This Spring in Corvallis, there were a number of events in which the unseen, the unheard, and the very, very tiny were observed and commented upon in especially poetic ways. There were a few art events and lectures revolving around microbiomes. I will quickly introduce you to two artists and a writer who are exploring our natural world which includes among its multitudes; microbiomes, animals, trees and us.

There is growing interest in connecting science and art, artists and scientists. In part, this is what our program at EAH is trying to accomplish. How do writers and artists and other creative types communicate issues of environmentalism? How do the humanities address non-human animals and other species of life? How can scientists work with artists to benefit both and strengthen the messages that people need to hear? What can we offer to each other and to the conversation? How is the very nature of the conversation changed by interdisciplinary voices?

The world is complicated. Life is busy. We tend to put blinders on just to get through the day. We rarely stop to consider the fact that our own bodies are made up of more microbiome DNA than human DNA. We rarely wonder at the masses of microscopic life that surround us, teeming in mud, saturating the form of every living thing. We tend to consider our frame of reference as Reality. But there are millions of different perspectives and perceptions. Some move very slow and experience time in a different way from the fast flitting creature. Some see the world from the sky, some see it from the ground. Some stay in one place always, some move constantly. Some do not see red, some do not see infrared, some see with sonar. Some navigate by smell, some by magnetic fields. There are as many different ways of being as there are beings.

  

Lisa Temple-Cox explores biology and the matter that is the meat, gut and bone of the animal, whether it be human or non-human. Her work peels away the skin, she examines the feather and the human skull with equal interest. Temple-Cox has done long term residencies at museums. While there, she explores and draws their collections. I was able to attend all four of her lectures at the University, including a private one for the school’s bird watching society. The names of many species were called out as we observed slides showing a plethora of silent birds in glass boxes.

Temple-Cox is a perfect example of an artist who is bridging disciplines. Her bio states, “ Her history as a mixed-race, post-colonial child informs a practice exploring interstices: between science and religion, the normal and the pathological, the familiar and the uncanny. Her visual research interrogates the aesthetics and histories of the anatomical museum, using its objects, collections, and taxonomies as metaphors for a contemporary subjective experience of the self and the body.”

One of the lectures had the intriguing title, My Head in a Jar. She had an entire body of work for each lecture. Some were documentation of the archives and their glorious decay, fatal malformations, disturbing implications of colonization, and excessive bounty. Her work is led and inspired by her research. One of these lines of research is through the preservation of specimens in jars. It was part historical and part medical, part archivist and part artist. For this lecture (archived here) she showed slides of many kinds of animals and humans, in whole and in part, preserved in glass jars. Through this exploration, she came to the idea of casting her own head and placing it in jars with different types of liquid matter. One jar is filled with kombucha, one jar is filled with milk, one is filled with oil. Over time the milk and kombucha transform as they are both teeming with the microscopic life mentioned previously. Interesting that she uses these two liquids in her experiment, the content of which is life and its companion, death.

  

Karin Bolender is a local artist who integrates the lives of her companion donkeys into her work. She did a long walking trip with her first donkey, a spotted ass, and that was the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration. Bolender is a PHD candidate at the University of New South Wales but is located near Corvallis on a farm with the donkeys in question, and a horse. She is involed with a group of artists and environmental humanities researchers called The Multi-Species Salon. Her long term project is the Rural Alchemy Workshop. She also listens to her animals, not just to their vocalizations but to the rumbling in their guts, and has done work on this subject as well. Learn more about her brilliant line of thought in this concise (4 minute) video.

This Winter, she did a performative piece with her daughter at Optic Gallery in which a kombucha  mother was passed around and questions from a Pink Floyd song were asked aloud. These mothers were also a part of her latest work which recently manifested as a workshop.  She is investigating the invisible communities of life inhabiting the donkeys and the donkey’s milk. She has made soap from the milk of her donkeys mixed with her own. Interesting parallel between the artists Bolender and Temple-Cox, who have both used living and life-giving kombucha and milk to manifest their work.

I attended the workshop at her farm called Welcome to the Secretome, which was led by Bolender. A small group of us were led through a series of explorations around the animals and the land. We sat together on top of a manure pile and ate cheese and bread. We walked through a muddy field and a grassy field and made maps of what we found there. We touched the donkeys’ noses and the dirt and the barn and the kombucha mothers. I emerged clean and unscathed. (OK I didn’t go in the mud but everyone else did. I lingered in the barn with the donkeys.)

One more event in which the unseen/unheard was deeply, scientifically, and poetically discussed was the lecture by David George Haskell at the Art Center. He is currently touring with his new book, The Songs of Trees. He spoke about trees, individual trees. He traveled the world to visit a dozen individual trees. Each tree was carefully listened to and observed within the context of its location. One tree was in an Amazon forest, another in the middle of New York City. We don’t think of trees as making sound or having voices. Haskell records the vibrations that come up through the tree’s roots and the birds and other creatures who inhabit them, as well as the interaction with wind.

He spoke eloquently about understanding nature as that which is what we are. He points to the disconnect that humans feel with nature which is generally spoken of (in our society) as something outside  ourselves; a bird, a tree, a place we go to when we go camping. We set the city and nature as two sides of a dichotomy, when in fact the city is actually just a human nesting place and encompasses nature, not just in the plants growing through the cracks in the sidewalk but in our own manifestations.

Haskell’s previous book is titled  The Forest Unseen. For this book, he chose a one-square-meter spot of land in Tennessee and observed it meticulously for a year. Even within this very small circle of forest floor, he found a universe of life. I intend to read both books and can only report my impressions of the one hour I heard him speak. He spoke strongly against the standard dualistic thinking that separates humans and nature, a false dichotomy, as we are very much a part of nature. Our technology and industry are destroying nature. That doesn’t make us separate or better or worse. It just makes us powerful. We need to reconsider this power and our motivations and systems. They are not innate or inevitable

These artists and writers are asking you to open your eyes and ears and minds, to observe the life around you.  In doing so, you will see both the kinship we share with life on earth and the consequences of our collective actions against it. Paying attention with all of our senses is a first step.

Footnote: For many years, I observed one small area of the Willamette River and shared it, almost daily on the social medias. I reported on the weather and what animals were passing through or living there and the ships that came into port. I called it The River Report. I have since moved away from that spot but it is archived on Twitter.

“Energy moves in cycles, circles, spirals, vortexes, whirls, pulsations, waves, and rhythms—rarely if ever in simple straight lines.”  — Starhawk; American writer, activist, pagan, ecofeminist.

When the sun is finally out in Corvallis after a pitiless winter, sometimes you just have to ramble. That’s what I told myself when my alarm sounded at 7:45 AM on Saturday, April 29th. Maybe if you’re used to an 8-5 work schedule then that doesn’t sound too early, but for a grad student who is on her last legs by Friday of each week, a 7:45 AM wakeup call on a Saturday is a true commitment.

And I had committed. I was registered for the Spring Campus Ramble hosted by fellow EAH student Jill Sisson and her partner Cub Kahn, and I planned to show up. This was the 7th ramble for Jill and Cub, but it was my first.  The Ramble is a morning of walking to different locations on campus and observing our surroundings through writing, photography, or both. The rambles are conducted seasonally as a way to welcome the changes taking place in our valley. The theme for this ramble was “spiral,” though we were free to let our minds wander in and out of that lens.

We met our group at the Beanery at 9:00 and then headed out for our ramble. Our group was small, though we were told that it was a lovely size for a ramble. My companions for the morning were Dorothy, Kent, Jill, Cub, and Paul and Charlotte (my parents, visiting for the weekend).

I have to admit that I can be a little snobby when it comes to campus “tours.” This is my fifth year at OSU, and (in a past life, it seems) I was once a tour guide for new students and other campus visitors. I was expecting to look at campus through a new lens on the Ramble, but I didn’t think I’d also be rambling to spots where I had never been.

Right away, I realized I was wrong. Our first stop was outside the Hallie E. Ford Center, where a reflective metal sculpture stands, smoothly twisted. At each stop one of us took a piece of paper from Jill’s hand and read a spiral-related quote. At our first stop, my dad plucked from the mix and read:

“The spiral is a spiritualized circle. In the spiral form, the circle, uncoiled, has ceased to be vicious; it has been set free.” 
 — Vladimir Nabokov (1899-1977), Russian-American novelist and entomologist.

Then we were set free to ramble around the spiral sculpture and linger in the vicinity of building, observing the many plants and human-made structures surrounding us. We could hear birds, and on a few occasions during our morning, flocks of geese flew overhead.

I prefer, usually, to sit on the ground. So I hunkered down on the cement in front of the playground, and I saw this:

And then I wrote this:

I’m following the sun spots (this time of year you have to), and I swear I can hear the birds better when I’m sitting in the sun. Tiny handprints are pressed into the cold morning cement next to the playground, just outside the gate. It’s as if five children practiced their handstands one day as they waited for a tall person with keys to unlock the gate.

This fence. It’s short, because I’m an adult, and it’s linked together in spirals that hint at what’s inside: a playground of twisted metal. That corkscrew thing that some playground designer made when the fire pole got boring. Curvy springs holding up a bouncy-disc-thing that doesn’t look very safe (but boy does it look fun!), and I picture the five handstand children, their palms gray and glistening with gritty cement, dancing about in circles around the playground the moment that gate swings open.

It’s funny how I’ve fixated on the ugly wire fence with the gate when all the while in my sunspot there were also two other fences: the rhododendrons and the roses. They run parallel to the ugly fence and form a much more convincing barrier. Rows of thorns and pink, soft flowers that only a monster would dare to trample.

And yet someone felt a wire fence was imperative, as if the roses and the rhodies could not be trusted. “We better build a fence,” someone must have said. “For good measure. To cover our bases. To keep the kids in. To keep the kids out.”

And now I will summarize the remainder of our ramble with a few photos…

The azaleas near the Women’s Building were putting on quite a show as we walked to our next stop. Photo by Lucia Hadella.
My dad had seen a baseball game at Goss Stadium the night before (Beavs won!), and he got a kick out of photographing images around the stadium. When a pitcher winds up and releases, is that a spiral? Photo by Paul Hadella.
Can you imagine carrying the weight of the moon on your shoulders? These statues stand in the green sapce near the INTO building on the south side of campus. Photo by Lucia Hadella.
Electric fungi in the INTO courtyard. Photo by Lucia Hadella.
Have you seen these peculiar figures in the Snell Hall courtyard?I hadn’t! Photo by Lucia Hadella.
This giant sequoia just keeps spiraling on and on. Photo by Lucia Hadella.
Although we left the Ramble a little early to head to the Saturday Market, my parents and I could not stop taking pictures of the beauty surrounding us, and we were seeing spirals for the rest of the day. Photo by Lucia Hadella.

Last Tuesday night at the Old World Deli, Dr. Bob Lillie, a professor emeritus of geology at Oregon State University, spoke to a full house about his new book, Oregon’s Island in the Sky: Geology Road Guide to Mary’s Peak. A specialist on interpretive methods for the Mary’s Peak Alliance and the Oregon Master Naturalist Program, Lillie is devoted to connecting people to landscapes– geologically, ecologically and culturally. He values a well-honed sense of place, and accordingly, began his presentation with a quote by Alan Gussow: We are homesick for places, we are reminded of places, it is the sounds and smells and sights of places which haunt us and against which we often measure our present.” And indeed Marys Peak is one of western Oregon’s special places, serving as the predominant psychophysical influence of this bioregion. To help the audience become better acquainted with this iconic mountain, Lillie provided maps, photographs, and fragments of hard rock (gabbro and basalt) to reveal Marys Peak’s dynamic story.

At 4,097 feet in elevation, Marys Peak rises nearly 500 feet above all other Oregon Coast Range mountains. With its cool climate and 100 inches of annual precipitation, the mountain’s noble fir and high meadow ecosystems date back more than 10,000 years to a time when glaciers covered much of western Oregon. Its high-elevation meadow, in particular, is a biodiversity hotspot.

In fact, it is from the meadow’s clear vantage point atop the peak that one can see the Pacific Ocean’s blue sheen to the west, and the Cascade Volcanoes’ snowcaps to the east. From Lillie’s discerning viewpoint, the same commanding panorama also offers geologic clues of tectonic plate activity from 55 million years ago, as well as the more recent effects of the Missoula Floods that filled the Willamette Valley 15,000 years ago. Together, these geologic phenomena created the landscapes and soils that help define the biotic communities of western Oregon’s bioregion today.

Marys Peak holds considerable cultural significance, as well. Formerly considered a sacred place by the Kalapuya tribe, this mountain was originally named Tca Timanwi, meaning “place of spirit power,” because Kalapuya youths climbed its slopes for their coming-of-age spirit quests. Much later — in the late 1800’s — homesteaders moved into the area, and the mountain was grazed, logged, settled, and skied. And from 1906 onward, the Rock Creek watershed on the eastern flank of Marys Peak has supplied Corvallis with up to 40% of its city water. Meanwhile the mountain’s mixed fir and hemlock forests are home to countless wildlife species, and the high wildflower meadows provide critical butterfly habitat. Importantly, the distinctive meadow and rock garden ecosystems led to the peak’s designation as a Botanical Special Interest Area in 1989.

Built of story-rich volcanic and sedimentary rocks, cloaked in clouds and forests, Marys Peak continually affects climate, culture, and bio-community. This is a mountain that reawakens our certainty that we live with—not separate from—the Earth. And this is a mountain that will never fail to nourish the spirit.

keep-on

The first OSU environmental arts and humanities cohort has embarked on our journey for knowledge, for answers to our most confounding and deleterious problems; meanwhile, there is something happening in the world that cannot be ignored. We began the program in September 2016 while the most spiteful and toxic of American elections was winding to a close. Our first term was a whirlwind of discovery with a frequent recurrence of discussions about the place for hope and action in our discourses about change.

Then came November 9, a day forever burned into our memories. I woke up in a state of confusion, fear, anxiety, and denial, as did many others who share my values. However, this election result was not just a tragedy for the Democrats or Progressives of our nation. It is a tragedy for all life on this planet.

Now, as we finish our second term in the new Environmental Arts & Humanities program, much of what we feared is playing out. The president of the U.S. purports his disbelief in anthropogenic climate change while slashing regulations that provide us with clean air and water. These policies seek to provide only for those who profit from the industries while being masked as tools for job growth.

Is there a place for hope in this shift to authoritarian rule that disregards fact, that ignores basic human decency, that seeks to split the nation, that debases all that we value? Yes, there is always room for hope but only when coupled with truth and action. What we need now more than ever is radical hope, resistance, community, morality, and compassion.

It was around this message that 40 or so people joined together in fellowship at the Corvallis Unitarian Universalist Church on Saturday, March 18. Our motivational facilitators were none other than Kathleen Dean Moore and Libby Roderick who guided us through personal and community truth.

We started the Keep on Strong Heart: Moral Power in the Climate Fight workshop quite aptly by singing Libby’s song Keep On, Strong Heart.

Here are my main take-a-ways to help you in your journey to create change:

  1. We need to acknowledge the pain, fear, disbelief that we and other people feel. Practice active listening and engage in dialogue. We should avoid dominating any conversation because it hinders creativity and fresh ideas.
  2. We are stronger together working as a community when everyone acts and speaks up as a collective. We will be most effective when we are diverse in skill, in culture, in race, in class, in energy, in creativity.
  3. The statistics are in. Seventy percent of American adults believe that global warming is happening, but only 53 percent believe global warming is caused by human activities. In terms of risk, the greatest perceived risk is to future generations, 70 percent, but only 40 percent of Americans believe global warming will personally harm them. We don’t discuss global warming often enough; only 33 percent of Americans talk about it occasionally, and 31 percent of adults never discuss it. NASA is a good source for climate information. Educate yourself and start talking.
  4. We can react in three ways to anthropogenic climate change: 1. Business as Usual, 2. The Great Unravelling, 3. The Great Turning. We need to aim for the great turning. We need to collectively imagine and work toward this turning. It starts with more people joining together to discuss issues and fight back. The goal: to change our systems and lifeways in ways that reduce our impact on the Earth.
  5. Civil resistance and non-violent direct action bring results. Protest influences public opinion more than federal action or institutional advocacy.
  6. Your actions matter. Don’t sit this out. Don’t fall into complacency. Demand a present and a future that can be enjoyed by all life.

This was my first opportunity to really engage with others in the community (outside of the university) since moving to Corvallis in July. My inaction and lack of engagement was eating away at me. The future I imagined was crumbling away, and all I wanted was to abandon my academic duties and do something meaningful! I know others in my cohort share this sentiment. We are here to encourage environmentally ethical lifeways, to cultivate understanding about the true source of our widespread environmental destruction, to empower invisible communities who have been victims of injustices, to speak for the animals, the oceans, the forests under human rule and subjugation. How can we inspire change when we spend 40 hours a week talking, reading, and writing? Shouldn’t we be out in the world overturning the systemic oppression of human and non-human life? Shouldn’t we be acting?

But, if what we need is radical hope that leads to radical change, then we must take a different approach. An approach—or even an array of approaches—that is different than what has been attempted over the last few decades. My hope is that our cohort’s journey of intellectual discovery, of critical analysis, and of ethical thought will be exactly what we need to fuel meaningful, impactful action in new and creative ways. I don’t believe that our answers lie (solely) in technology, policy, or innovation. No, we must seek truth instead, we must question widely held beliefs, we must resist, and we must demand change that enables all life to flourish.

Stay active:

  1. MoveOn.org has daily actions to stay informed and engage in the political process.
  2. Call in to your representatives when you disagree with policy. (5calls.org)
  3. Get involved in a local climate initiative. (350corvallis.org)
  4. Acknowledge media biases and diversify your sources of information.

For further reading on this topic, see:

  1. Moral Ground: Ethical Action for a Planet in Peril by Kathleen Dean Moore and Michael Nelson (eds.)
  2. Great Tide Rising: Toward Clarity and Moral Courage in a Time of Planetary Change by Kathleen Dean Moore
  3. Start Talking: A Handbook for Engaging Difficult Dialogues by Kay Landis, et al. (including Libby Roderick) (eds.)
  4. Why Civil Resistance Works: The strategic logic of nonviolent conflict by Erica Chenoweth and Maria J. Stephan.
  5. Radical Hope for Living Well in a Warmer World by Allen Thompson.

I saw Disney’s new rendition of Beauty and the Beast the other day in a crowded theater with smelly seats. Despite the undesirable ambiance, I was enchanted. I laughed, I gasped, I cried. And for about a week now after seeing the moving, I have been pondering good and evil, trying to grapple with this dichotomy and its implications about who we are as humans. All the while I’ve been hoping that some revelation would also help me understand what irked me about a book talk I saw earlier this term by Benjamin Hale on his new book The Wild and the Wicked. I think I’m beginning to understand.

So first, let’s start with Disney…

Throughout most of the movie, I felt as though each main character had been created in order to fit into a polarized ideal of either virtuous or vengeful – altruistic, or a narcissist to the core. Belle, of course, is saintly. She is smart, fearless, and empathetic. She sees the beauty in a beast who does not see it in himself. Gaston – the broad-chested buffoon who makes the townswomen swoon – is the stereotypical brute and ultimately the embodiment of evil. Besides his boastfulness and penchant for drawing swords and firing his musket, Gaston also commits unforgiveable acts such as punching an old man (Belle’s father), tying him to a tree and leaving him for the wolves, and shooting the Beast multiple times in the back after the duel was supposed to be over. (What a jerk!)

So, Belle and Gaston are moral polar opposites, and the Beast is pretty awful too. In his earlier years (pre horns, claws, and lion/buffalo head), he threw extravagant parties for his own pleasure and arrogantly strutted about the dance floor, examining and judging the pretty women. When an old woman shows up at his door in the middle of one of these gaudy parties, asking for food and shelter, the prince turns her away. Unfortunately for him, she’s actually a witch, and she damns him to a life of self-loathing and pariah status until he can learn unconditional love. (Spoiler alert: he succeeds.)Yet I realized that the Beast is actually not evil. He’s also not as virtuous as Belle. In fact, he is probably the most morally realistic character in the movie precisely because he is flawed (as humans are flawed), and because he embodies the true complexities of humanity that are less easily grouped into Team Good and Team Evil.

What does this have to do with Ben Hale?

In a way, Ben Hale pushes against similar dichotomies of good and bad as they are applied to nature. He argues that humans should not have to love nature in order to respect and protect it. He also argues that it’s alright not to love nature – not only because not everyone enjoys camping and hiking, but also because, let’s face it, nature can be cruel… Right?

Well I’ve realized, as I pondered Beauty and the Beast, that it’s this last part of Hale’s argument that irks me. As humans, we have written a moral code for our species that helps us identify if an act is good or bad. As problematic as this dichotomy can be (evidence: the Beast is good and bad, so which one is he?!), it seems to be how we understand ourselves, and it’s the way we teach our children not to steal or punch or worse. But I am a firm believer that human-made moral constructs should remain within the realm by which they were constructed. In other words, “nature” never asked to be called good or wicked, so who are we to impose these human notions onto anything nonhuman?

Perhaps Hale would argue that, regardless of whether or not we should impose moral standards on nature, we do. His book is written for a broader audience than ethicists and philosophers, so in some ways I think he’s just trying to operate within the framework his readers will most likely understand. I’m all for making theories accessible to the general public, but I have to say that I’m still bothered by Hale’s argument. I can’t let it go.

So, here’s one last thought on what I think is bugging me so much about Hale’s talk

He began the afternoon by showing a series of photos. At one point, he showed pictures that were supposed to illustrate the many “bad” things nature has done. As a group, we cringed at the sight of dead bodies washed up from Tsunamis, dead bodies washed up from Hurricane Katrina, and more dead bodies from other “natural disasters.” The understanding, as Hale showed these images, was that nature was sometimes cruel, and nature was sometimes wicked.

Yet, I think about Hurricane Katrina. I think about a paper I read recently in my EAH Perspectives class written by Ashley Dawson. One section in the paper is titled: “There Is No Such Thing as a Natural Disaster.” Dawson writes specifically about Hurricane Katrina, calling out then-President George W. Bush for referring to Katrina as an “act of God.” Here, Bush places the blame on fate. Hale, it seems, places the blame on Nature. Yet Dawson points out that the devastation of Hurricane Katrina was in fact a human problem, with humans to blame.

New Orleans was not prepared for the storm and the flooding, because, as Dawson points out, “repeated calls to stem wetlands erosion and to fix the failing levee system that protects the city were met with blank indifference by a federal administration more interested in tax cuts for the wealthy and imperial escapades in Iraq than in the South’s sole blue state.” As a consequence, New Orleans flooded. Those who suffered the most, on the whole, were poor and Black. They lived in the cheapest, most flood-prone parts of the area, because systemic racism and oppression had made it so. (Read Dawson’s paper if you’re interested in learning more.)

To blame fate or Nature is to remove responsibility from the abhorrent (evil?) collective and individual actions and inactions that led to so many deaths and displacements during and in the years following the storm.

Perhaps, then, evil and wickedness lurk amongst the seams of the complicated patchwork that is humanity. Perhaps good, too, is woven into our collective fabric. We are humans, so I suppose we can decide to use the terms “good,” “evil,” and “wicked” to describe ourselves. However, I would not extend those human moral constructs to nature, Nature, or “nature,”* and I suggest caution to those people who may feel inclined to do so.

*Along with my grappling with morality, I grapple too, more and more, with the concepts of “nature” and the “environment.” My inconsistency throughout this post in how I present the word “nature” is intentionally fluid to mimic the fluidity of a human-constructed concept.

I’ve been looking forward to this event all term. Finally, just like the sunshine, it arrived.

I woke up Friday morning bright and early to prepare my things for an overnight trip to the HJ Andrews Experimental Forest. There was something unique about this trip, unlike most of my experiences in nature and research settings. It was a time to reflect on my experience in one of my many identities, being a Latina.

I arrived at Ana’s house at 9 am, and we were soon joined by several families who would also be coming along for our adventure in the forest. After a 45-minute choreography of rearranging our bags, coolers, and children, all the while gracefully dancing to the duet of Spanish and English, it was time to go.

We arrived at the forest close to noon and unpacked the cars into the cabin. You wouldn’t believe that we were only staying for one night by the number of things we managed to pack into the cars including, but not limited to, rain gear, food, and musical instruments. After sharing some laughs and sandwiches, it was time for the first activity of the afternoon: the story circle.

There is something about sitting in a circle that reminds me of the power of this sacred geometry. Many life lessons come to mind, including childhood memories of my favorite film, The Lion King. The circle of life, unity, the cycles that guide natural laws, all becomes clearer when we watch, listen, and participate. What a special moment for us all, students, professors, and professionals coming together to share what Latinx identity means to each of us. The circle began with Ruth and continued as we organically decided the order. Each person shared their experiences as Latinos. There were distinct differences and similarities within these short testimonies. Our prompt was as follows: What does it mean to be Latino? And what aspect of being Latino, your race, ethnicity, or nationality would you like to elaborate on? The responses were heartfelt and included diverse identifiers such as, passion, food, emotions, language, family, music, education, and being proud of our experiences and of those before us. Latino experiences with roots from Mexico, United States, Colombia, Ecuador, Cuba, and Chile were represented, and the stories shared were full of emotion, felt by both the speaker and listener. The conversation was extended to include the spouses of Latinos and discuss the experience raising a multicultural and bilingual family. The young children, all proud Latinas, were also included in the conversation.Their energy made us laugh and smile throughout this experience.

After our sincere conversation, there was some time to enjoy the beautiful weekend with which we had been blessed. Walking along Discovery Trail allowed us to reflect on our connection to nature. There is something about being in the presence of green giants that humbles the spirit. The group was amazed by the canopy structure and the strength of the river. After capturing a few beautiful nature photos, we began to discuss lessons that can be learned from nature.  Winter, one of the most difficult times for all life, is the most important season for renewal. It is the time where the rivers cleanse and prepare for the spring. It also a time to condition and test the resilience of creatures, humans and others.  Winter can be a time to test our persistence, molding us into all that we are.

Ivan reminded us that, “You can’t step in the same river twice.” As we headed back toward the cabin we reflected on our place in nature, the spiral of life and the universe, and about how we can start to bring other students with different experiences and backgrounds into the conversation.  We crossed over a small stream, and our memories from this visit to the HJ Andrews trickled into the water, down to the river, flowing outward. It was a time for cleansing, but we knew our stories would be preserved from that moment in time and continue cycling.

The rest of the evening we gathered around a large table with bowls full hot sancocho Colombiano. As the food simmered we shared some time together with a music session and dance party. I appreciated that we weren’t expected to leave the creative aspects of ourselves out of the conversation, it was encouraged. Conducting ecological research is often associated with being the quiet observer, allowing the environment to reveal secrets through careful measurement. Our interaction with the forest was different, it was a time for the celebration of who we are, our experiences, and an opportunity to create a living memory with nature.

We wrapped up the long day gathered around the campfire. We made smores and continued to sing into the night, our songs and carried by the green giants and the night breeze. We had our fair share of laughs, as the children shared their spooky/comical stories with us. Wise words that resonated with all of us came in the form of song by Facundo Cabral, Argentinian poet and composer- also recognized by UNESCO in 1996 as the Messenger of Peace and nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in 2009, shared a moment with the group as we chorused to the following lyrics (rough English translation included):

No soy de aquí ni soy de allá

I am not from here nor from there

“No tengo edad, ni porvenir “

I have no age, nor future

“Y ser feliz es mi color de identidad”

And to be happy is my color of identity.

As I reflect on the discussion of identity in the forest, I realize it was really a discussion about humanity and our connection to the world around us. A time to honor the winter, and a time to celebrate the sunshine of spring.

Juntos began back in 2007 as an OSU Open Campus initiative to increase Latino representation in Higher Education.  This program prepares students through a college readiness program that includes helping students navigate the steps toward entering and succeeding in college. Please visit the webpage to learn more and consider supporting if you feel inclined:

https://create.osufoundation.org/project/5826

Photo credits to our wonderful film crew: Rick Henry and Drew Olson

Participants: Ana Gomez-Diazgranados, Paul Navarra, Ruth Jones, Brooke Penaluna, Ivan Arismendi, Megan Patton-Lopez, Daniel Fernando Lopez-Cevallos-Ana Lu Fonseca, Carlos Fajardo, Natalia Maria Fernandez, and four beautiful and entertaining little girls (Hazel, Amaia, Chloe, Eva Lu)

Women, art, activism, protest, event.
By Melody Owen

I’m going to guide us back through the unexpected networks of art paths I walked this winter; through a deluge of rain and what seemed like books exploding in the air overhead, showering me with pages of text. This is a guided tour through some of the art I wandered through over these past few eventful months.

We started the term during a period of shocking transition in our government. A new faction is coming into power, an administration working to kill every government agency that protects the environment and supports the arts, humanities, libraries, public broadcasting, women’s health, threatened species, clean water, clean air, forests, press freedom, climate change research and on and on… the constant barrage of news reports have been interwoven with the dark, cold, grey of winter.

Pulsing through this cloud of gloom are bursts of light, moments of coming together with other people in solidarity and consolation. Yes, we are going through our daily routines; working or going to classes and meeting deadlines, always behind, but once in awhile an essential event will take place, whether it be through a performance, visiting a collection of objects, or listening to a person talk about their own path. In our time of screen living, half in and half out of the screen, when we meet together in a physical place for an event, a tangible moment of hope may be manifested.

About ten years ago, I lived in Quebec for a couple of months in a tiny cabin with no hot water all by itself in the middle of a giant field on the edge of the Saint Lawrence River. A short walk brought me to the rocky shore. The rock there was smooth in shades of yellow, red and copper. I hosted a small party one night on the shore for my comrades at the residency program, a handful of artists. We lay on smooth rock, watching the stars shoot through the sky and talked in French and English and joked. There might have been a campfire. And then, across the river, northern lights started shimmering in magnetic but very subtle blues and yellow.

The northern lights and meteor showers, the sparks of light in the darkness of my first winter in Corvallis were embodied mainly by creative women. I started the term by suddenly deciding to curate a show of some of the women artists who are on the faculty at OSU and U of O. I called the gallery Optic and the show Nasty Woman because galleries across the country and world were holding Nasty Woman events in response to the misogynist comments made by the incoming President and in an act of solidarity with the women’s marches. I wanted to contribute to this movement because I had both space and knowledge of a number of extremely talented women, all of whom teach in the area. It just made sense to bring the elements together. It took place at my studio on the night before the inauguration. (Meanwhile in the EAH program, we are reading ecofeminism. I discover Donna Haraway.)

Nasty Woman

We are coming together to protest against the misogyny of the incoming administration. We are coming together in solidarity with the women’s marches occurring around the United States. This show is meant to display the strength, innovation, talent, fortitude, unity, and excellence of women in our community.

Event photo: University of Oregon women’s basketball team taken in the 1910s. University of Oregon Libraries – Special Collections and University Archives

Corvallis Advocate preview by Johnny Beaver

Exhibiting Artists:

Amanda Tasse

Amanda Wojick

Anna Fidler

Anya Kivarkis

Jessie Rose Vala

Julia Bradshaw

Julie Green

Shelley Jordon

Tannaz Farsi

Terri Warpinski

In addition, we held an event on Not-My-President Day, which was also linked up with events around the world. There were many kinds of meetings and interventions, large and small, that simply made a gesture of solidarity or protest, even if that gesture was very quiet, just a whisper. Mother was just such an event. The artist’s 6 year old daughter, came dressed as Alice in Wonderland, prepared to recite from the Disney movie. We read the Pink Floyd lyrics which she handed out on scraps of paper. When one of us asked, while holding in our hands the cake of bacteria and yeast, “Mother, will they drop the bomb?” she delightfully shrugged her shoulders. The feel of the mother was cool and smooth and reminded me of the time I touched a whale.

Mother

Following is the event announcement, written by artist: Karin Bolender

In honor of Not-My-President’s Day, this intimate, improvisational ceremony, led by K-Haw Hart and hosted by Optic Gallery in Corvallis, Oregon, will bring some worried, wondering humans together to artfully question/resist the opacity and absurdity of present political regimes. As we gently pass around a Mother (the thick, fleshy, semi-translucent body of symbiotically cultured bacteria and yeast that brews an ancient drink called kombucha), we will ask the Mother questions sourced from the lyrics of the Pink Floyd song by that same name. Other questions and gestures are also welcome.

Jessie Rose Vala, mentioned previously, hosted an event on a full moon and an eclipse. This event occurred in the distant lands of Springfield, an hour away. I could see the lightning from where I was watching through the virtual world of social media. A woman sang while sitting on a horse in the center of Jessie’s marvelous installation of sculptures. I did stand for a moment in the room with those sculptures at Ditch Gallery, but the horse was not there. It was another day.

Ahab’s Mother

The next event at the Optic Gallery will also be themed around women and the environment. Julia Oldham will be showing her amazing drawing from the series Ahab’s Mother. This event will take place on March 25th, 2017. Please come.

Ahab’s Mother, a series of ink drawings by Eugene-based artist Julia Oldham, follows a woman through the depths of the ocean as she drifts among schools of sardines and shivers of mermaids and alongside a giant white whale. Borrowing from both the visual language of graphic novels and the classic illustrations of Moby Dick by Rockwell Kent, Oldham creates dreamy images about longing for impossible companionship with animals and seeking the darkest and most mysterious places.

I visited Julia at an event that she hosted at the gallery Bison Bison. She was playing the entire audio book of Moby Dick as she drew and invited others to come and draw with her.  At another event she hosted yet another amazing woman artist, Mandy Hampton, who spoke about her recent work with portals.

Continuing down the street and around the corner, Bruce Burris is an artist who draws acres and acres of ink pathways, and also curates an art space in the storefront window of a huge old apartment building called the Benton Plaza. He sometimes features artists who live in the hotel itself. It is something of a small Oregon town version of New York’s Chelsea Hotel, with all kinds of quietly sparkling residents, self taught artists and craftspeople, writers and tinkerers making maps and scrolls, detailed plans for ships and volumes of comic books. Treasures be here.

Other Corvallis event makers and artists I met on the paths this season were Lainie Turner, Co-Founder/Owner at Darkside Cinema; Hester Coucke of the Art Center and Corvallis Art Walk; and Helen Wilhelm who is crafting an elegant and hidden gallery in a science building on campus. It is called the Little Gallery and is currently hosting a show organized by our very own Samm Newton on the subject of the microbiome.

Ava Mendoza hosted by Michael Gamble

Another unexpected fork in my path led me to, the incredible Ava Mendoza. She played a surprise concert organized by fellow musician, Michael Gamble, a teacher at OSU. They played together with a small group including Dana Reason, who reached right into the piano strings to play it. This amazing, spontaneous group assembled together on the top floor of the hundred year old music building to play for us, sending twisting metallic, discords lilting ribbons of electronica, and little bursts of fireflies up into the high ceilings and the wooden rafters.

Carson Ellis

This is where the path gives a sudden shake and I am at a lecture by Carson Ellis hosted by the Fine Arts Department. I sit at edge of a giant classroom filled with students. Carson stands at the front and tells the story of her life via a slide lecture prepared for a group in Romania… I think it was Romania, in my mind are Russian spires of buildings in inky backdrops to bundled children having snowball fights. Carson’s career is amazing and I won’t recount it here. You can follow her website (below) into that rabbit hole. She and her husband are both profoundly talented and accomplished. From time to time, in the midst of children’s book illustrations and album covers, she will create and share (via social media) a spontaneous image of protest or solidarity, like the paintings she did for the Black Lives Matter and the Queer Pride movements. She has done so much beautiful work, My very favorite is the collaboration she did with her brilliant son Hank, in which she illustrates some of his extensive creative research into alien life forms, as shown below.

Then, the path twists back on itself and time shifts. I am sitting in this same giant classroom, actually in the very same seat. Only now there is a different person sitting next to me. It is a young man. Wasn’t it a woman sitting next to me at Carson’s talk? Or is it the same person who has now simply shifted gender like le Guin’s Gethen in Left Hand of Darkness.

Ryan Pierce

The readings from school leak into reality and back and forth until I am so confused it almost seems as if I myself am standing in front of a slide screen with an image of my virtual avatar projected behind me and I fumble with my notes as she speaks or I put words into her mouth, words like gender and illusion and identity. Anyway, I am here again, in the chair in the classroom, with a girl or a boy sitting next to me, either one of them secretly checking his or her cell phone. But now, before  of the slide projector stands Ryan Pierce, another longtime Portland artist and colleague. He shares his story too, in fragments, talking about leading groups of artists camping  in the mountains and the desert in the summer, and about painting in his studio all winter. He shows slides of his paintings, many of ecological degradation, human impact on nature, paintings which in real life are almost as big as the projections. My favorites are his collections of treasures and delights, a little like the collection I offer you here. Who knew you could walk a path through a wood and find all these tiny treasures. (Well, the child knows this but shhhhh… puts finger up to lips) A Cabinet of Curiosities. Who knew you could walk a path through a small town in winter and scoop up all these shining stars.

Ka’ila Farrell-Smith

Ka’ila Farrell-Smith shows slides with Ryan. She is a painter too. My favorite piece was the drum material she stretched over canvas. It is visceral, referential and reverential to a profoundly painful and simultaneously beautiful heritage as well as reflecting a contemporary presence of mind and place. Her work evokes the story, the moment the story is told, the retelling of the story. They both tell stories about Signal Fire. Ka’ila started on the trips as a resident artist and became one of the trip leaders. She shares a moment of revelation in which she met a small animal, I think it was a turtle, and she followed it around and studied it for hours, which makes perfect sense to me. We see so little of those creatures really.  They are in the wild, keeping their magic to themselves, unless we are lucky enough to come upon them, while walking those paths.

Ryan started Signal  Fire with his partner, Amy Harwood. Amy is one of the most hard working and innovative environmental activists I have ever met. She is full time protecting the wilderness and ancient forests with organizations like BARK in Portland. Signal Fire hosts artists in tents in the mountains and in deserts. They take groups of students on long hikes while making art and reading about environmental issues along the way. They take artists on canoe trips and on adventures along the borders between countries. I really admire the way Ryan and Amy have manifested this residency and have been watching it grow year by year. Talk about bright lights in the darkness… these two humans have added a warm campfire glow, complete with spreading sparks, to help us light the gloom we are currently navigating.


Freda by Anna Fiddler

Now we come to the end of winter term’s winding path. In the last few days, on every plant and tree in town, tiny  buds and flowers have started bursting from branches, all soft and fuzzy like microscopic lambs, like fallen stars.. I’ll see you when Spring explodes and future events mark our way.

No Ban, No Wall, On Stolen Land

Activist and social justice warrior Harsha Walia recently visited OSU addressing the present struggles with border imperialism. Visiting as part of the Transform/able Identy-ies conference, Harsha urged us to examine how identities become constructed around borders. We must examine how forces and systemic violences inscribe these identities upon people; not only of negative stereotypes of terrorist and job-stealers, but also of “positive” stereotypes of taxpaying migrants and model minorities. By understanding how people become a migrant, a refugee, or an undocumented, we can better address the systemic oppression that imposes this identity and creates the asymmetry between borders. By focusing too much on the worthiness of identity and where people come from, rather than our humanity and challenging notions of identity as worthy, we lose sight of interlocking modes of power and governmentality surrounding border policy: border imperialism.

No one is born illegal.

We must examine questions of those constructed identities of immigrant and refugee and instead look at migration and displacement. Focus on the process and not the person to discover how to overcome these destructive practices. With one billion migrants and displaced people worldwide, we begin to see some congruence in the processes: asymmetries between rich and poor, global north and global south, whites and “others”. For example, we see policies of “humanitarian intervention” that actually strengthen neocolonialist practices of ‘othering’ black and brown people in Afghanistan. If the US were truly to be humanitarian in that rhetoric, we would accept more than the 500 annually admitted refugees. There are further concerns about imperialized feminism in Afghanistan that aim to ‘protect’ brown women from brown men in those places, often exacerbating women’s risk in those countries aimed at being ‘helped’. The currently proposed travel ban is particularly violent as well because it relies on a process of bombing and banning: it bans the refugees from places the US military intervention has had direct violent actions.

Similar political and economic practices are closely related to World Bank funded projects. The North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) is one such iteration that often obscures the global context of border imperialism by focusing on national economic policy advantages, ignoring the economic fallout across the border. Under NAFTA, the privatization of land is the essence of both colonization and capitalism. Common lands in Mexico were taken away and privatized, forcing elimination of Mexican subsidies, and displacing the workers farming indigenous varieties of corn. Meanwhile, the US maintains subsidies on corn, a non-indigenous crop, further instituting the trade asymmetry with Mexico. This is one tracing of such imperialism and has created an estimated fifty-million displaced Mexican workers forced into poverty, two-million having lost their lands, all of which are forced to challenge the U.S border for work, living in a state of migration.

Ultimately, instituting border policies implicates not only the construction and maintenance of borders—the othering of other peoples—but active measures that violate those borders (like NAFTA) that create migrants and refugees to challenge and strengthen border regimes. Further policies of military intervention and gentrification systems violate people’s sense of self-determination and create displacement while border regimes expect people not to move to find better conditions and opportunity.

We must focus on the inherent worth of all people, their rights to life, dignity, and support. We must care and lift up our people, ethically organize around our people and see less separation. We must have the expansive vision of being at home on our land, to be able to have a home in our communities, our gender identities valued and recognized, our vulnerability shared, and still be valued. To see that no one is disposable.

“The world was born yearning to be a home for everyone.” –Eduardo Galeano

Consumer Trixter (Ceramics by Cannupa Hanska Luger, from http://www.cannupahanska.com)

What is environmental art? Is it art that is connected to site or place? Does it come in a particular size, shape, or color? Medium? Craftsmanship? Is it a commentary on our relationship with the nonhuman world? Is it trying to say something about how we treat the Earth? Or each other? Does environmental art even need to reflect contemporary environmentalism?  What does environmentalism even mean?

These questions are important, some unanswerable at this moment, but still worth grappling with if environmental art is to be part of the work changing the fate of our home and the people who live here.

Art assists us as a society to explore tough questions, the in-between spaces where philosophy and science fall short. Art allows us to learn, to facilitate learning, and to better understand the incomprehensibly complex issues facing us as humans who share a finite planet with one another. There is art that reflects not only environmental thinking but also engages a public to have an opinion about it. Art inspires wonder but also action.

Cannupa Hanska Luger, well known for the mirror shields he created, promoted, and delivered to the North Dakota Standing Rock Water Protectors, is just one of many artists tackling environmental and social justice issues. Luger said in a February 2017 presentation at OSU, referring to the terrible realities of the Dakota Access Pipeline, that “the injustice isn’t happening to them, it isn’t going on over there, it is happening right here.” It is happening right now. To us.

We are a collective of humans on Earth, and when one of our communities suffer, we all suffer. Our shared source of clean drinking water is being ravaged. The morals and ethics we so proudly tout as being uniquely human are being dismantled. Our constant need for more, for better, for comfort at the expense of others’ discomfort, and disregard for the limits of our natural resources, haunts our society as the monsters described in our bedtime fables.

“As living beings, we all have myths and tales that describe our lives being abused by monsters. These monsters are out of natural order and heroes rise from their torment to defeat them. Today, we are once again plagued by monsters. It is time to be the hero, each of us must be aware of what we can do in the place that we stand. So that a far future that remembers this era of monsters can sing the songs and dance the stories of our mystic ability to come together and become Monster Slayers.” – Cannupa Hanska

The monsters that exist today aren’t associated with Standing Rock, or the Missouri River alone. As Luger said, “the river I’m most worried about is the one that flows through us all.” It is a river haunted by innumerable monsters: gluttonous extraction, environmental degradation, social injustice, corrupt politics, and a culture of capitalism.

Fortunately the people of Earth are making art and experiencing it too—those who call themselves artists as well as those who don’t—from the fine artists of academia, to the part-time crafters at home. In far off natural spaces, and in late night sketchbook doodles, we are creating objects, words, ideas, and practices that help us face these demons of despair.

Together we question the monsters. Together we reveal the monsters. Together we fight the monsters. Together we win.

www.latimes.com
“Artists, we live on the periphery. But we are the mirrors.” — Cannupa Hanska Luger Protesters hold mirror shields devised by artist Cannupa Hanska Luger. (The UnKnown Collective / From Cannupa Hanska Luger)
Artist and activist Cannupa Hanska Luger, a native of North Dakota who was born on the Standing Rock Reservation, gave a public talk titled “They Need Us More Than We Need Them” on February 16th, 2017 at OSU’s LaSells Stewart Center. “Luger creates socially conscious work interweaving his identity as an American Indian with global issues. Luger, who is of Mandan, Hidatsa, Arikara, Lakota, Austrian and Norwegian descent, creates unique, ceramic-centric, multidisciplinary artwork that tells provocative stories of complex indigenous identities coming up against 21st century imperatives, including mediation and destruction. Luger’s studio is currently based in New Mexico.”

Our Earth—the enveloping atmosphere, vast oceans, life-giving soils, profusion of plants, and grandly varied animals—each aspect of our planet needs our care-filled attention. This whole-hearted engagement becomes personal and possible though direct experience. Whether we’re field scientists, rock climbers, photographers, writers, or anglers, each path of perception reaffirms our place on the Earth and Earth’s centeredness in us. Yesterday, when ice-glazed streets edited my original out-of-town plans, I decided to check out two artists’ attention to nature through a new exhibit in the Corrine Woodman Gallery at the Arts Center: “Connecting with Water, Journeying Through Art”, featuring local artists Abigail Losli and Diane Widler Wenzel. The small and intimate exhibit granted me a chance to slow down and appreciate the creative and significant messages about water, and to consider how water and humans inter-permeate the course of each other’s paths.

16-panels-of-the-willamette-river
    Acrylic panels by Abigail Losli

The display that immediately caught my eye was comprised of Abigail Losli’s 16 individual acrylic panels, together entitled, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen. Losli, who earned her Bachelor of Fine Arts from OSU, found her inspiration for these pieces through her repeated retreats to the Willamette River near her home, where she found time and space to pause, breathe, be still, and observe. Her work is alive with the river’s color and movement, each panel representing “a single visit, a moment of connection.” In her artist’s  statement, she admits that through her direct, meditative experience with the Willamette River, she gained an even greater awareness of all the ways people build their lives around water, affirming the rich connections and traditions that surround it. Her work exemplifies how environmental art can illuminate the outer and inner life of both artist and viewer.

dscn1311
“From Silent Slack Waters” by Diane Widler Wenzel

The other featured artist, Diane Widler Wenzel, chose several spontaneous, non-objective abstracted paintings for the exhibit. (Non-objective means the painting’s purpose is to represent that which is not a thing.) Wenzel sees art as a journey—a way of thinking, learning, and growing. Her work has therefore become a journal of her life. With a painting and drawing degree from PSU supplemented by decades of close connection with the outdoors through camping, hiking, white-water rafting and boating, Wenzel strives to visualize her place in nature’s mystery, and encourages viewers to listen to the art itself. And indeed, I was struck by her painting entitled, From Silent Slack Waters, which effectively embraces the quiet lull and curve of watery silence. I was entranced by her success in capturing within her paintings not only the quality of emotion, but also that of sound, made possible by way of her keen journeying among inner as well as outer shorelines.

Wenzel and Losli’s art enriched my day immeasurably. My moments with their paintings confirmed for me the necessity of art for deepening our range of environmental expression well beyond the ordinary world of words.