compact, a linen handkerchief with hand-tatted lacy edge, and an aluminum French coin.
The box rests atop an 1883 copy of Gaskell’s Compendium of Forms, an educational, social, legal and commercial self-teaching course in penmanship and bookkeeping, composition, etiquette, law, agriculture, mechanics, parliamentary practice, and mining; in short, the complete encyclopedia of reference for the cultured home. This book was chosen as a base for the box in part for aesthetic reasons, but also as a representation of the structured and disciplined home that Grammy maintained.
The box rests atop an 1883 copy of Gaskell’s Compendium of Forms, an educational, social, legal and commercial self-teaching course in penmanship and bookkeeping, composition, etiquette, law, agriculture, mechanics, parliamentary practice, and mining; in short, the complete encyclopedia of reference for the cultured home. This book was chosen as a base for the box in part for aesthetic reasons, but also as a representation of the structured and disciplined home that Grammy maintained.
Lew's Homestead
Lew’s Homestead box represents the beginning of my Grandpa Freer’s life as a dairy farmer. Early in his marriage, he and my grandmother bought a farm in Burley, Idaho, where they created a prosperous dairying enterprise. Seven of their eight children were born at this farm, and six of those seven were born in the family home.
Along with the corrals, pens, lean-tos and sheds, my grandfather built a new milking barn and a store from which to sell his products on these premises. The craftsmen-style barn, store and house were painted a tidy white, with a matching undulating picket fence between the home and the farm road. The retail store served visiting customers, while deliver trucks were parked side by side awaiting the next morning’s run.
My husband and I have been back to see the dairy lands three times in the last three years. Each time it is further deteriorated. The store and the family home are now gone, but the barn still shows remnants of its layers of white paint. The bare grey wooden-planked outbuildings are still standing and functional, albeit dilapidated, surrounded by the debris of exfoliated roof shingles, balls of rusted fencing wire, and thrown horseshoes left behind by working farm animals of my grandparent’s day.
Lew’s Homestead Box contains soil from the dairy’s grazing land, walnuts from the orchard planted by my grandparents, and one of the horseshoes found tied to a fencepost. The handle used to open and close the lid was pried from a fencepost, where it once held a section of wire fencing in place, and the drawer pull is a nail that I removed from the horseshoe inside the drawer. This piece isn’t just about my grandfather’s life. It also represents the first years of my mother’s life and the fond memories she carries of growing up in this rural setting.
Along with the corrals, pens, lean-tos and sheds, my grandfather built a new milking barn and a store from which to sell his products on these premises. The craftsmen-style barn, store and house were painted a tidy white, with a matching undulating picket fence between the home and the farm road. The retail store served visiting customers, while deliver trucks were parked side by side awaiting the next morning’s run.
My husband and I have been back to see the dairy lands three times in the last three years. Each time it is further deteriorated. The store and the family home are now gone, but the barn still shows remnants of its layers of white paint. The bare grey wooden-planked outbuildings are still standing and functional, albeit dilapidated, surrounded by the debris of exfoliated roof shingles, balls of rusted fencing wire, and thrown horseshoes left behind by working farm animals of my grandparent’s day.
Lew’s Homestead Box contains soil from the dairy’s grazing land, walnuts from the orchard planted by my grandparents, and one of the horseshoes found tied to a fencepost. The handle used to open and close the lid was pried from a fencepost, where it once held a section of wire fencing in place, and the drawer pull is a nail that I removed from the horseshoe inside the drawer. This piece isn’t just about my grandfather’s life. It also represents the first years of my mother’s life and the fond memories she carries of growing up in this rural setting.
Tuxedo
Tuxedo and Grandpa’s Character are also boxes dedicated to my Grandpa, Lewis C. Freer. Housing four items that signify Grandpa Freer’s life stages, Tuxedo was made using a collaged photograph taken when he was about 24 years of age. I chose the paper for the box because it had a formal look to it that matched the formality of the suit Grandpa was wearing in the photo.
Because he died when I was only 4, my memories of Grandpa Lew are fleeting and few. Tuxedo is an attempt to connect myself with this man who helped mold and shape my mother and her siblings into the men and women they became. I wanted to insert a connection to my own life into the piece by making the base of the piece a book that I have consulted numerous times in my years of learning about painting.
There is abundant symbolism in the aesthetic choices made in constructing this box. The choice of rather formal striped paper in a warm tone carries several qualities of symbolism; the vertical stripes symbolize Grandpa’s path in life being carefully laid out and followed closely (a straight and narrow path), while the horizontal stripes are the furrowed rows of planted fields carefully tended-to by the conscientious farmer that he was. The warm color of the paper is symbolic of the earth he made his living on.
Housed within the box are other symbols of his life. These include the repetition of circular shapes that symbolize eternal families and the Heavens, gingham checked paper reminiscent of the picnic tablecloths used at family gatherings, a stone marble represents Grandpa’s childhood, a WWII ration token symbolizes his early married life and the struggles encountered by the generation who experienced that era. Further, a blossom taken from his still-functioning and family-owned farm in Mountain Home, Idaho represents his mastery of the land and the crops he grew, while soil gathered from the farm he died working stands in for his last days of life here on earth. The final symbolic item is the clasp that closes the flaps on the front of the box, securing all snugly within, made to be reminiscent of the string and button closures found on the tithing envelopes of Grandpa’s day.
Because he died when I was only 4, my memories of Grandpa Lew are fleeting and few. Tuxedo is an attempt to connect myself with this man who helped mold and shape my mother and her siblings into the men and women they became. I wanted to insert a connection to my own life into the piece by making the base of the piece a book that I have consulted numerous times in my years of learning about painting.
There is abundant symbolism in the aesthetic choices made in constructing this box. The choice of rather formal striped paper in a warm tone carries several qualities of symbolism; the vertical stripes symbolize Grandpa’s path in life being carefully laid out and followed closely (a straight and narrow path), while the horizontal stripes are the furrowed rows of planted fields carefully tended-to by the conscientious farmer that he was. The warm color of the paper is symbolic of the earth he made his living on.
Housed within the box are other symbols of his life. These include the repetition of circular shapes that symbolize eternal families and the Heavens, gingham checked paper reminiscent of the picnic tablecloths used at family gatherings, a stone marble represents Grandpa’s childhood, a WWII ration token symbolizes his early married life and the struggles encountered by the generation who experienced that era. Further, a blossom taken from his still-functioning and family-owned farm in Mountain Home, Idaho represents his mastery of the land and the crops he grew, while soil gathered from the farm he died working stands in for his last days of life here on earth. The final symbolic item is the clasp that closes the flaps on the front of the box, securing all snugly within, made to be reminiscent of the string and button closures found on the tithing envelopes of Grandpa’s day.
Grandpa's Character
Five raw gemstone varieties were used in Grandpa’s Character to represent particular character traits of my Grandpa Lewis Freer. There are many layers to this box, and each item integrated into it has a particular meaning. The outer shell is made from an old cigar box my grandmother (his wife) had in her possession when she died. Three of the four sides of the box are immovable, while the right side is attached to a gate hinge taken from Grandpa Lewis’ farm in Burley, Idaho. The rusted and abandoned gate hinge is attached with new screws and washers, fastening the generations from Grandpa Lew to his descendants. This hinged side can be securely fastened into a closed position with a small brass looped hinge. The box has a glass front flap, hinged with paper and binding tape, and is held open with a vintage pencil tucked into a rusted metal star stud. The bare wood and book board construction was covered in high quality book-end papers, pages from old books, and scanned advertisements.
Inside the box is a small 5-drawer cabinet made from book board and mat board. Each drawer holds a different type of gemstone, and is marked with the character trait that has been attributed to that stone. Since my grandfather died when I was only 4 years old, my memories of him are few and hazy, so for me, these stones become a tangible representation of some of the qualities that made my grandfather who he was. A jeweler’s loupe sits atop the cabinet, enabling the viewer to peer closely at each individual stone, in order to gain insight into the complexities and variations therein, drawing a parallel between the complexity of a gemstone and the complexity of men.
Different views of my grandfather’s silhouette are cut from various papers, with a photo of his shoulder as the top layer. A tiny brass honey bee is attached to the collar of the shirt, representing his industriousness and work ethic.
Inside the box is a small 5-drawer cabinet made from book board and mat board. Each drawer holds a different type of gemstone, and is marked with the character trait that has been attributed to that stone. Since my grandfather died when I was only 4 years old, my memories of him are few and hazy, so for me, these stones become a tangible representation of some of the qualities that made my grandfather who he was. A jeweler’s loupe sits atop the cabinet, enabling the viewer to peer closely at each individual stone, in order to gain insight into the complexities and variations therein, drawing a parallel between the complexity of a gemstone and the complexity of men.
Different views of my grandfather’s silhouette are cut from various papers, with a photo of his shoulder as the top layer. A tiny brass honey bee is attached to the collar of the shirt, representing his industriousness and work ethic.
Ruby's Brick
Ruby’s Brick is a five-sided box with a flip-top lid containing a circular pane of glass in it. Two of the five sides are also glass, allowing the item inside to be seen without removing it from the box. None of the sides are of the same length. The box itself was constructed using book board and hand-marbled paper, and it was formed to emulate the shape of the block of soap it holds. It has three metal feet that came from a 1940s musical body-powder container, while the back foot is an extension of the side wall it supports.
The soap brick inside the box was one of many that my grandmother, Ruby, saved for about 50 years. When I was 17 years old I went to spend a weekend with my grandmother, and during the course of my stay, she sent me downstairs to her storage room to fetch something. The room was well lit, and lined around three sides with deep, sturdy, painted wood shelves. As I scanned the room for the item she had sent me after, I noticed a large restaurant-sized glass mayonnaise jar with a metal lid sitting high up on the top shelf, toward the front edge where it could easily be seen. Inside the jar were chunks of what looked like hardened fat from a distance. I thought it looked horrible, and couldn’t imagine why my grandmother had stored it in her basement.
When I took the item she had requested upstairs to the kitchen, I asked her what the disgusting-looking stuff was in the big glass jar on the top shelf. She explained that it was lye soap that her mother-in-law (my great-grandmother) had made many years ago. My great-grandmother had been deceased only about a year at this time, and I didn’t think to ask if grandma had gotten the soap at her passing, or if it was a project they did together, each taking part of it. My mother is of the opinion that it was made in the 1930s or 1940s. I showed my displeasure at the thought of using the old soap (probably rancid and so strong it would burn the skin), and asked Grammy why she didn’t get rid of it. She was clearly annoyed with my attitude and rebuffed me by stating, “If we ever had another depression like the one I lived through, we’d be darn lucky to have that soap! There’s nothing wrong with it!” I went away thinking she was very eccentric, and perhaps a little bit deranged.
Grammy Ruby lived about 20 more years after this discussion, and when she passed, her daughters (those who were interested in it, that is) divided up the homemade soap. This brick is one my Aunt Loa had, which she graciously loaned to me for this work.
The soap brick inside the box was one of many that my grandmother, Ruby, saved for about 50 years. When I was 17 years old I went to spend a weekend with my grandmother, and during the course of my stay, she sent me downstairs to her storage room to fetch something. The room was well lit, and lined around three sides with deep, sturdy, painted wood shelves. As I scanned the room for the item she had sent me after, I noticed a large restaurant-sized glass mayonnaise jar with a metal lid sitting high up on the top shelf, toward the front edge where it could easily be seen. Inside the jar were chunks of what looked like hardened fat from a distance. I thought it looked horrible, and couldn’t imagine why my grandmother had stored it in her basement.
When I took the item she had requested upstairs to the kitchen, I asked her what the disgusting-looking stuff was in the big glass jar on the top shelf. She explained that it was lye soap that her mother-in-law (my great-grandmother) had made many years ago. My great-grandmother had been deceased only about a year at this time, and I didn’t think to ask if grandma had gotten the soap at her passing, or if it was a project they did together, each taking part of it. My mother is of the opinion that it was made in the 1930s or 1940s. I showed my displeasure at the thought of using the old soap (probably rancid and so strong it would burn the skin), and asked Grammy why she didn’t get rid of it. She was clearly annoyed with my attitude and rebuffed me by stating, “If we ever had another depression like the one I lived through, we’d be darn lucky to have that soap! There’s nothing wrong with it!” I went away thinking she was very eccentric, and perhaps a little bit deranged.
Grammy Ruby lived about 20 more years after this discussion, and when she passed, her daughters (those who were interested in it, that is) divided up the homemade soap. This brick is one my Aunt Loa had, which she graciously loaned to me for this work.
13 Notes
Covered with paper made from scanned images of her sheet music and theory notes, 13 Notes celebrates my Grammy Lou, who never stopped learning, and never stopped teaching her family what it is to love and be loved. Grammy’s husband died in a farming accident when they were both just 55 years old. Gram had raised 8 children, two of whom were still in her care at the time of Lewis’ death. She had seldom worked outside the home, but she definitely knew what hard work was. Working outside the home would have seemed like a break to her, I have no doubt.
After her husband died, and her son, Forrest, took over the farm, Gram had a little bit of free time, and one of the things she chose to do with it was take piano lessons. She kept two little notebooks that documented her learning – one to list assigned practice pieces, and the other to record theory notes. She was 90 years old when she died, and these notebooks were carefully tucked among her things. She never thought she played the piano well, and always praised her grandchildren as virtuosos when we played a piece for her, but she did play for me on a few occasions and it was such a treat.
This box was constructed from masonite and book board, glass and wood. The inside back is covered with a scanned copy of a page in Gram’s calendar that notes the date and time of her music lesson. A rod running the width of the box holds one of her theory notebooks suspended above a glass enclosure full of notes I wrote to Gram, each one tied with twine. Across the front of the inside contents is a bar of Gram’s sheet music that I carefully cut away sections of to allow the viewer to see past it, and to give the feel of delicate laciness.
The doors of the box are fastened closed with an antique button and a section of twine to loop around it. The box sits atop a simulated piano bench covered in black paper standing delicately on cabriole legs.
After her husband died, and her son, Forrest, took over the farm, Gram had a little bit of free time, and one of the things she chose to do with it was take piano lessons. She kept two little notebooks that documented her learning – one to list assigned practice pieces, and the other to record theory notes. She was 90 years old when she died, and these notebooks were carefully tucked among her things. She never thought she played the piano well, and always praised her grandchildren as virtuosos when we played a piece for her, but she did play for me on a few occasions and it was such a treat.
This box was constructed from masonite and book board, glass and wood. The inside back is covered with a scanned copy of a page in Gram’s calendar that notes the date and time of her music lesson. A rod running the width of the box holds one of her theory notebooks suspended above a glass enclosure full of notes I wrote to Gram, each one tied with twine. Across the front of the inside contents is a bar of Gram’s sheet music that I carefully cut away sections of to allow the viewer to see past it, and to give the feel of delicate laciness.
The doors of the box are fastened closed with an antique button and a section of twine to loop around it. The box sits atop a simulated piano bench covered in black paper standing delicately on cabriole legs.
Skate Key
Skate Key. In my youth, there were few items in my collection of toys that ranked higher than my skate key. There were no shoe skates to be had by the average family when I was young, so the only roller skates available to me were the kind that clamped onto the toe box of my shoes, while the heel was held in place with an ankle strap of leather. The skates were adjustable in length, so that as one’s foot grew, the front and back pieces of the skate that were held together with a bolt and a nut could be slid apart to accommodate the new shoe size. This also allowed one to share skates with a friend or family member (an act which I don’t recall being on the sharing end of).
The wheels were metal, and had no ball bearings. It took a lot of work to make it up any incline, and as one skated, the bolt that kept the skate the right length and the clamp on the toe box, would work their way loose and need to be tightened. If the skater let them become too loose, the skate would flop off the top of the shoe and make one fall. Skating was rough-going at the best of times, but I loved it, and my skate key was one of my treasures. It was equipped with both a wrench to tighten the nut, and another for the toe clamp. Each manufacturer used slightly different sizes, so if one lost one’s key, it was a long process to find something in Dad’s toolbox that would do the job. I kept my key tied on a shoelace or string, and it stayed around my neck whenever I went skating.
In order to portray the importance of what this small article meant to me as a child, I decided to embed it in layers of book pages. Reading was another of my childhood passions, so the two interests have been combined in this piece.
The box was constructed using masonite, book board, and glass. I wanted it to appear as a repository for something precious, so I chose a feminine, floral-scrolled, Italian book-end paper with gold leafing.
Four doors overlap each other to create the opening or presentation of the key. Each flap is hinged on a different side of the box so that all may lay open at the same time. The doors are all attached with paper hinges, and are held closed by a rotating tab fashioned in the same shape as the top of the key. The outer door has a tiny brass handle attached to allow the viewer to open it easily.
The wheels were metal, and had no ball bearings. It took a lot of work to make it up any incline, and as one skated, the bolt that kept the skate the right length and the clamp on the toe box, would work their way loose and need to be tightened. If the skater let them become too loose, the skate would flop off the top of the shoe and make one fall. Skating was rough-going at the best of times, but I loved it, and my skate key was one of my treasures. It was equipped with both a wrench to tighten the nut, and another for the toe clamp. Each manufacturer used slightly different sizes, so if one lost one’s key, it was a long process to find something in Dad’s toolbox that would do the job. I kept my key tied on a shoelace or string, and it stayed around my neck whenever I went skating.
In order to portray the importance of what this small article meant to me as a child, I decided to embed it in layers of book pages. Reading was another of my childhood passions, so the two interests have been combined in this piece.
The box was constructed using masonite, book board, and glass. I wanted it to appear as a repository for something precious, so I chose a feminine, floral-scrolled, Italian book-end paper with gold leafing.
Four doors overlap each other to create the opening or presentation of the key. Each flap is hinged on a different side of the box so that all may lay open at the same time. The doors are all attached with paper hinges, and are held closed by a rotating tab fashioned in the same shape as the top of the key. The outer door has a tiny brass handle attached to allow the viewer to open it easily.
Freer's Sunshine Guernsey Dairy Cream Jars
Through concepts linked to physical objects, connecting the past to the present, Freer’s Sunshine Guernsey Dairy Cream Jars should give the viewer a glimpse into the way I view the world and the people in it.
Each individual jar was cast in bronze from one of the original glass jars used in restaurants to advertise the dairy business. Only a few remain, and in the making of the mold for this set, I broke one that had been entrusted to me by my aunt. I was sick about it, and could not find a way to repay such a loss. She was very gracious and forgiving, and expressed her love for me, in spite of her disappointment at the loss. These small bronze replicas are a metaphor for my life, and the lives of all humans, I suppose, as each one of us has flaws and may be a little rough around the edges. At the same time, each little jar has intrinsic beauty, similar to, but different from the others, and the viewer will likely see one or two that are more pleasing to the eye, as we all perceive beauty in different ways.
The table the jars are presented upon is my mother’s sewing machine cabinet. The sewing machine was a gift to her early in her marriage, and it’s the one I learned to sew on when I was little. It is presented to the viewer with all of its flaws, because it is more beautiful, in my estimation, than anything new.
My grandparents, who owned the original glass cream jars, being a part of the human race, were like the rest of us; perfect yet flawed. Grammy was perfect at baking bread, singing funny little ditties, amusing all with her Oklahoma accent and idioms, yet she had a covetous streak she didn’t try to temper (which also amused us). Grandpa was a stern man who had a hard time showing his love and letting down his hair, so to speak, and yet he worked hard to provide for the family he couldn’t quite emotionally connect to as well as he might have liked. For me, weaknesses in others make them more human, sometimes more approachable, and hopefully, more humble. For this reason I chose not to polish the bronze jars to a high polish. Although they are capable of a brilliant shiny surface, I love the flaws and imperfections that make them unique.
Each individual jar was cast in bronze from one of the original glass jars used in restaurants to advertise the dairy business. Only a few remain, and in the making of the mold for this set, I broke one that had been entrusted to me by my aunt. I was sick about it, and could not find a way to repay such a loss. She was very gracious and forgiving, and expressed her love for me, in spite of her disappointment at the loss. These small bronze replicas are a metaphor for my life, and the lives of all humans, I suppose, as each one of us has flaws and may be a little rough around the edges. At the same time, each little jar has intrinsic beauty, similar to, but different from the others, and the viewer will likely see one or two that are more pleasing to the eye, as we all perceive beauty in different ways.
The table the jars are presented upon is my mother’s sewing machine cabinet. The sewing machine was a gift to her early in her marriage, and it’s the one I learned to sew on when I was little. It is presented to the viewer with all of its flaws, because it is more beautiful, in my estimation, than anything new.
My grandparents, who owned the original glass cream jars, being a part of the human race, were like the rest of us; perfect yet flawed. Grammy was perfect at baking bread, singing funny little ditties, amusing all with her Oklahoma accent and idioms, yet she had a covetous streak she didn’t try to temper (which also amused us). Grandpa was a stern man who had a hard time showing his love and letting down his hair, so to speak, and yet he worked hard to provide for the family he couldn’t quite emotionally connect to as well as he might have liked. For me, weaknesses in others make them more human, sometimes more approachable, and hopefully, more humble. For this reason I chose not to polish the bronze jars to a high polish. Although they are capable of a brilliant shiny surface, I love the flaws and imperfections that make them unique.
9000 Souls
Nine Thousand Souls began as a way of visualizing how many family members now encompass my genealogical database. Each time I start a genealogical research project I am amazed at the sheer numbers of persons who have lived before me. All of those lives, those people, who once lived here on earth are long gone, forgotten by most, just as most of us will be one day. With each new individual I uncover in my research I feel I make a new friend, and when that friend happens to be also be an ancestor, the feeling is magnified.
These people are not just names to me, but their names give them a place in the world– a way of leaving a mark that denotes their existence. I wanted to bring all of these individual’s names from my database into one physical place, to put them side by side, to make them all visible at once in a work of art. I decided to create a scroll for each of them, with their names written upon each one, and to tuck these scrolls into sturdy wooden boxes.
The names were written upon pages from old books, cut to different widths, so that few are of the same size, once rolled and fastened. I used pages from old books partly for their aesthetic appeal, and partly because each leaf of a book tells a part of the story, just as each person in a family does. Each page is similar to, but completely different from the one that came before, and the one that comes after it – just as siblings are. There are so many ways in which I see books as metaphors for people, our lives, our psyches, and our relationships to each other that it just made sense to use the pages to represent the people that are a part of my human family.
There were over nine thousand people represented in this work when it was displayed for the first time, and the number has grown to more than 10,000 at this writing. It is a living work that will never stop growing, as long as new connections to family continue to be discovered.
These people are not just names to me, but their names give them a place in the world– a way of leaving a mark that denotes their existence. I wanted to bring all of these individual’s names from my database into one physical place, to put them side by side, to make them all visible at once in a work of art. I decided to create a scroll for each of them, with their names written upon each one, and to tuck these scrolls into sturdy wooden boxes.
The names were written upon pages from old books, cut to different widths, so that few are of the same size, once rolled and fastened. I used pages from old books partly for their aesthetic appeal, and partly because each leaf of a book tells a part of the story, just as each person in a family does. Each page is similar to, but completely different from the one that came before, and the one that comes after it – just as siblings are. There are so many ways in which I see books as metaphors for people, our lives, our psyches, and our relationships to each other that it just made sense to use the pages to represent the people that are a part of my human family.
There were over nine thousand people represented in this work when it was displayed for the first time, and the number has grown to more than 10,000 at this writing. It is a living work that will never stop growing, as long as new connections to family continue to be discovered.
Gathered Earth
Gathered Earth is a work that will continue to evolve over the years, as opportunities present themselves to gather soil from more and more ancestral homes. Currently, it only includes soil from the United States, but I would like to extend its reach to lands overseas.
Each jar of soil has been gathered by me and my husband as we have gone to places where our ancestors experienced significant life events, i.e. births, deaths, employment, marriages, etc. So far, this project has taken us from Brooklyn, New York to Boise, Idaho, with many stops in-between. There are so many locations yet to be visited, hence, the cabinet that currently houses the samples will be added-to over time.
The purpose behind this gathering eluded me for quite some time – I just knew I wanted to do it. After a while, I began to consider how often dirt/soil has played a significant role in my life. My earliest memories of playing with/in dirt are from about the age of 7. My parents had built a new home on nearly an acre of land, and although they planted grass in the front yard right away, the back yard was left as a dirt field for about a year. My sister, Jeanmarie, and I, along with our best friend, Brenda, would take our little brothers’ toy trucks and create roads, bridges, and tunnels for them to run on. We made pathways for rivers that quickly turned into mud flows, and we played with the mud as if we were sculptors creating masterpieces. Being fond of fossils, I decided to try to make rocks from the mud. I formed my mud into the shapes I thought would make interesting rocks; animals, four-leaf clovers, hearts, and the like. I knew my mother would never allow me to keep mud of any shape, regardless of how pleasing it may be, in my room, but I also knew that if I left them outside, my brother would find them and break them to bits at the first encounter, so I had to find a safe place for them to reside until they became the rocks they had the potential to become. I tucked them carefully into a little shoebox and carried them into my room without being seen. I removed the wood apron from the front of my dresser (it had come loose when we’d moved, and fell off every time we moved our little chest of drawers around – a great little hiding place) and secreted the box into the cavity, replacing the apron so that no one would suspect that I was growing rocks in my bedroom.
I checked on my embryo rocks every day for weeks, and then less often, until eventually I forgot they were there. About a year later, as I was moving furniture around again, the little shoebox under the dresser was rediscovered, and when I removed the lid, I found my little sculptures. They had flaked off in places, and were cracked and in pieces, but most were still recognizable. Sadly, none had turned to stone. I was disappointed, and took the box outside to set the little sculptures free. I never tried making rocks again, but my love for dirt never went away – I still gather it and gently preserve it, but my reasons for doing so have changed.
We don’t think about soil very much in our pre-packaged sterile world, but it is vital for life. We build with it, grow our food in it, make things from it, and make our homes on and in it. Soil can make or break a farmer or rancher, and its minerals once determined what crops would thrive in a given area, thus dictating the diet of those living there. Because my family members were mostly farming folk, it seemed natural to combine my love of soil with my interest in connecting with ancestors. I feel I am gathering just another bit of evidence of their existence when I gather the soil from where they lived.
In order to relay the importance of this collection of soil samples to the viewer, I have chosen to house it in a glass-fronted medical cabinet with heavy glass shelving, inviting the viewer to look at it from all angles, while protecting the samples and giving them a sense of importance. The samples themselves are stored in glass specimen jars with stoppers. They are precious to me, not simply because they represent different places, but because there is something about them that binds me more securely to my ancestors who lived and farmed and are buried in these soils. I find the soil beautiful to look at, contemplating the difference in the qualities of each sample, and discovering other bits and pieces of stones and plant-life, feathers, and desiccated insects that may have been swept up in the sample when it was gathered.
Perhaps viewers will locate a sample that they connect with on a personal level, having lived where one of my ancestors lived, or having a relative who lived in the same locale. The more ancestral research I do, the more soil samples there are to gather, and the broader becomes the scope of those who will find common ground.
Each jar of soil has been gathered by me and my husband as we have gone to places where our ancestors experienced significant life events, i.e. births, deaths, employment, marriages, etc. So far, this project has taken us from Brooklyn, New York to Boise, Idaho, with many stops in-between. There are so many locations yet to be visited, hence, the cabinet that currently houses the samples will be added-to over time.
The purpose behind this gathering eluded me for quite some time – I just knew I wanted to do it. After a while, I began to consider how often dirt/soil has played a significant role in my life. My earliest memories of playing with/in dirt are from about the age of 7. My parents had built a new home on nearly an acre of land, and although they planted grass in the front yard right away, the back yard was left as a dirt field for about a year. My sister, Jeanmarie, and I, along with our best friend, Brenda, would take our little brothers’ toy trucks and create roads, bridges, and tunnels for them to run on. We made pathways for rivers that quickly turned into mud flows, and we played with the mud as if we were sculptors creating masterpieces. Being fond of fossils, I decided to try to make rocks from the mud. I formed my mud into the shapes I thought would make interesting rocks; animals, four-leaf clovers, hearts, and the like. I knew my mother would never allow me to keep mud of any shape, regardless of how pleasing it may be, in my room, but I also knew that if I left them outside, my brother would find them and break them to bits at the first encounter, so I had to find a safe place for them to reside until they became the rocks they had the potential to become. I tucked them carefully into a little shoebox and carried them into my room without being seen. I removed the wood apron from the front of my dresser (it had come loose when we’d moved, and fell off every time we moved our little chest of drawers around – a great little hiding place) and secreted the box into the cavity, replacing the apron so that no one would suspect that I was growing rocks in my bedroom.
I checked on my embryo rocks every day for weeks, and then less often, until eventually I forgot they were there. About a year later, as I was moving furniture around again, the little shoebox under the dresser was rediscovered, and when I removed the lid, I found my little sculptures. They had flaked off in places, and were cracked and in pieces, but most were still recognizable. Sadly, none had turned to stone. I was disappointed, and took the box outside to set the little sculptures free. I never tried making rocks again, but my love for dirt never went away – I still gather it and gently preserve it, but my reasons for doing so have changed.
We don’t think about soil very much in our pre-packaged sterile world, but it is vital for life. We build with it, grow our food in it, make things from it, and make our homes on and in it. Soil can make or break a farmer or rancher, and its minerals once determined what crops would thrive in a given area, thus dictating the diet of those living there. Because my family members were mostly farming folk, it seemed natural to combine my love of soil with my interest in connecting with ancestors. I feel I am gathering just another bit of evidence of their existence when I gather the soil from where they lived.
In order to relay the importance of this collection of soil samples to the viewer, I have chosen to house it in a glass-fronted medical cabinet with heavy glass shelving, inviting the viewer to look at it from all angles, while protecting the samples and giving them a sense of importance. The samples themselves are stored in glass specimen jars with stoppers. They are precious to me, not simply because they represent different places, but because there is something about them that binds me more securely to my ancestors who lived and farmed and are buried in these soils. I find the soil beautiful to look at, contemplating the difference in the qualities of each sample, and discovering other bits and pieces of stones and plant-life, feathers, and desiccated insects that may have been swept up in the sample when it was gathered.
Perhaps viewers will locate a sample that they connect with on a personal level, having lived where one of my ancestors lived, or having a relative who lived in the same locale. The more ancestral research I do, the more soil samples there are to gather, and the broader becomes the scope of those who will find common ground.