Petrograph Gallery: 2008

Sunday, October 19, 2008

Faces in Nature

An exhibition in the display window at "Faces" (185 Main St.) in downtown Northampton, Massachusetts, to be held from 11-31 May 2009.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

TIDES

Recent petrographic images of Marguerite from a tidal inlet in New Brunswick, Canada, on the Bay of Fundy. Because Fundy has the highest--and lowest--tides in the world, a lot of debris rushes in and out of the inlets. In these pictures, seaweed and mud (loosened by my having dropped the stones into the water) were racing over the petrographs on a fast-flowing, out-going tide. The water speed and relatively low depth made for a wealth of pattern in the currents, which caught the late afternoon sun.

Note: Check out Suzanne Carlson's site at suzannecarlson.wordpress.com. Suzanne was a crucial participant in the Fleeting Fossils installation in downtown Northampton in Fall, 2007.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Ocean

River

Winter

Artist's Statement

Petrographs are silver gelatin images printed on stone. My name—Petro—means rock in Greek. What a stroke of luck….

When natives of northeastern Siberia saw a view camera for the first time they called it, “a three-legged device that draws a man’s shadow to stone.”

Petrographs do the same thing. By casting and briefly fixing our shadows to the bedrock, they juxtapose the “snapshot” span of our mortal memories with the vastness of geological time. And that puts humans’ experience on earth back into perspective. We are not the planet’s masters. We’re just one of many species passing through deep time.

I grew up with rocks in the house—my father was a mineral collector—but I don’t make petrographs for keeps. After harvesting rocks from rivers, seabeds, and quarries, I coat them in photographic emulsion, print them with images from the human sphere, and return them to their original locations. Then time, water, sunlight, and weather do their erosive work as I record the process with my camera. The results, revealing the rocks as they’re distorted, obscured, and weathered by ever-shifting environmental factors, evoke in days the passage of years, and tether us to natural cycles of decomposition and replenishment. The installations, which scientists assure me have no ill-effects on their host eco-systems, are fleeting. Our images disappear, and the rocks return to their own silent business.

There is a Welsh word—hiraeth—that has no cognate in English. It suggests something akin to the “presence of absence,” and refers to a deep, and creative, longing for something unattainable that exists only in the imagination, possibly beyond place or time. In the case of Wales, a subject state since the 13th century, it derives from a longing for a national history that should have been but never was: a gap filled by myths, legends, and once-and-future yearnings.

Petrographs exist in the gap between human consciousness and the world around us. As our images erode in the sea or a river or under the snow, or the sun weathers and cracks them, their weathering enacts the presence of absence before our eyes: the hiraeth of the natural cycle. They insist that our lives are snapshot moments, and that we belong to the earth—that it is our home.

Petrographs’ insistence on our place in the natural order is a sometimes beautiful, occasionally unnerving reminder of how place shapes us—the rocks’ histories, formed and distorted by glaciers, ancient seas, fire, and ice, become miniature landscapes that give mass and form to our memories—and how everything we do imprints, for better or worse, on the environment.