Forgotten Dreams

Werner Herzog's new documentary, Cave of Forgotten Dreams, is mesmerizing. Cave paintings are the original watermark ... the oldest traceable record of man. This film takes us inside the Chauvet caves of Southern France to witness 30,000 year old cave paintings. I have only been in two caves in my lifetime. Caves have that way of dwarfing mankind; diminishing how I feel about my place in the universe. The patience of stalagmites and the pristine way caves preserve their caches really make me second-guess the Rocky Mountains I see every day of my life. We have no way of knowing how many mysteries are unaccessible to us. So it's fortunate when discoveries like this are made. I understand the primitive impulse of marking, but seeing the hand prints of ancient man in such a fresh way only provokes questions upon questions for me. And absolute respect for humans; for our creative spirit; for our brief time on Earth and for our unifying desire to leave something behind.

Journey's End

7 years. 12 trips. I have completed my journey book. 

Sharilyn Wright, a Canadian bookbinder at Lovely Design, makes these from vintage papers sourced from all over the world. Acts of serendipity resulted: a gatefold of Asian script coincided with a map I had of Butchart Gardens in Victoria, BC printed in Korean. A postcard map of Newport Beach fell onto a turquoise sheet of construction paper, a perfect sea match. An electricians diagram eerily resembling Central Park coincided with a trip to New York for a conference on design. And a final act of serendipity ... my latest trip was to Los Angeles; as I adhered one final coaster, I turned the page to see the end sheet is a map of L.A., which is the city my parents lived in as newlyweds. It feels like I have come home.

Though I can no longer close the book, it's durable quality holds up. And why would I want to shut this volume overflowing with memories? A mundane, yet exotic, candy wrapper from the Lan Su Japanese Garden in Portland instantly fills my senses with tea, ginger, umbrellas, and a recuperative lunch with friends. I can still smell their café. Letterpress scraps immediately conjure Oblations Press, and the hour spent rifling through their inventory. I bought my yellow Lamy pen from there, and have never loved a pen more. A doily from the Farmhouse in Dunwoody, GA brings back high tea with my sister, surrounded by fancy ladies in hats and a tea kettle buried in a crocheted cozy. A scrap of a poster of lettuce from Earthbound Farms in Carmel Valley, CA brings back walking barefoot through their chamomile labyrinth as much as it makes me think of the Steinbeck book I was reading on that same trip. I can almost feel the sun on my neck. I think I prefer memory to photographs.

See Amid the Winter's Snow

A perfect wintry evening: jazz band and gallery stroll through the Flynn Artipelago Studios as the weather achieved near-blizzard status. The Chow Truck kept us well fed with spicy tacos. One studio offered mulled cider ... you really need a night like this to appreciate hot cider.

A woman made glass beads with her blowtorch; we contemplated buying a Dia de los Muertos tile wall hanging; another woman fashioned miniature birdbaths beside her kiln; and a stoner's studio had an old Mac from the early 90's covered with paint and fingerprints, but I was too shy to photograph that with all his questionable buddies hanging 'round.

Headed back to the car afterward, we took brief refuge under a tree still laden with leaves and berries, now hung low with wet jeweled snow.