Flight Patterns

Twilight, Liberty Arts Gallery, Yreka, CA, 2021

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They cut off my wing so I wouldn’t be so loud, concrete, tire, drill bits, feathers, 1’ x 1’ x 2’h, Liberty Arts Gallery, Yreka, CA, 2021

So I could slip into the sky, wood, wing, bear fur, net, plastic, hair, 3.5’ x 3.5’ x 4.5’, Liberty Arts Gallery, Yreka, CA, 2021

One Breath, deer antlers, chair, graphite, plastic, surgical breathing tubes, 1 1/2’ x 1 1/2’ x variable height, Liberty Arts Gallery, Yreka, CA, 2021

Since March of 2019, it’s been a crazy time, with political upheaval, a raging pandemic, escalating racial injustice, and all with the doom-like and looming danger of climate change. During this time, I have been dreaming of flying. Carl Jung says flying dreams represent escape. Sigmund Freud says they are a result of nocturnal emissions (of course!) and psychologists agree that it’s the most frequent dream to occur. Also, apparently more men dream of flying than women. That’s weird.

Anyway, in my dream it’s easy (they say to focus on what you actually do in your dream to understand what it is about). I hold my arms out at a just-so angle, they catch the air currents and lift me up. It takes a bit of adjustment. My legs sometimes lag behind; I have to really work to make them buoyant. Then I remember NOT to work at it and eventually they come along for the ride. My speed is steady and peaceful, the air cool and pleasant, no sounds, no thoughts.

These recurring dreams may have affected my work in this show. At least there are feathers.

Scratching the Void

Scratching the Void, plastic, wire, clock part, 18” x 24”, 2021

When COVID-19 descended on our world we were all thinking each day would bring relief and the end of our forced isolation and existential fear. The seconds, minutes, hours and days mounted, and continue to mount, seemingly endlessly. Time has become as meaningless as physicists claim—take it out of the equations and all their theories work. Somehow, it leaves my world not working, from empty second to second . . . vacant.

Her Teacup, His Gun

Her Teacup, His Gun, rescued from fire: tea cup, handgun, melted metal, board, 6” x 4’ x 6.5’, 2021

In Her Teacup, His Gun, I am honoring the survivors that came through the Campfire in Paradise, California, while memorializing those 85 lives who did not. A liminal event, straddling the line between life and death, my daughter and son-in-law survived while one block over people fleeing the fire were trapped and died in their cars. Found in the rubble of their home: a dainty teacup, reminiscent of the feminine, and a gun, representing the masculine within our society, straddling a line. Both objects were the only surviving after the flames engulfed and burnt their home to the ground.

“He tells me to stay in a vehicle if at all possible, put on good shoes, long pants, long sleeves and tie back my hair. Transformers, barbecues and cars, things are exploding. Mostly east, but we can’t tell. We lose track of time. It was the longest urination of my life, trying to rush in case traffic moves again. Can anyone figure out where the fires are? Which way to go? Traffic politely obliges as we use driveways. This is the first time I think, “we might not get out”. Later we learn they died there. Dry, windy days have begun to mean fire nightmares for me. Transformers, tanks, cars exploding, we lose track of time. Flames are eating at a field, lapping up trees. “that can’t be right” Stuck, people are taking hoses to attach. I reach across the cat carrier, at least Orbit’s incessant meowing has stopped. We have no idea that the fIre is all across town, power is out, we are in a disaster. I have my mom’s paintings in the car. I am not leaving them. Paradise is on fire. The wife sets a sprinkler on the lawn. Thunder, and I think not—I have never heard transformers exploding. He tells me stay in the car, tie your hair back, put on good shoes, finally we see the flames. We are stopped wondering, what to do? Bob is an ornery bastard that I care about, I waste time arguing. I catch and crate one cat but his sister shies away. I don’t stand a chance. Three adults, one with a baby push a car into a ditch. A man driving his motorcycle into the flames and back with a dog on his lap. I realize even against my nightmare, I had an expectation of protection-trust. As we creep closer to that glow, he places a hand on my arm and says he is sorry. We both believe he has made the decision that will kill us. There is not much space, but I optimistically encourage her to jump into my backseat. A man runs out of the black and grabs her leash. It’s late, I’m in the studio, I have to pee. I grab a bucket and pee. There’s a hole in the bucket. Can anyone figure out where the fires are? Which way to go? In the end we did not have a choice, we were directed to turn right on Pearson. It is pitch black. We lose track of time. Wind violently whips.”

–Original escape story told by Shannamar Dewey, edited Dada style by Belinda Hanson–cut, pasted and rearranged at random.