I've visited every bar within 50 miles and finally found one of my favorite spots, a little place called Silver Jack in Baker, pop 60 or so.
Behind me I overheard someone say there was 'nothing in Utah, we went to Arches [National Park] this morning and that was it'. I turned around to see a gaggle of middle aged travelers crying into their Chardonnay over the lack of easily accessible and postcard-worthy scenery at 70mph along I-70.
As I was draining the oil and putting drywall screws behind the tires of their Prius later that night, I reflected upon the idea of 'being in the middle of nowhere'. Perhaps the 'nothing', I thought, (whether it be in Nevada, Utah, or entitled vacationers' heads) is necessary to produce the sublime experience of the 'not nothings' -- the mountains, people, and grandeur that rises from the sagebrush between the Wasatch and the Sierra. It takes a long time to get to GBNP, and maybe it should. Otherwise we might not be ready for it. You don't just swing by here on your way somewhere else.
What makes GBNP so interesting is what's not here -- out of very flat, muted-colored sagebrush plains springs a 13,000 ft mountain 8000ft higher than the basin below. Not only does the 'Sagebrush Ocean' juxtapose the peaks, but there is also an absence of light, sound, people, and bright colors . . . the anthesis of Las Vegas, the unfortunate mental image most people have of Nevada. In other words, the holes are what make it a Whiffle Ball -- not the plastic.
As an artist, I decided I should be very concerned about what Willliam Fox in his book 'Mapping the Empty' described as 'the deeply conflicted condition of the postmodern artist living under existential guilt over conquest of the region'. Using that idea of the nothing-ness of negative space might be a good way to get over this existential guilt I didn't know I had.
Like all good and sneaky artists, I started looking for some other folks who had already explored this concept so I could steal their secrets. One name that keeps coming up is Michael Heizer, a nutty genius living out in the middle of nowhere building a full-size sculpture of a city. It's called 'City'. It's the size of the Washington Mall, including the museums.
He's been working on it for forty years, and instead of reasonable tools like a paintbrush or plasma torch, he and his crew uses earthmoving equipment. Unfortunately, the only way to view it (it's not done, you see -- it will only open to the public upon completion) is through satellite images. With a little probing I found the location in south-central Nevada, although I decided against an unannounced visit as Mr. Heizer is inclined to shoot trespassers (another sign of a fellow existential-guilt ridden sneaky
artist, I might add). Take a look at the coordinates 38.03400 N 115.44100 W in Google Earth and you should be able to get a glimpse.
So, to understand what Heizer has to do with negative space and Nevada we must take a look at the works he did you can actually see without getting filled with negative spaces yourself. Specifically, the Perforated Object 27 at the Federal Courthouse Building in Reno and Double Negative, also in Nevada. Perforated Object is a huge steel chunk with a bunch of holes in it, and Double Negative is an enormous trench dug into the edge of a canyon (like 240,000 tons of missing earth enormous). Both are awe-inspiring and made me more aware of what wasn't there than what was.
By extension, it also made me think about things that aren't here in the Park that aren't physical: lots of noise, light pollution, traffic. For example, there is so little ambient light at night that GBNP is one of the US's premier stargazing locations. At a recent stargazing with a park ranger (self-proclaimed 'dark ranger', the second coolest phrase behind 'galactic core' heard that night), all of our eyes were adjusting to the lack of light when a flash lit up the line of people waiting to look through the park's telescope.
Everyone looked around, expecting an apology from the sheepish person who must have accidentally turned on their flashlight. The flash was actually a momentary reflection off the solar panels of an orbiting Iridium satellite passing miles and miles overhead. It's that dark here.
To read more about Heizer's inspired lunacy, take a look at:
doublenegative.terasen.net
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/02/06/magazine/06HEIZER.html?ex=1265432400&en=46be92f2c266e591&ei=5090&partner=rssuserland
http://www.moca-la.org/museum/pc_artwork_detail.php?&acsnum=85.105&keywords=heizer&x=0&y=0
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Bristlecone Pines
Bristlecones survive so long for several reasons. One is that they live in areas so extreme they don't compete with other plants. Another is that their cells don't show signs of 'senescence' -- an ancient cell from a bristlecone looks and functions a lot like a young one, unlike human cells which age. A third reason, I believe, is that they have survived because their habitat isn't useful to us. Once we find some use for windswept 10,000 ft rideglines (besides a context for personal enlightenment and metaphorical soul-searching), watch out.
Bristlecone pines have what's called sectored architecture. That means a particular clump of roots at the bottom provides a particular clump of branches at the top (or side) water, through a stem channel specific to those parts of the tree. So, when a root section is damaged the part of the tree associated with that section dies. Often old Bristlecones, and especially ancient ones (a term which generally applies to trees past the 4,000 yr old mark -- the rest are merely 'old') display a section of living tree wrapping and winding its way around a mass of dead wood.
One thing that keeps the dead wood from disintegrating over the millennia is the trees' resin, which effectively seals the wood like a sock dipped in candle wax. The resin also helps the tree seal up wounds. It is for this reason that scientists can take core samples from the tree with an increment borer to analyze its rings and make an estimation about its age and the climatic conditions it has experienced.
The increment borer is like a hollow drill bit, so it can remove rods of wood the diameter of a pencil and several feet long. Because the hole is so small, it seals up with resin quickly. These rods of wood, often indicating thousands of rings, are then compared to other hollow rods of wood from other interesting trees. By combining overlapping patterns in core samples from different trees, scientists can assemble a climate history tens of thousands of years old. These folks are known as 'dendrochronologists' and 'extremely patient'. Interestingly, these patterns can also be used to date core samples taken from roof timbers in ancient dwellings.
Given that these techniques have been around since the 60's, it is fascinating that a guy named Donald Currey decided to cut down what seemed to him an especially interesting tree in 1964 just near Wheeler Peak in what is now Great Basin National Park. To make a long story short, the tree he cut down was the oldest one we've ever found. It was 4,862 years old.
It's a fascinating story involving different measures of science, ignorance, and politics depending on who you ask. Take a look at Michael Cohen's "A Garden of Bristlecones: Tales of Change in the Great Basin" for a good overview.
To see more photos, visit the Blue Boat Home Facebook site:
http://www.facebook.com/BlueBoatHome
Bristlecone pines have what's called sectored architecture. That means a particular clump of roots at the bottom provides a particular clump of branches at the top (or side) water, through a stem channel specific to those parts of the tree. So, when a root section is damaged the part of the tree associated with that section dies. Often old Bristlecones, and especially ancient ones (a term which generally applies to trees past the 4,000 yr old mark -- the rest are merely 'old') display a section of living tree wrapping and winding its way around a mass of dead wood.
One thing that keeps the dead wood from disintegrating over the millennia is the trees' resin, which effectively seals the wood like a sock dipped in candle wax. The resin also helps the tree seal up wounds. It is for this reason that scientists can take core samples from the tree with an increment borer to analyze its rings and make an estimation about its age and the climatic conditions it has experienced.
The increment borer is like a hollow drill bit, so it can remove rods of wood the diameter of a pencil and several feet long. Because the hole is so small, it seals up with resin quickly. These rods of wood, often indicating thousands of rings, are then compared to other hollow rods of wood from other interesting trees. By combining overlapping patterns in core samples from different trees, scientists can assemble a climate history tens of thousands of years old. These folks are known as 'dendrochronologists' and 'extremely patient'. Interestingly, these patterns can also be used to date core samples taken from roof timbers in ancient dwellings.
Given that these techniques have been around since the 60's, it is fascinating that a guy named Donald Currey decided to cut down what seemed to him an especially interesting tree in 1964 just near Wheeler Peak in what is now Great Basin National Park. To make a long story short, the tree he cut down was the oldest one we've ever found. It was 4,862 years old.
It's a fascinating story involving different measures of science, ignorance, and politics depending on who you ask. Take a look at Michael Cohen's "A Garden of Bristlecones: Tales of Change in the Great Basin" for a good overview.
To see more photos, visit the Blue Boat Home Facebook site:
http://www.facebook.com/BlueBoatHome
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Great basin artist in residency begins . . .
Great Basin blog
9/13/11
Great Basin National Park (GBNP) is a small part of the actual Great Basin, which stretches between California to Utah and Mexico (plus a dash of Oregon and Idaho). Roughly speaking, that's about 150 million acres.
That's a large charge for a relatively small 77,000 acre National Park.
That gives us about a 2,000:1 scale for all us math nerds. In other words, if you put your palm on the ground in GBNP that chunk of earth you have coved up is responsible for representing two thousand times its size, or the handprints of 1,999 other people.
One of the things that fascinates me here is that sense of scale; both the scale of what this park represents as well as the sheer magnitudes of size and age here.
Take Bristlecone pines, for example. Oldest single organisms on earth. Many are 4,000 years or older, although we don't know for sure without cutting them down (which happened to the oldest one we've found so far. Oops).
Rather than living in the arboreal land of milk and honey, they are found at extreme altitudes where the lack of soil, 100mph winds, and sub-zero winter temperatures give a Honey Badger smack-down (YouTube it, you won't be disappointed) to lesser competitors, diseases, and creatures that would end them.
Interestingly, climate change may be the biggest threat to the trees. As it becomes warmer and warmer at these high elevations, it makes infestations and competition from other species possible.
The other thing that strikes me here are the superlatives. Specifically, GBNP has been called both the quietest and darkest place in the continental US, and I believe it. Where I'm staying looks out over a valley that separates us from Utah, and it is quite the experience to look out for miles and miles at night and hear . . . absolutely nothing. I'm sure the folks at the visitor center hear the White Stripes a quarter mile away from my iPod.
There are many folks who have written much more eloquently and profitably than I have about this area. Here are a few I'm reading that I'd recommend:
The Void, The Grid, and The Sign: Traversing the Great Basin by William Fox
A fascinating exploration of the metaphors we use to explain this area; I'd recommend to people who have actually been to some part of the basin and range. Without having the physical experience of being here it wouldn't make any damn sense.
Basin and Range by John McPhee
I love me some McPhee, and this volume doesn't disappoint. It avoids being long, dense, or boring, which has been the fate of many a geology book. His story follows I-80, more or less, and almost makes me want to drive on it.
The Bristlecone Book: A Natural History of the World's Oldest Trees by Ronald Lanner
An interesting quick read on these fascinating creatures, and beautiful photography.
The Sagebrush Ocean: A Natural History of the Great Basin by Stephen Trimble
I know Steve, and the book comes alive for me because I can imagine his voice reading it. He also took the fantastic photos, just to rub it in that he can be the Bo Jackson of the art world.
9/13/11
Great Basin National Park (GBNP) is a small part of the actual Great Basin, which stretches between California to Utah and Mexico (plus a dash of Oregon and Idaho). Roughly speaking, that's about 150 million acres.
That's a large charge for a relatively small 77,000 acre National Park.
That gives us about a 2,000:1 scale for all us math nerds. In other words, if you put your palm on the ground in GBNP that chunk of earth you have coved up is responsible for representing two thousand times its size, or the handprints of 1,999 other people.
One of the things that fascinates me here is that sense of scale; both the scale of what this park represents as well as the sheer magnitudes of size and age here.
Take Bristlecone pines, for example. Oldest single organisms on earth. Many are 4,000 years or older, although we don't know for sure without cutting them down (which happened to the oldest one we've found so far. Oops).
Rather than living in the arboreal land of milk and honey, they are found at extreme altitudes where the lack of soil, 100mph winds, and sub-zero winter temperatures give a Honey Badger smack-down (YouTube it, you won't be disappointed) to lesser competitors, diseases, and creatures that would end them.
Interestingly, climate change may be the biggest threat to the trees. As it becomes warmer and warmer at these high elevations, it makes infestations and competition from other species possible.
The other thing that strikes me here are the superlatives. Specifically, GBNP has been called both the quietest and darkest place in the continental US, and I believe it. Where I'm staying looks out over a valley that separates us from Utah, and it is quite the experience to look out for miles and miles at night and hear . . . absolutely nothing. I'm sure the folks at the visitor center hear the White Stripes a quarter mile away from my iPod.
There are many folks who have written much more eloquently and profitably than I have about this area. Here are a few I'm reading that I'd recommend:
The Void, The Grid, and The Sign: Traversing the Great Basin by William Fox
A fascinating exploration of the metaphors we use to explain this area; I'd recommend to people who have actually been to some part of the basin and range. Without having the physical experience of being here it wouldn't make any damn sense.
Basin and Range by John McPhee
I love me some McPhee, and this volume doesn't disappoint. It avoids being long, dense, or boring, which has been the fate of many a geology book. His story follows I-80, more or less, and almost makes me want to drive on it.
The Bristlecone Book: A Natural History of the World's Oldest Trees by Ronald Lanner
An interesting quick read on these fascinating creatures, and beautiful photography.
The Sagebrush Ocean: A Natural History of the Great Basin by Stephen Trimble
I know Steve, and the book comes alive for me because I can imagine his voice reading it. He also took the fantastic photos, just to rub it in that he can be the Bo Jackson of the art world.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
National Park Residency
Take a look at the recent news:
http://www.parkrecord.com/ci_18815192
http://www.parkrecord.com/ci_18815192
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