This Was Never Supposed to Exist

We had been planning this trip since January — we wanted to see the birds. I just hadn’t had time to dig into the land’s history before we arrived. I’d been deep in the studio, consumed by my upcoming shows. When I got there and started learning what this place actually was — a clay pit, a sulfur mine, an accident of excavation turned bird sanctuary — I felt it land somewhere in my chest. Everything I had been turning over for months was living, breathing, right in front of me.

A coincidence? Maybe. But it felt like confirmation. Like a reminder to keep going — the work will find a place to live. That is always the big question when making eco-art.

I went to see the birds. I ended up seeing the system. I had just written a manifesto about seeing in systems — and I still walked in looking at one thing. That’s how wired we are. Standing there, I had to laugh at myself.

This is Claybottom Pond at High Island — one of the Gulf Coast’s most extraordinary ecological sites. And nothing about it was supposed to exist.

The pond was dug in 1936 to provide fill dirt for a railroad bridge crossing the newly excavated Intracoastal Waterway. It became a community water reservoir. Then a sulfur mining operation. The island the birds now nest on? An accident — a leftover edge of the original pit, forgotten during later excavations.

Then Houston Audubon stepped in and simply said — not here. Within a year of protection, the first 50 heron nests appeared. By 2003, over 1,000 nesting pairs called this place home. The alligators stayed on purpose — managed as a natural moat, keeping raccoons and coyotes away from the nests.

The birds didn’t just move in. They got to work.

This is the part that stopped me cold. Those egrets nesting above the water aren’t just raising their young — they’re regenerating the world beneath them. Their waste, rich in nitrogen and phosphorus, rains down into the water and onto the banks. Seeds they carry in from miles away take root. Nutrients from the Gulf ecosystem pass through their digestive systems and get deposited into a former industrial pit in coastal Texas.

Consumption and waste. The most basic biological cycle. And here it is rebuilding an ecosystem from the inside out.

I’ve been reading Joe Roman’s *Eat, Poop, Die: How Animals Make Our World*, and he writes about Surtsey — a volcanic island off Iceland that erupted out of the ocean in 1963, a completely sterile rock. When seabirds began nesting there, they brought the ocean with them. Their guano fertilized the bare volcanic surface. Meadow grasses appeared. An ecosystem assembled itself, one deposit at a time. Roman calls it a perfect example of how animals shape our world — not through grand gestures, but through the accumulation of small, bodily, unglamorous acts.

Claybottom Pond is its own version of Surtsey. A hole dug for industry, transformed first by protection, then by the slow, steady biology of the birds themselves.

And this place is a reminder that industry and wildlife are not always opposites. Sometimes industry leaves something behind — accidentally, imperfectly — that nature knows exactly what to do with.

What if we designed our cities the way the egrets work — where consumption and waste don’t deplete but regenerate? Where what we take in and what we leave behind actually builds something?

That’s not a fantasy. The birds have been doing it all along.

Two shows opening this spring. *circle & the circle*, a collaboration with Sherry Tseng Hill, opens May 15 at Throughline Art Collective. And on May 23 I open a solo show as a recipient of the Houston Endowment Jones Artist Award — work that elevates stories of conservation like this one. This is exactly the territory both shows are working in. The pull between the natural and unnatural. The way life moves back in when we let it. The things we’ve been conditioned not to see.

More to come.

Happy Earth Week

nature is bigger than humankind.

THE DAY THE WIND DREW

An Introduction

Some invitations arrive like weather — unexpected, and carrying something with them.

When Holly Josey reached out asking if I would curate her exhibition for FotoFest, I said yes before I fully understood why. That is, I think, the only honest way to say yes. You feel the pull of something before you can name it. You trust the tug.

What I did know was this: my own work has long been in conversation with the natural world. Gust, a body of work I’ve been developing for years, is rooted in wind — in its invisibility, its insistence, the way it shapes everything it touches without ever being seen directly. So when Holly described pens suspended from tree branches, left to draw whatever the wind drew, something in me recognized it immediately. Not as a concept. As a kinship.

We began with a studio visit. She laid out everything — paintings, photographs, the tender evidence of a practice built on deep looking. What unfolded over those hours was something I’ve come to treasure in the work of curating: the slow revelation of an artist’s inner world. Holly’s relationship with the natural world isn’t borrowed or decorative. It is structural. It holds everything up.

Getting to know a new artist who listens this carefully to nature — who is willing to hand the pen to the wind and mean it — lifts something in me. It reminds me why I make work, why I say yes, why paying close attention is never wasted.

Saying yes, I’ve learned, is its own form of letting go.

THE DAY THE WIND DREW

Curator’s Statement

There are two questions underneath all of these works — what does it mean to let go? And what does nature already know? Holly Josey answers these questions with open hands.

Holly Josey’s exhibition The Day the Wind Drew began with a simple act: pens suspended from tree branches, left to move however the wind moved them. Over hours and days, the marks accumulated — not chosen, not corrected, just received. The original work is intimate — 84 inches, on paper — but the wind is not intimate. It is vast, so the wind’s drawing was photographed and printed at monumental scale, filling a 10.5 by 18-foot wall. What remains is a kind of frozen breath, a single moment pulled from an endless series of compositions.

As a curator who works as both an eco-artist and a citizen scientist, I am drawn to what is happening in this work on a deeper level. We are living in a moment when it is dawning on us — slowly, and not without resistance — that the natural world’s intelligence has been unfolding since long before we arrived. The wind has its own logic. The tree has its own memory. Natural systems have been perceiving, connecting, and evolving for far longer than we have. To make art with them, rather than simply from or of them, feels urgent right now. It feels necessary.

It calls to mind something Marcel Duchamp understood a long time ago — that an artist does not have to be the one holding the brush at the final stroke. When his large glass work was damaged in transit, shattering into a web of cracks, Duchamp did not mourn it. He called it finally finished. The accident had completed it. Earlier still, he had let threads fall from a height and fixed their landing exactly as they landed — chance crystallized into form. He was making room for the world to collaborate.

Josey does the same, only her collaborators are alive. The tree. The wind. Time itself. These are not abstractions — they are presences in the room with you as you look. The erratic lines on her paper are evidence of a relationship, a conversation carried on without words between the viewer and the elements. This is what any artist or citizen scientist recognizes: that watching carefully, without forcing a conclusion, is itself a form of knowledge. That the most beautiful things happen at the fringes, in the borders, in the unexpected moments when you let go.

This is what connects everything in this exhibition. Not a style, not a medium, but a willingness to not know exactly what will happen — and to begin anyway. To stay open to risk. To let the work breathe. To learn, as natural systems have always learned, by paying close attention to what the world is already doing.

Cindee Travis Klement

www.cindeeklement.com

The Tyranny of Tidy

In Defense of the Uninvited — Part II

There is a particular kind of anxiety that lives at the edge of an unmowed lawn. You can feel it from the sidewalk — the low-grade disapproval radiating off a neighbor’s glance, the HOA letter with its careful language about community standards and property values. We all know this pressure. Many of us have bent to it.

I feel it too. At my own eco-art studio, mid-restoration, volunteer plants have started pushing up through the gravel parking lot this spring. In modern aesthetic terms, it looks unkempt. Do I groom the lot because that is what looks cared for to the human eye, or do I do what I preach? First, what I preach is holistic, meaning every situation is different and I have to look at the bigger picture. And if I did want to clean it up — how? I won’t use pesticides. Pulling them is more work than I can manage. I could burn them with a torch, which releases carbon — leaving the lot neat, but barren. I know this option well. It’s what I did all last summer. I feel the pull of that option still. If the entrance looks controlled, does that make visitors more willing to accept the wildness in the garden beyond? That question — how much tidiness do we owe society before we’re allowed to let something live — is exactly what this essay is about.

But where does that feeling actually come from? Why does an unruly patch of goldenrod or a volunteer elderberry pushing up through the fence line produce something closer to alarm than curiosity?

The ancient part of your brain that kept your ancestors alive is genuinely afraid of the tall grass. It is scanning for the snake, the bobcat, the thing with teeth. It wants visibility. It needs control.

That instinct is old. It is wired in. The impulse to clear, to see, to know what’s out there — it kept people alive across tens of thousands of years. We are not wrong to have it.

But we are living in a different world now, and that old circuitry is misfiring. The danger is no longer the rattlesnake in the grass. The danger is the bare ground. The landscape stripped of everything living in the name of control, safety, and the appearance of order.

Consider what that reflex, scaled up across millions of properties and across vast stretches of agricultural land, is actually producing. The fires in Colorado. The fires in California. The flood on the Guadalupe on the Fourth of July. Hurricane Harvey. To name a few. The heat domes that park over cities for days — fed not just by hot pavement and bare urban lots, but by the barren heat radiating off monoculture fields left fallow between seasons. We call these natural disasters — as if nature did this to us, unprovoked.

Extreme weather is increasingly weather that gets stuck. When large amounts of dark surfaces and bare ground absorb and radiate heat, they create heat domes — and the pressure those domes generate is what prevents weather from moving across the landscape. Living plant systems — their moisture, their transpiration, their cooling and breathing — help move weather across the landscape. Strip those systems out and replace them with hot pavement and monoculture lawn, and you remove the very mechanisms that keep weather moving.

What would it take to shift not just individual behavior but the aesthetic itself — to make living, layered, uninvited-welcoming landscapes look like what they actually are: acts of intelligence? Acts of care?

The weeds already know what to do. The seeds are in the soil, waiting. Life is not asking permission. It is ready to come back the moment we stop yanking it out.

The question isn’t whether the land can recover. The question is whether we can — from this idea that control is the same thing as care. That bare is the same thing as clean.

The greatest threat humanity faces isn’t what’s hiding in the weeds.

It’s that we cut them all down.

What a Purple Black-Eyed Susan in Sequel Taught Me About Resilience.

What a Purple Black-Eyed Susan in Sequel Taught Me About Resilience

I was walking through Sequel — my living sculpture — when I noticed it. A cluster of Black-eyed Susans with leaves gone deep, moody purple. My first instinct was something’s wrong. But the more I looked, the more I wanted to understand what was actually happening.

So I went down the rabbit hole.

Turns out, that purple color isn’t a disease. It’s not dying. It’s responding. When a Black-eyed Susan experiences stress — cold nights, too much rain, soil that can’t deliver the phosphorus it needs — it produces something called anthocyanin. A pigment. A protective chemical the plant makes just to cope.

The same pigment that colors blueberries. Red cabbage. Autumn maples.

The plant doesn’t collapse under pressure. It changes color.

I’ve been sitting with that ever since.

So much of what we call “damage” in nature is actually adaptation. The purple leaf isn’t broken — it’s communicating. It’s shifting its internal chemistry in response to its environment, doing what it needs to survive. And the wild thing is, once the soil warms up, once the water drains, once the nutrients find their way through — it can return to green. It was never permanently altered. Just temporarily transformed.

This is exactly why I built Sequel. Not to display nature at its most polished, but to live inside its full cycle — the struggle, the adaptation, the quiet recovery. Sequel keeps showing me things I didn’t plan for, didn’t design, couldn’t have predicted. A purple leaf on an ordinary Tuesday is its own kind of gift.

As an eco-artist, I want my work to carry this story. Not the version of nature that’s always blooming, always golden-hour perfect. But the version that goes purple when it’s cold. That shows the struggle on the outside. That adapts without pretending.

There’s a honesty in that I deeply respect.

If you ever spot a Black-eyed Susan going purple, give it a moment before you panic. Check the drainage. Watch the temperature. Maybe add a little bone meal if the soil’s been wet and cold. But also — just notice it. Let it remind you that stress responses aren’t failures. Sometimes they’re exactly what survival looks like.

Sequel keeps teaching me that. One plant at a time.

— 🌿

In Defense of the Uninvited

I think about weeds.

Not in an anxious, what-do-I-do-about-them way. More in a — wait, who decided these don’t belong here? — kind of way.

I look at these plants. Really look at them. They showed up, figured it out, and started doing the work. Nobody planted them. Nobody watered them. They just arrived, broke through whatever burning hot surface was available, and got on with it. You have to admire their spirit and determination.

We call them invasive. We call them a problem. And sometimes, they are. I am a die hard native plant enthusiast — however I have been uncomfortable with this reflex to yank out anything that wasn’t there before — particularly in cities, especially on abandoned lots and cracked pavement and post-industrial nowhere — as if those places had some pristine original state worth protecting.

They don’t. And these plants seem to know it.

Here’s what I’ve come to believe: weeds are Earth’s first responders. When the ground is left bare, tilled, stripped, burned, flooded, or just forgotten — Mother Earth sends them in. They are biologically programmed for the site’s specific conditions, temperature, moisture, daylight — speed healers. They lower soil temperatures, protect the earth’s surface, feed what lives below ground, slow rainwater, reduce erosion, sequester carbon. They show up precisely when and where they are needed most. They do not waste energy or resources.

Here’s what I’ve also noticed: the spots where something is growing — even the stuff we’re not supposed to want — are almost always healthier than the spots where we’ve cleared everything out in the name of keeping it native or neatly manicured. Bare ground isn’t neutral. It’s just… empty. It’s dead. And dead empty doesn’t really serve life.

So I’ve changed how I work. When a volunteer appears somewhere I wasn’t expecting it, I no longer yank it out in a knee-jerk response. I stop — look — think. Why was it sent in? What is it doing? Is it holding soil? Feeding something? Offering shade, cover, a landing pad? I weigh what it’s providing before I decide what to do about it.

The real question isn’t where did this come from? It’s what is it doing now that it’s here?

I’m not saying throw out the whole idea of caring about native ecosystems. I am still a die hard native plant enthusiast. I’m saying the city lot behind a parking garage is probably not the hill to die on. And the plants that moved in there — the ones in these photos — they’re working with what exists, not what existed.

There’s something I respect about that.

Just maybe they know what they are doing.

Take daisy fleabane. Erigeron annuus. Dainty and a little scraggly when alone but stunning in a bunch, shows up in places nobody planted anything intentionally. Easy to walk past. Easy to dismiss.

Here is what it’s actually doing.

It’s a pioneer species — which means it arrives first, on bare and broken ground, before almost anything else is willing to try. Disturbed soil, compacted soil, the forgotten strip between a parking lot and a fence. Fleabane doesn’t care. It moves in, stabilizes the surface, and starts feeding things. Bees, wasps, flies, small butterflies. The Lynx Flower Moth uses it as a host plant. Goldfinches pick through the seeds come fall like they’ve been waiting all season.

Nobody sent it an invitation. It just knew where it was needed.

That’s the plant in this photo. Doing exactly what I described. Showing up, figuring it out, getting on with it.

Easy to pull. I say — easy to love.

The Same Root

Last weekend I attended De-documenting, an exhibition by artist Beatriz Bellorin at Box 13 — a body of work exploring immigration law and process that stayed with me long after I left. The work is timely in the obvious ways. But it surfaced something I didn’t expect: a connection I’ve been trying to articulate for some time, between how we relate to land and how we relate to one another.

That thread runs through a work-in-progress—my manifesto. What follows is one part of it.

The Same Root

There is a connection between how we treat land and how we treat each other that is not metaphorical. It is psychological. It is moral.

The impulse that produces the sterile lawn — the need for control, for legibility, for the elimination of what does not belong — is the same impulse that produces exclusionary politics, that walls off complexity, that treats diversity as threat rather than abundance.

Someone who has learned to build a living ecosystem understands viscerally that diversity is resilience. That the system is stronger for its complexity, not despite it. That what looks like chaos is intricate interdependence. That the thing you might want to remove is probably doing something essential you have not yet understood.

This is not a metaphor for immigration policy. It is the same cognitive and moral framework — the same quality of perception — applied to human communities.

Learning to tend a living garden does not automatically make someone a more compassionate citizen. But it trains the eye and the mind and perhaps the heart in ways that make compassion more available. It builds the capacity to sit with complexity without resolving it into something simpler and cleaner and less true.

Passionate for Pre-K

This post will serve as a journal for the work.

 “My four-year-old daughter saw her first butterfly and was terrified." – Lawndale Art Center patron, 2022.

This remark, shared during one of my Symbiosis artist talks at the Lawndale Art Center, sparked Passionate for Pre–K. Imagining a generation untouched by the gentleness and fragility of wings—this is a sorrow too heavy to bear—and do nothing.

Wildlife plays a vital role in early childhood brain development.  At the very least, let each school day begin with a procession past living poetry: vines sculpted in fragrant blossoms of lemon honey, trembling with the promise of caterpillars, alive with the fragile ballet of butterflies. Each child develops in the company of nature’s intelligence.

With small acts of passion, this is within reach.

DESCRIPTION

Passionate for Pre–K is a living social sculpture installed in the fall of 2025 on the chain-link fences surrounding the playground at Clemente Martinez Elementary School in Houston, Texas. I sourced 90ish Texas native vines from my three living sculptures: Symbiosis at the Lawndale Art Center, Deeper Than That at a private residence, and Sequel, located next to my art studio in Acres Homes. Passion vines are highlighted in the mix. Sourcing from multiple locations supports the DNA diversity of the ecosystem. Hope Stone and landscape architect Caroline Craddock are coordinating this installation with the school administration.

THE PROCESS

Taking tender 10-inch vine cuttings, using root stimulator and native leaf mold to propagate the plants. I am selecting 90 plants of different species to support a variety of wildlife and accommodate different growing seasons. The school community assisted with the planting in early October.

LONG-TERM GOAL

As ecological knowledge from Symbiosis has taken root in Deeper Than That, which has grown into Sequel, the hope is that Passionate for Pre-K will act as a catalyst. Annually, new tendrils—carefully propagated—will be gifted from Clemente Martinez Elementary School to neighboring schools, allowing the spirit of regeneration to spread from playground to playground, blossoming into a living legacy of wonder and natural intelligence.

PLANT LIST

May pop, Passiflora Incarnata

Stinking Passion vine  Passiflora foetida 

Various proven Passion vine hybrids.

Trumpet honeysuckle,  Lonicera sempervirens

Hairy clustervine, Jacquemontia tamnifolia

Muscadine grape, Vitis rotundifolia

American wisteria, Wisteria frutescens

Crossvine, Bignonia capreolata

Carolina jessamine, Gelsemium sempervirens

COLLABORATION

Passionate for Pre-K is a collaboration with Hope Stone, Caroline Craddock and the Clemente Martinez Elementary School community.

I am extremely thankful for this opportunity, which wouldn't exist without Hope Stone, Caroline Craddock and the incredible volunteers.

NOVEMBER 2025 UPDATE

During phase two of Passionate for Pre-K, a fifth-grade class carefully planted the remaining plants for the installation. The following week, the eager students returned to check on their plantings, only to find a scene of destruction. Unfortunately, a child left unattended in the play area pulled up several plants, leaving only 7 of the original 90 still alive. This act of vandalism is heartbreaking and frustrating, but it highlights how important this project is. The lessons a garden can teach about social responsibility, care, and wonder are fundamental. I will not let one act derail the project. Every child has the right to be inspired by nature. I am propagating new cuttings in preparation for planting again in the spring.

—special thanks to Caroline Craddick for capturing these moments in photos.

One of the plants from the previous planting that was part of the vandalism. Notice the gulf Fritillary butterfly hiding in the shadow.

propagating a passion vine in water.

The Stinky Passion flower’s scientific name is Passiflora foetida. It is also known as Fetid Passion Flower, Love-in-a-mist, Wild Maracuja, and running pop.

It has sticky, feathery, leafy bracts that surround the flower and fruit. When an insect tries to eat the fruit, it gets caught in the sticky bracts and dies. The plant then secretes a digestive enzyme and absorbs the nutrients.

Lifeblood

Lifeblood

5.75 “ X 6” X 7”

bronze

Image by Jake Eshelman

Lifeblood, Explores of the profound connection between humans and nature, conveyed through the visual metaphor of a root naturally occurring in the shape akin to the human heart. This piece is part of a larger body of work titled "Subterranean Secrets," which delves into the theme of roots. My work aims to invoke reflection on the unseen yet vital networks that sustain both plants and humans. By casting roots directly in bronze, I emphasize their resilience and permanence, highlighting the enduring significance of these natural systems.

The inspiration for "Lifeblood" arose from my studies on regenerative agriculture, focusing on the indispensable role roots play in countering extreme weather. My exploration into the fascinating world of roots began in 2017, unveiling striking visual similarities between roots and the human heart. These parallels reveal both biological and conceptual truths, as roots and the heart function as lifelines, circulating essential nutrients that sustain life.

Through "Lifeblood," I invite an examination of the often-overlooked relationships between human existence and the natural world. The act of casting these roots in bronze imparts permanence to these otherwise ephemeral forms, challenging perceptions of how we value the natural systems surrounding us. This sculpture contributes to the ongoing dialogue about our environment by emphasizing our dependence on nature and reinforcing the deep interconnection between humanity and the natural world.

In the end, "Lifeblood" serves as a call to acknowledge and appreciate the hidden yet crucial systems that support life. I believe that by understanding and valuing these networks, we can cultivate a deeper awareness of our roles within the broader ecological system, sparking actions to preserve and nurture the natural environment essential to human existence.

La Mancha’s Sequel: A Mindful, Climate-Smart Urban Landscape.

January 14th

Today, as I immerse myself deeper into the world of ecological restoration and sustainability, I find myself fueled by an overwhelming sense of purpose. My Climate-Smart Urban Landscape project has truly become a labor of love, growing more meaningful with every leaf gathered. As I collect bags of native Oak leaves from curbs, I'm not just gathering leaves—I'm cradling potential life, the eggs, pupae, larvae, and chrysalises that might be nestled within. Astonishingly, Oak trees are home to over 900 species of caterpillars. These caterpillars serve as a crucial food source for many songbirds and their young across North America. By saving these leaves, I am inadvertently contributing to the survival of these beautiful creatures.

The interconnected benefits of these efforts are profound. First, by fostering biodiversity, I help ensure diverse species can thrive. Second, as the leaves decompose, they transform into a rich, nourishing substance that revitalizes our depleted soil, forming the very backbone of our food network. Third, these leaves provide essential shelter from harsh weather, acting as a protective barrier against heavy rains and cold temperatures and safeguarding the tiny creatures that rely on them to survive.

My inspiration stems from personal experiences and a deep sense of environmental stewardship. Through "La Mancha’s Sequel," my urban landscape project, I aspire to blend art, architecture, and environmental literature in a way that leaves a meaningful impact. My goal is to transform the local community here in Houston and ignite a larger appreciation for ecological interconnectedness. By sharing this journey, I hope to inspire others to commit to regenerative practices within urban environments.

With every leaf collected and every small step taken, I am moving toward a more harmonious world. This journey reminds me that each of us holds the power to make a difference in our neighborhoods, communities, and beyond. Together, we can create a future where sustainability and biodiversity thrive hand in hand.

#rain #soil #abstractexpressionism #houstonart #ecoart #socialsculpture #cindeeklementart #art #texasart #sculpture #contemporaryart #modernart #regenerativeart #sequel #acreshomes #foodnetwork #foodchain #regeneration #regenerativeart #artandscience #agriculture #agriart #foodnetwork #foodweb

Prairie Rhythms: Predators and Pastoral Stewardship

As I prepare for my upcoming living sculpture titled "Sequel," I had the opportunity to explore the prairie ecosystems at Pierce Ranch. The morning started with collecting prairie seeds, which is a vital step in bringing my sculpture to life. To enhance my understanding of these ecosystems and find the most viable seeds, I reached out to a local prairie conservationist who has been instrumental in restoring numerous prairies, notably preserving the Katy Prairie. Collecting seeds is much like eating crawfish, proven to be a catalyst for engaging and enlightening dialogue.

The insights I gained from this exchange confirmed my concerns regarding land preservation. It might surprise and disturb you to learn that the most vibrant and diverse prairies aren't necessarily those that are protected. Rather, they are the prairies that have embraced a more dynamic relationship with the land through careful ranching practices and thrive with life and diversity.

Historically, the natural balance between predators and prey shaped these ecosystems. Predators once hunted freely, guiding the movements of herbivore herds, naturally managing the consumption of vegetation (energy) and the dispersal of organic matter in the form of dung, returning energy back into the soil. However, human intervention led to the decline of these predators, overgrazing, and the desertification of ranchlands. Modern-day ranchers have learned to adapt by using portable fences to mimic these natural movements. This modern adaptation sustains the prairie as a healthy ecosystem, supporting numerous bird species and wildlife.

Through this blog post, I hope to reach an audience unaware of the critical role of ruminants in preserving and revitalizing prairie ecosystems. It's not merely about protecting a static image of nature but understanding and fostering the dynamic relationships that sustain it. The prairies are a testament to the resilience and complexity of life when allowed to interact naturally, even within the framework of sustainable human practices.

It's exhilarating to see how this knowledge aligns with my artistic vision. The conversations I've had and the observations I've made will undoubtedly enrich the narrative and structure of my living sculpture. The prairie seeds are not just components of my work; they symbolize a deeper understanding of ecological balance and the beauty of a thriving ecosystem. They are a source of energy and knowledge, a way to repay the planet.

As I continue this creative process, conversations with friends and experts will remain the cornerstone of my inspiration. In sharing these insights, I hope to foster a broader appreciation for the nuances of prairie conservation and the subtle yet profound ways we can contribute to preserving our natural world.

I leave you with questions that modern society must consider: How can ruminant populations be managed in the absence of predators? What are the consequences of not culling herds? What does the future cycle of life entail?

Living Labyrinth – Echoes of Existence: A Journey Through Nature's Narratives To Redefine The Anthropocene. - Artist statement

Echoes of Existence: A Journey Through Nature's Narratives To Redefine The Anthropocene.

Echoes of Existence is a social sculpture site-specific art installation on the campus of Indiana University. It will reside at Hilltop Gardens in a field of manicured turf grass, creating a stark juxtaposition between a cultivated lawn's carbon footprint and a natural carbon sink. A work of conceptual art that the students of Indiana University will install. It is a living labyrinth, sculpted from the tapestry of Southern Indiana's native plants, embodying the region's rich biodiversity and echoing the inherent beauty of natural systems. In a land that once echoed with the thunderous presence of thousands of bison roaming the prairies.

The materials are modeled as b.bison grazing with a bird on its back, a tribute to the bison's eating and waste habits that have supported North America's ecosystems. The entrance, marked by native limestone inscribed with "What might seem like the endpoint..," challenges our perceptions of beginnings and endings, urging us to shift from modern humanity's linear thinking to a cyclical understanding of our relationship with nature.

 On the journey through this living labyrinth, one is engaged in a walking meditation guided by the rhythm of the winding path. A labyrinth has a fixed path, a deliberate design that allows your mind to wander freely, unburdened by the fear of being lost in a maze. On this path, one is immersed in nature's diverse colors, textures, smells, sounds, and movements, each element enhancing the experience and making every meditative walk unique.

The path culminates at another limestone marker adorned with rudimentary carvings representing the ecosystem's historical biodiversity that reappear when ruminants are reintroduced to the land. The inscription echoes, "What might seem like the endpoint...may also be the beginning." This mantra provokes contemplation on the cyclical nature of existence, where endpoints can transform into starting points. It encourages us to reconsider our landscape policies and redefine the Anthropocene Epoch as the age in which humanity falls in step with natural systems.

 Surrounding this internal limestone marker are four native tree stumps, representing the four stomachs of the ruminant's digestive system. They also serve as seats for reflection to digest how small acts impact extreme climate and biodiversity.

"Echoes of Existence" is a tribute to the enduring spirit of nature and a reminder of our responsibility to care for it. Inspired by wisdom from ancient Greek philosophy, this living labyrinth depicts all life as a complex journey of constant transformation of relationships and the knowledge that what appears to be an endpoint can also be a beginning. It invites participation and engagement in a dialogue with the land embracing life's cyclical relationships. It is not just an invitation to observe but a call to action-to think, to act, to regenerate.

links to other Living Labyrinth blog posts.

Artist in Residency at Indiana University- Living the Dream Installation.

IU- How do you draw a labyrinth?

IU- What kind of Labyrinth should I make? What is my site-specific message?

IU- How do you build a labyrinth from 8’ X10” to 83’ X 54’?

IU- Natural Systems - digestive system.

IU- The labyrinth design - How will it be installed?

IU- Living labyrinth- Building the grid.

WHISPERS OF A SHIFTING DIVIDE

Whispers of a Shifting Divide is a polished bronze sculpture that imagines the unimaginable. It was inspired by my children's 1997 discovery of a crustacean fossil lying in the desert of West Texas just before we moved east to semitropical Houston, Texas.

The sculpture symbolizes the U.S. 100th meridian, the demarcation between the arid western US and the humid eastern US since the early 1800s. Since 1980, this demarcation between arid and humid has shifted 140 miles eastward from the west side of Austin, Texas to the east side of Austin to the 98th meridian. Another 140 miles — another 40-50 years — and Houston, known for its semitropical humidity will be on the arid side of the boundary.

The polished bronze material nods to Houston's future and industrial character, particularly the polished steel street signs in its minimally landscaped commercial tourist area, Uptown Houston.

By imagining the unimaginable, this work fosters a dialogue that calls for environmental consciousness of the possibilities of our actions.

Echoes of Existence-how to engage the students

I am slowly working to find solutions to the problems that will arise when the students implement the installation.

First, how to get students that are not comfortable with nature to want tobe involved. What will draw them in?

Second, a big problem is how to control a group of college kids in a field and have them complete a detailed installation.

Bloomington is a walking city. Every day as I would walk about town and the campus I worried about how I was going to solve these two problem. And like on most college campuses everyone is in their own audio visual world contained between the ear pieces of a headset. And I was the same. The difference was I still wanted to connect to those passing by me with a “good morning” or hi. I found the IU students were very focused on the sounds in their headsets they did not need to make eye contact or say hello.

In a discussion with an English professor, Shannon Gayk, who also teaches a walking class, I learned that a novel idea for students is silent walking. The idea of walking without a headset without sound — silent.

Thinking of headsets and silent - my mind went straight to silent raves then to a silent installation.

Would the concept of a silent installation draw the students in. Could this commitment to headsets be a possible tool for crowd control during the installation?

I love the idea. But that leads to another hurdle. How do I design a silent installation? What technology makes this possible?

With a quick Google search, I found several companies that provide everything you need for a silent event.

Weingarten Art Group - Reseeding

I am delighted to be included in the spring 2024 exhibition at CityCentre, “Reseeding”, which prompts deep reflection on humanity’s influence on the natural world. The exhibited artwork urges us to envision a utopian future where our impact is positive and mindful choices lead to a harmonious coexistence with nature, inspiring a collective commitment to a sustainable future. The exhibition was thoughtfully curated by Olivia Kimbrell of Weingarten Art Group.

On exhibit until September 2024, the lobbies at CityCentre are open to the public M-F, 8 AM – 6 PM

CityCentre 2 Front – Christian Eckart
CityCentre 2 Back – Cindee Travis Klement
City Centre 3 – Dornith Doherty
CityCentre 4 – Bruna Massadas
CityCentre 5 – Rachel Livedalen

Photography by Nicki Evans

Planetary Mission Statement .

Integrating systems theory into my art practice has influenced my work in many ways. It is one of my core beliefs that in order to save the planet it is imperative that every organization, be it large profit-driven or small non-profit, commits to embedding an environmental ethos into their core values. The place to start is with an organizations mission statement.

In a serendipitous encounter with an acquaintance from a prestigious art institution this weekend, I learned of their significant reorganization. I suggested that every institution embed an environmental ethos into their mission statement and then I thought - even Throughline. Throughline is a newly organized Collective that I am a member of.

Today I discussed these thoughts with fellow Throughliner Caro Otero a gifted artist and caring human being. Caro and I are part of the Throughline facilities committee. We discussed that there are steps we can take to improve our day to day operations and become better stewards of the planet.

Envisioning a profound commitment, we proposed to the administration committee to incorporate this spirit into Throughline's mission statement:

It could read something like this-

We vow to serve as Earth's custodians, honoring its natural rhythms. Embracing accountability for our environmental footprint, we strive to operate conscientiously, leaving a positive mark through purposeful actions. We are advocates of planetary regeneration.

Or something that says Throughline cherishes nature and restores the environment through conscious daily actions.

In our role in the facilities committee, Caro and I will examine Throughline's everyday activities as an organization and consider ways to operate more responsibly and advocate for the planet. We will re-evaluate these procedures annually.

Please pass this idea on to your organizations and incorporate planetary responsibility into your bylaws.

Besides making greener choices in the products we buy, such as disposable cups and beverages, our treatment of urban landscape and protection of Earth’s living soil is a powerful way reduce our carbon footprint and support biodiversity.

There is tremendous power in the collective action of small acts.

Indiana University artist in residence— conceptualism, the site, archeology and anthropology.

October 11th was the end of the first leg of my residency. The experience truly supports the statement you don’t get what you want but you always get what you need. I did not seek out the residency but I can see how it is helping me take my Social practice to the next level.

It is giving me the opportunity to use; the symbolism of a labyrinth, the regenerative symbol of a bison, the turfgrass of an institute of the US collegic system to change societal habits. These features alone are rare and hard to come by resources.

Exploring the campus and discussing my plans with all who would listen resulted in IU providing me with the opportunity to add a few more layers to the work. Specifically conceptualism, archeology and anthropology.

Conceptualism- The Eskenazie Museum on IU’s campus has one of the three complete collections of Marcell Duchamps readymades. Seeing these pieces of Duchamp the father of conceptualism from the 60!s and 70’s gave me the idea that my work at Indiana would be more impactful if it is conceptual.

As I began to plan the labyrinth design and installation I began to see how beautifully Conceptualism works with Social sculpture. If I create the concept and the design the steps to install it and the students implement my concept and design it becomes theirs. It won’t be my art they assist me with it will be their actions taking meaningful steps.

The last Monday at IU in a meeting discussing the actual installation process with one of the professors and directors of the Hilltop Gardens it was suggested I work with the anthropology department and Archeology departments when I return. Archeologists will be enlightening when it comes to installing the grid. The Anthropology department can help facilitate a possible relationship and sharing of culture between the students of the First Nations and the students who do not have a deep connection to the land. I would like the installation to be a catalyst for the two groups to develop a unified way forward, a new tradition or ceremony that will give them all together a personal connection to the landscape and the biodiversity it will support.

The next step is to get the University wheels to approve a site. To be the most successful the site needs to be a sea of turfgrass, have full sun, be spacious enough to accommodate the 85’ X 54’ bison, and accessible to the students and community.

I am thrilled to announce that in late January 2024, IU selected a sloped plot of The Hilltop Gardens for the installation.

Related blog posts

A labyrinth of what shape? http://www.cindeeklement.com/blog/2023/10/2/what-kind-of-labyrinth-a-seed-a-beautiful-design-a-bison-that-is-the-question

The design

http://www.cindeeklement.com/blog/2023/10/8/the-labyrinth-design-how-will-it-be-installation

From 8” X 10” to 53’ X 85’

http://www.cindeeklement.com/blog/2023/10/7/how-do-you-build-a-labyrinth

Language and Perception

In the above image the wrench represents industry and the butterfly the natural world.

For those with philosophical minds, it’s fascinating to explore how language shapes our understanding of the world. The power of words extends beyond mere communication; it molds our perceptions and influences the way we interpret reality.

Consider how our dominant cultural values can impact our vocabulary and ultimately shape how we perceive things. If our society places highest importance on industry and financial gain without regard for environmental consequences, our language will reflect that mindset.

Our perception of the image and the world is shaped by our language. If our main focus is on achieving economic success at any ecological cost, then our vocabulary reflects these thoughts, and these thoughts in turn influence how we value ecology. Take a moment to consider this image of a butterfly and a wrench.

What do you perceive — a wrench supporting a butterfly or a butterfly struggling to withstand the pressure from a wrench?

We can use this knowledge to change society – by analyzing the relationship between language and perception, we can start to question and challenge these dominant narratives. We can choose to broaden our vocabulary, incorporating words that prioritize environmentalism and regeneration.

Imagine if everyone shifted their linguistic focus towards promoting regenerative practices, valuing nature, and taking responsibility for ecological well-being. This change in vocabulary could create a shift in perception – from viewing nature as something to exploit for financial gain to recognizing its inherent value, fragility and it’s power.

So let me ask you again: How do you perceive the image of the butterfly and the wrench? We have an opportunity to reflect on the power of language, challenge conventional thinking, and work towards creating a more regenerative future for ourselves and generations to come.

#ecoart #socialsculpture #wrench #butterfly #language #womanartist #texas #houston #cindeeklementart

Bombus melanopygus - Black tailed bumble bee.

How the bumble bee got its stripes https://www.eurekalert.org/news-releases/600078

Bombus melanopygu, a captivating bumblebee species that I recently began studying for my body of work, “Rumblings”. As an artist, my process begins with thorough research, delving into the intriguing world of each unique species. Despite the limited information available, I find myself captivated by Bombus melanopygus and its enchanting research qualities.

Incredible breakthroughs have been made by researchers in understanding the color differences within bumblebee species. A recent study, conducted by experts at Penn State, has revealed the presence of a specific gene that drives these variations in color patterns. This discovery not only sheds light on the astonishing diversity among bumblebees, but also provides insights into the evolution of mimicry, where individuals adopt similar color patterns within a given area. The gene resides in a highly conserved region of the genome, which serves as the blueprint for segmentation. This groundbreaking research was published in the renowned journal Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences on April 29, 2019. -

Heat Dome

“What I propose, therefore, is very simple: it is nothing more than to think what we are doing.”

-Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition

Heat Dome

Watercolor monotype

30" X44"

Bare ground, concrete, asphalt, and astroturf emit 4X radiant heat. Great masses of radiant heat create heat domes. Heat domes prohibit weather from moving across the land. In contrast, surfaces covered in thick layers of plants indigenous to the region store water in the soil. When the day warms, the plants transpire, releasing bacteria with the moisture to form clouds that provide shade and then rain. We each need to carry our ecological weight. We can start by considering new ways to surface our city scapes to cool the planet.

Heat Dome ghost

Interdependence

Interdependence

60” X 10.25” X 10.25”

Image by Jake Eshelman

Texas Bricks, Paint, Plastic Dome and Base, Vintage Globe Bank, Prop $100 bills, Coins from a diversity of economies, Paper Wasp’s nest on Maple tree leaves, Seashell with barnacles, Red swamp crayfish, bird nest, feather of a Pileated Woodpecker, Blue jay feathers, Mantis, Cicada, Great Purple Hairstreak, Tropical Checkered Skipper, White Peacock, Red-spotted Admiral, Monarch, Red lacewing butterfly, June Beetle, Eastern Carpenter bee, Wolf Spider, Beebalm, Sacred Datura, Bundleflower and various dried leaves.

Artist Statement

Interdependence is built from a collection of TEXAS-stamped bricks washed with a white patina. In a staggered stacked square skyscraper form, the bricks shoulder a transparent dome and base, crowned with a vintage Globe Bank finial.

Within the transparent dome is a still-life collection of intricately connected elements from natural and human-made systems. They wreath a "Houston" stamped brick fragment.

By using everyday materials that we typically associate with urban environments, the work conveys that the collective actions of Houstonians, living in a dense population center with a sprawling footprint and long growing seasons, have far-reaching implications for global economies. It is a reminder that our choices impact not just our immediate landscapes but global eco-systems as a whole.

This sculpture is not a warning. It presents a solution. I employ systems thinking to suggest that embracing economic systems is necessary to recover biodiversity. Economic systems dominate our culture and intimately impact natural systems. Houston's ecology and commerce can potentially create a new economy - an ecotourism industry. Houstonians can transform the negative impact of industrialization, commerce, and urbanization into a source of beauty, wonder, and economic growth by advocating for our natural habitats.

Interdependence invites us to rethink our individual relationship with the planet’s biodiversity, recognize the value of our natural heritage, and embrace the idea that supporting wildlife is a global responsibility dependent on a collection of individual acts.