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 here.

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 become the system.

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.

Two shows opening this spring. the 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.

From Dusk to Dawn- Four works on paper

Written in 2025. Posted late —

I was contacted to create two small artworks for an office building in Houston getting an updated look — 3100 Timmons Lane.

When I saw the space I saw an opportunity. An audience coming and going nine to five with no connection to the natural world right outside their door. A five-story lobby with open wall space and nothing to draw your eye there.

I proposed something bigger than what was asked. Two works, two stories tall — Sandhill cranes in a wetland on the first floor, Roseate spoonbills in the trees on the second. Two successful conservation stories, stacked one above the other, in a building full of people who might never otherwise encounter them.

The developer said yes.

3100 Timmons Lane

One of the 7’ X 9’ recessed spaces for artwork.

But before any of that — I had to figure out how to make them.

This commission was the first time I worked with a process that has since become central to my practice. I start with a drawing. Then I tear it apart — deconstructing the image into shapes. I reassemble those shapes on a second sheet of paper, building a relief. Once the relief is built I brush on large swaths of watercolor, then use a garden sprayer to manipulate the color — letting it run into the crevasses of the relief, redrawing the image through movement and gravity. Then pastels for the detail marks. The drawing finds itself again, but changed. Looser. More alive.

That process led directly to Unfolding Hope — the body of work I created for the Houston Endowment Jones Artist Award. But it started here, in a studio sketch for an office building on Timmons Lane, trying to figure out how to put a Sandhill crane in a five-story lobby.

My presentation to the developer.

A early sketch

The next step involved deconstructing the drawing by tearing it into various shapes. After that, I can create a relief by reassembling these shapes on a second sheet of paper..

Why Sandhill cranes?

In the early 1900s relentless hunting pushed them to the brink of extinction. Only 12 mating pairs remained. What brought them back was wetland restoration and habitat protection — initiated by hunters who understood what they were losing. Today Sandhill cranes are the most plentiful crane species in the world.

That is the story I wanted in that lobby. Not a decorative bird. A comeback. Evidence that when humans choose to act as conservationists, the results can be staggering.

The Sandhill cranes are installed. The Roseate spoonbills are finished and in storage until the upper levels are repainted.

When the cranes went up the developer told me something I didn’t expect — the building became a community. Tenants were talking to each other about the birds. He leased his largest spaces the next month.

That is what I hoped for. Not decoration. A reminder — for people who spend their days inside — that nature matters and we feel its pull even through art.

The two finished pieces — Sunrise: Sandhill Cranes and Sundown: Sandhill Cranes — can be seen in my 2025 portfolio. Come see them. Better yet — come to the studio

Then comes the color.

SUNDOWN CRANES

7” X 9”4”

watercolor, pastels, ink on collaged Stonehenge paper.

Image by R. Wells

SUNRISE CRANES

7” X 9”4”

watercolor, pastels, ink on collaged Stonehenge paper.

Image by R. Wells

Generational Amnesia and Water given the 7/4/2025 floods

Water is composed of a multitude of living organisms, each a microscopic being. Having spent most of my life in the vast desert of West Texas, I've always yearned for a connection with water and the beauty of plant life. Water gardening and underwater videoing have become my pastimes, offering pleasure, creativity, peace, and calm. I spent hours in our pond during covid.

However, I am concerned for our young humans as they navigate an environment increasingly marked by extreme weather patterns. I worry that they will grow to fear water, especially in the wake of violent floods that seem to be happening more frequently.

When reflecting on our relationship with water, it's hard not to see how humanity's approach has been somewhat harsh. I initially wrote violent, but AI suggested I use the word harsh, so I toned it down.

We often treat this vital resource as something to be controlled, redirecting it into linear channels and concrete ditches or trapping it in reservoirs and basins filled with chemical inputs. With hindsight how will future generations describe our treatment of water, our relationship with water? Thinking about it tears me up.

This treatment raises questions for me:

Are these extreme weather events, these overwhelming floods, a response to our attempts to dominate and contain water rather than nurture a natural flow? I believe it is.

Perhaps if we can rebuild our connection with water and all the microorganisms that make it up—by rebuilding landscapes that promote it to move slowly and freely, spread out, and soak into the earth-we might mitigate these violent, I mean, harsh events. Would fostering this gentler relationship with water lead to a more harmonious existence for us and water's living beings?

Lastly, I believe it’s important to recognize the value of our relationship with water, as it plays a crucial role in cooling the planet. In fact, about 90% of the planet's cooling comes from water. By fostering a deeper connection to this essential resource, we can better appreciate its impact and work towards preserving it for future generations and our own.

Re-greening a Dryland Watershed

https://www.usgs.gov/media/videos/re-greening-dryland-watershed

Dreaming of Melting Mummies.

When you understand the natural systems that regenerate our planet, you understand that snow is both an end and a beginning. Tobi, my Labrador, and I could not wait to check on our plant beings in “Deeper than that” this snow-covered morning. Scanning the installation there are bushy snow puddles of Butter daisies and Bluemist flowers with tiny bursts of color saved only for those who care to listen closely.

Layered in the dust of the morning’s snow the blanket flower draws us closest. The fiery blooms not reaching for the sun but in a motherly huddle. I am grateful that I don’t need to spend money, time, or energy on covering native plants that are genetically designed to thrive in extreme temperatures and weather conditions. The exposed plants create a subtle palette of earth tones rarely seen in urban landscapes, showcasing the various stages of life and regeneration that these resilient species represent. When my eyes focus on the details, hidden colors are revealed, and my brain receives a surge of oxytocin. I understand what hope feels like. As l scan down the street I see homes lined not in winters pallets but boxshrubs wrapped like mummies. For a moment I invision those mummies milting into a street lined with nature’s gentle winter lessons. I image things to inspire children to explore and capture their imagination.

In the quiet of the snow, I reflect on its form—a white-covered blanket—and its relationship with a planet that naturally regenerates for future generations. I consider how the plants that freeze back or remain in place become energy sources and habitats, supporting the foundation of the planet’s food network. It warms my heart to think about how this snow-covered landscape protects the soil life that nourishes roots and promotes spring growth.

There are many lessons that humans can learn from a garden that embraces seasons, regenerates life and provides for a diversity of beings. Imagine how different the world would be if every child’s first classroom was a garden, or if all politicians had to maintain a healthy garden without the use of chemical inputs for four years before they could hold office. They would gain insights into networking and learn about symbiotic relationships in real life.

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?

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.

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

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

Moving Forward

Moving Forward

67” X 15” X 18”

Image by Jake Eshelman

Found object concrete and rebar curbing fragment, rusted steel, bronze, and gold leaf.

Moving Forward consists of two rectangular concrete curb fragments and two cast bronze roots, the latter with gold-leaf patinas. These objects are tethered like irregular beads strung on a wire of rusty rebar falling to the earth.

The fractured concrete and the more extensive root land at the forefront in a forward strutting anthropomorphic structure. Growing behind the long-necked bird-like form, a stem of rebar twice the creature's height reaches for sunlight. The meandering stem is counterbalanced with the smaller root in a lyrical passed sunflower shape.

The weighted composition invites viewers to reimagine the relationship between our engineered landscapes and ecological systems to support wildlife and forge a path toward a regenerative future.

A Turn of Events: My Dream Installation on hold.

This summer, I was presented with an incredible opportunity. A curator asked me to propose my dream installation, a chance to showcase something meaningful. The site owner was willing to support and fund the work.

After much contemplation, I decided on a proposal that filled me with passion and urgency. However, last week, it all came to a halt.

I am sincerely grateful for the curator’s interest in my work and the site owner’s support. Their initial inquiry inspired this proposal, and I cannot thank them enough for that. I believe that everything happens for a reason, I have an idea and I am hopeful that I will find the project a site and funding.

First a little background. While at Indiana University, I became aware that integrating ecological recovery with natural systems is a new academic direction and numerous educational institutions are interested in this area. After all, universities and school systems are the largest landowners in any city and having research students involved would be a great asset. Transforming the proposed installation into an art/environmental science installation would significantly enhance the social sculpture’s reach and benefit a university and society.

Below is my proposal.

Introduction-

Global warming, food security, drought/flooding, wildlife habitats, economic instability, and health – these problems are not new to humankind. The archeology of ancient civilizations has recorded connections between the longevity of civilizations and the health of their soil. The United Nations reported in 2014 that the world's topsoil would only last 60 more growing seasons. Soil scientists around the globe agree that solutions to these issues are rooted in our treatment of soil—the skin that covers our planet. 

In a moment of global uncertainty, I ask myself, what materials and forms would I use to create the greatest impact on society and the environment? As I think of ancient civilizations' architecture, art, and spiritual practices, pillars and vessels played an important role in shaping their understanding of the world. Much of my previous work has been about conservation issues, looking specifically at Earth’s natural systems of bees, at waterways, at bison, at native plants, at recovery from Hurricane Harvey, and now at the underground systems of Earth. And so, I would use roots as my material and pillars as my vessel.

standingGROUND

In standingGROUND, I propose a four-stage installation of 5’-10’ tall pillars of various shapes grown from the roots of long-rooted prairie plants.

These pillars will be created by stacking various shapes of clay vessels commonly purchased from home and garden stores. The vessels with the bottoms removed will be stacked and centered on a steel pole cemented in the earth with a small footing for stability. The pots will be filled with a leaf-mold compost and seeded with native grasses and plants known for their root depth. They are to be nurtured and watered for approximately twelve months or until the plants are rootbound in the clay pillars. The clay will then be delicately broken away and the above-ground plant material removed, leaving freestanding pillars of delicately intertwined roots bound in the shapes of the stacked vessels. The root pillars will stand erect on the hidden steel posts.

Drawing inspiration from the rhizomatic root structures of native grasses that give structure to Earht’s underground life, these sculptures, woven by natural systems, standing above ground, will bridge the gap between sky, earth, water, and modern humanity. These pillars offer a glimpse into the intricate workings of an underground prairie ecosystem, the upside-down rainforest for carbon sequestration of North America.

Four Stages

The first phase of standingGROUND will focus on the sculptural aesthetics of the work. I will carefully build the pillars composed of ready-mades to be strong sculptural elements on their own. Once a site is selected, I will choose a paint color that harmonizes with the surroundings and emphasizes the sculptural qualities of the pillars. Lighting will play a crucial role in showcasing the sculptures in relation to their environment. I will paint the pots before the installation, touch them up, and paint the joints afterward. Information on the site will discuss the ecological and social aspects not yet revealed.

The second phase will be to install the pillars into an immersive experience. The towering yet human-like pillars will be positioned strategically to create an intimate and inviting space for viewers. Within this space, a stone or stump will be placed as a reflective seat, provoking thoughts on how our actions impact climate and biodiversity and how humanity can find harmony within natural systems.

The third phase of standingGROUND is when I physically chisel the ceramic vessels away to reveal the social sculpture aspect, the delicate white lace-like intertwined roots bound in the shapes of the stacked ready-mades bridging the gap between sky, earth, water, and humanity.

The fourth phase encapsulates the cycle of life, decay, and regeneration. This crucial phase is essential for ensuring life on Earth. The root sculptures will gradually erode and disintegrate when exposed to the elements. Once the installation has reached the end of its visual lifespan, I will carefully remove the root sculptures. The poles and footings will be relocated from the site. This stripping away of the remnants will leave behind a cavity in the ground previously occupied by the footings. Remarkably, this void will serve as a space where the roots can be placed to rest-regenerate and give birth to new life.

I started experimenting with the shapes in their root form last week. I initially created six sketches in the form of watercolor monotypes. Then, I researched more pot shapes with larger mouths and created four more in round 2. The images of these sketches are below. I will continue experimenting with these shapes as I work on a site.

standingGROUND II

Watercolor monotype

30” X22”

StandingGROUND VI

Watercolor monotype

30” X22”

standingGROUND round 2 #1

Watercolor monotype

30” X22”

standingGROUND IV

Watercolor monotype

30” X22”

StandingGROUND round 2 #4

Watercolor monotype

30” X22”

StandingGROUND round 2 #3

Watercolor monotype

30” X22”

StandingGROUND round 2 #2

Watercolor monotype

30” X22”

standingGROUND V

Watercolor monotype

30” X22”

standingGROUND III

Watercolor monotype

30” X22”

standingGROUND I

Watercolor monotype

30” X22”

Hats and Storytelling.

Indulging in a morning of thoughtful stitching and reflection. Since my youthful days in the 70s shaping hats at my father's feed and Western Wear store, hats have held a profound meaning for me. They possess a unique ability to tell stories.

Recently, I acquired an extraordinary green hat from the talented artisan Edgar Alvarez at Gran Central Hats. Their craftsmanship captures the essence of customization, allowing ribbons, feathers, and all manner of embellishments to adorn your own hat. I made the decision to handle my own stitching, and I must admit, piercing through the resilient felt material is no easy task.

As I sit here, needle in hand, I find myself musing about the idea of incorporating elements inspired by the prairie grasses and the thriving ecosystem that thrives through the consumption and waste patterns of bison. It's a fascinating, how their actions actually contribute to the renewal of life. For instance, birds benefit from the ecosystem by consuming pests that break down bison dung. These birds utilize bison fur to construct their nests, as the fur provides antiviral properties, fortifying their eggshells. Furthermore, the grasses that flourish due to the bison's eating and waste habits offer nesting materials and shelter from predators.

I am hopeful that when finished this hat will be something more than a mere fashion accessory; it possesses the potential to be a powerful catalyst for conversations, stimulating discussions about our individual roles in the process of regeneration.

To Leave

The ephemeral beauty of nature lies not just in living organisms but also in their inevitable decay.

This morning, while examining “deeper than that” a private living sculpture art installation featuring indigenous plants, I was struck by the fading loveliness of the Rosinweed leaves as they withered. Contemplating the homophones “leaf”, “leave” and “leaves”, I pondered how societies historically understood the ecological value of allowing foliage to persist even after senescence. Is that why we call these objects a verb?

Leaves that have left a plant continue to nourish the soil and its microbial inhabitants even in death. Their decaying forms hold moisture, shade the living organisms in the ground, and provide nutrients as they return to earth, building a balanced ecology that sustains urban landscapes. They are an important material natures uses in its engineering of the water table.

Though a single leaf may seem a small, ephemeral thing, in aggregate and over time, the leaves left behind establish and uphold the very foundations of life.

Their decay is not an end but rather a beginning - a quiet, essential recycling of energy and matter that allows new growth to emerge.

In both the noun and the verb there are layers of beauty, and layers of ecological purpose, in the leaves left to molder where they fall. An ecosystem thrives on this gift of decay, using the ephemeral to fuel the eternal. Such is the profound, poignant cycle that the installation’s Rosinweed specimens, even as they bend and brown, help perpetuate. Out of seeming loss, abundance; out of death, life.

Leave your leaves and be grateful for their beauty as nouns and as verbs.

Living Llabyrinth- Building the grid

Building a Large Grid for Installing a Labyrinth: My Process. One reason I write these blog posts is to record my process. The other is to share information.

Constructing a labyrinth grid of this magnitude may seem like a daunting task. And it is for me. With the right strategy, it can be accomplished efficiently. As I embarked on this venture, I took the time to experiment and optimize my methods. Here's a breakdown of the process that was the most efficient.

To begin, gather the necessary materials: X-axis cords measuring 53 at 54' and Y-axis cords measuring 33 at 88' lengths. Keep in mind that the cords come in 100-foot lengths.

I wish I had of planned at 50’ by 100’ bison. The lighter is for singing the ends so they will not ravel. The tape is for tapeing the measured and twist-tied ropes for the installation.

I am making each cord that is a multiple of 5 a white cord. I think this will helpful the day of the installation.

1. X-axis cords: Start by unwinding the hundred-foot cord carefully, ensuring it doesn't become tangled. Here's a handy tip: tie a knot at one end and secure a twist tie next to it. Place the knotted end in a doorway and shut the door on it. This will hold it in place. Then, stick your arm through the middle of the looped cord and slowly unwind it, walking away from the door until it's completely straight.

2. Measure and cut the cord, leaving a few inches to knot and singe the ends to prevent unraveling. Tie another twist tie at the 54' mark. This will serve as the reference cord for measuring all other X-axis cords. Keep this cord secured in the door.

3. Take the leftover cord singe the end and knot it and tightly tie a twist tie inside the knot. Shut in the door with the reference length cord. Measure it against the reference cord and splice it with a piece of the next 100' wound-up cord to measure the 54' length accurately. Now you have a cord to start marking the grid on.

To mark the grid on the first cord—

The dining has been my studio work space. First I covered the 8’ table in a thick paper to protect it. Next I marked every 20” from end to end.

4. Prepare a long table by placing sheets of paper and securing them to the table so they will not slip. Measure and mark on the paper every 20". Lay the cord on the marked paper. To ensure stability, anchor the cord with a heavy object like a case of water.

I used a case of water to weigh down the cords.

Starting from the first knot, and twist tie secure each twist tie tightly along the edge of the table at the 20' marks. Continue tying twist ties until you reach the end of the 54' mark. You may have a little excess cord hanging after the last tie.

The 8’ mark of the table length and the last twist tie. I leave a few inches at the end just in case.

The first piece with every 20” tightly tied with a twisties.

5. Carefully wind up the cord, tape it securely, and mark it as X-axis 54'.

The first grouping of five- 4 red and the 5th white.

53 pieces - completed.

6. Finally, organize the cords by making four red and one white, keeping them grouped together.

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

Once the grid is installed, the next step is to think about how to divide the work so that groups of student and volunteers can install my vision. .

Two options seem viable. The first idea is by marking the (X, Y) coordinates for each circuit of planting on individual pages. The other idea is by verticle rows.

Below I have marked the coordinates of the circuits. As I mark the coordinates I am not sure this is the way. I may need to break it down to smaller sections.

I can continue to consider how to breakdown the jobs as I begin building the grid.

IU - Natural systems - digestive system

Scaling up the drawing I also wanted to incorporate another layer of interest in the piece - the ruminant's digestive system.

Before the digestive system and with shorter legs.

In order to add this intestinal circuit his abdomen and hump had to get larger to allow for the walking paths on either side of it. The wider girth made his legs look like stumps so I lengthened his legs.

After the digestive system and leg adjustments.

IU - How do you build a labyrinth? From 8”X 10” to 83’ × 54’

How to go from an 8” X 10” paper to a field, Is the question ruminating in the back of my mind every day.

Unfortunately Bloomington is in between art supply stores. As a result I could not buy locally any paper larger than 8” X 10” . While I waited for an order to come in I pieced together 8 - 8” X 10” pages and scaled it up 2X.

When I scaled it up 2X I started seeing that I could take it to any size I wanted by using (X, Y) coordinates. I am using a 20” scale.

8- 8” X 10” paper to a make a 18” X 30” sketch.

How I could get a 83' × 54’ rectangular grid with right angles on a field was a big concern.

An idea came to me when I toured the charming Wylie House, a fascinating piece of history nestled just off campus. This historic gem, built in 1835, was once the cherished home of Andrew Wylie, the inaugural president of Indiana University.

The Wylie House master bedroom.

During my visit, the knowledgeable docent unveiled a captivating detail - the simple rope framework that upheld the mattress.

The antique bed’s rope framework that supports the mattress. What looks like a cup is the chamber pot.

A rope grid might be the answer to getting a proper rectangle With right-angled corners and grid onto a field.

This visual solidified my strategy for bringing the labyrinth design from paper to reality in an open field. The framework I need is 83’ × 54’ the vertical and horizontal ropes that cross every 20”. We can twist tie the coordinates together making the rectangle form.

The National Wildlife Federation - feature

Partnering with communities, schools, governments, and organizations across the country, the National Wildlife Federation is leading the charge for conservation.

Through their tireless commitment to protecting and restoring habitats, they have managed to breathe new life into endangered species like eagles, deer, elk, bighorn sheep, and whales.

I am deeply proud to have my work featured in the prestigious fall edition of the National Wildlife Federation magazine. It is a true honor to be recognized alongside such incredible conservation efforts.

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

I wrestled with this question. There was not anything in either of Kurt Vonnegut’s books that inspired me. I do feel he wrote about what he knows and my work should be true to my own heart. A list of the obvious came to my mind- butterfly, chrysalis, beatle, seed, flower, IU letters…….

After a full day at the Eskenazie Museum on IU’s campus I was intrigued by this piece.

The museum label read-

According to traditional Bamana beliefs, an energy or force called nyama animates the universe. Objects such as this boli are made to harness that energy and use it for the benefit of the community. The thick, crusty surface is the result of offerings such as millet, other vegetal matter, beer, and chicken or goat blood, all of which are applied to attract nyama and serve as physical evidence of its presence. A boli does not represent a particular creature.

It is kind of perfect., should I make another bison? Can I make a Boli bison labyrinth?

I can see it.

Here are the steps I took

More to come tomorrow.