In stark contrast, one of my first major art pieces came to me in a moment. I had a clear and complete vision for the finished work and did a quick sketch to simply document the idea.  I spent the next month working 12+ hours a day to complete the piece. During the process I felt like the Richard Dreyfuss character in Close Encounters, who obsessively made an enormous model of a mountain in his living room.

Shortly after I completed the work I submitted it in an art exhibition and competition held at a small regional museum an hour north of Tucson, Arizona.  The piece was accepted so I loaded the sculpture into the back of my pickup. It was a difficult piece to move and would require two trips.  By the end of the day the sculpture was set up in the museum and awarded the top honor in the competition by a distinguished juror. I received some very encouraging feedback during the exhibit and starting thinking about where else I could exhibit the work.  I had visions of my art career taking off.

When the exhibit ended I traveled north to pick up the piece. Unfortunately, the night before, the side window of my topper had been vandalized. I did not have time to make a proper repair so I duct taped a sheet of plastic over the window. I carefully loaded the top portion of the sculpture, made of hand cast fiber and intricately constructed paper structures, under the topper and headed back home.

There must have been an accident on the interstate because about halfway to my destination I found myself at a dead stop surrounded by cars in the middle of the hot desert. As the traffic stopped an intense unexpected rainstorm rolled in and began to pound the truck. I watched in my rear view mirror as the duct tape slowly gave way and my sculpture melted in the back of my truck. The deluge stopped within five minutes, as if it knew its work was complete.  On cue the column of cars started to move forward.  I won’t try to describe the swirl of emotions I experienced at that moment.  With time and a bit more perspective I began to wonder if the sculpture was ever mine.

Immersed in art and culture, I naively assumed that every child my age was getting similar experiences.  It was not until later that I realized how special my childhood was.

One of my most vivid memories was a kindergarten field trip to the University of Iowa Museum of Art. I remember excitedly passing a George Rickey kinetic sculpture as I entered the museum.  Beyond the front door I was greeted by an enormous painting by Robert Motherwell entitled Elegy to the Spanish Republic, No. 126 (shown here).  At that age I was unaware of the work’s significance, the artist or his intent, but I responded with an uncontrollable excitement.

When I returned home I raced to my room and completed a drawing of the most complicated thing I could think of — an automobile.

I immediately went to my mother and asked her to take me back to the museum so they could display my drawing.  My mother, a kindergarten teacher with a strict upbringing, secretly vowed she would never say “no” to any of her children and therefore complied with my bold request.  She confessed later that she intentionally remained in the vehicle while I scurried into the museum with my drawing to speak with the curator.

The museum staff graciously explained that they could not accept my drawing but suggested I enter it in a competition and exhibit to be held at the University of Iowa Hospital.  I entered my work in the competition and received a third place award.  Both of my parents accompanied me to the hospital to see the work displayed.

One of my favorite works of architecture is Jean Nouvel’s Cartier Foundation for Contemporary Art, constructed in Paris in 1994.  It is a simple rectangular building — half of which is submerged underground.  The visible portion is situated in an informal garden amidst four parallel glass walls.  Two of the glass walls hug the sides of the building but extend beyond its edges.  Two additional glass walls maintain the building line on the street and are stabilized by the building. The layers of glass, landscape and building make it nearly impossible to detect the limits of the structure.  As you pass beyond each glass plane the street, building and garden begin to pull apart — revealing the distinct yet complimentary elements.

While visiting the building and taking this photograph I recall hearing several locals questioning the appropriateness of a corporate foundation, funded by a luxury jeweler, making decisions regarding what “art” is viewed by society and saved for the enrichment of future generations.  Blurring the lines between corporate interests and cultural enrichment is rarely questioned in the United States; however, it occurred to me that — like Nouvel’s building — transparency does not always produce clarity.

The limestone is crushed finely and the bits of stone and dust are compacted into a permeable yet surprisingly durable surface. When the weather is dry a fine dust will gather on the surface of the walkway.

As people passed this sculpture several would rub their hands in the dust and then place their handprint on the art. Most would then stand near their handprint and have someone take a picture of them in front of the sculpture. (This was before the invention of the telescoping selfie stick.) When I arrived this particular day the lower portion of the sculpture was entirely cover with hand prints.

This was not Moore’s or park administrators’ intention, and this unplanned, spontaneous, child-like activity undoubtedly concerned many art devotees. After I got past the initial shock of people touching and interacting with the art work, I became very intrigued with what was the happening.

As far as I could tell the dark bronze sculpture was not damaged by this activity. When it rained the prints simply washed off, and the process repeated itself after the dust reappeared on the surface of the walkway. The individuals engaged in these activities did not seem to be devoted art enthusiasts, but I did not detect any disrespect or distain in their actions.

The people engaged in this activity seemed earnest — relishing the opportunity to connect and become a part of this piece of public art, even if it was just for a moment. It is interesting to consider what happens to a work of art after the ownership of a work is transferred and is no longer is under the artist’s direct control. I can only hope that people have the same urge to connect with my work.

Like most southwestern cities Las Vegas is dominated by the automobile.  Although I am far from being in the top 1%, I believe I am the only Las Vegas resident in my tax bracket that does not own a car.  I ride the bus.  I do this for several reasons, but the main reason is that I hate to drive.  I would rather have someone else take the wheel while I read, stare out the window or answer a few emails on my phone.  There are definitely other benefits to using the bus, like walking more and not having to deal with parking, maintaining a vehicle, insurance and car payments.  I even earn bonus points in some people’s minds for saving the planet.

One major benefit of bus riding that caught me off guard is that it keeps things real.  A one-way bus ticket costs $2, so no one is taking the bus on a joy ride.  My fellow bus riders are hardworking people struggling to make it to a job, grocery shop or get their sick kids to the doctor’s office. Many of the riders are in wheelchairs or have a disability that requires the costly lifts and other technologies available on the bus.  I ride the bus because I choose to, but many others don’t have a choice — they can’t afford their own vehicle.

Several months after selling my car and taking the bus, I have begun to notice the carelessness and indifference my companions and I endure.  It begins with the quantity and quality of public space allocated for people that don’t own cars.  If you are lucky you get a thin strip of concrete adjacent to a lane of hurried traffic.  That thin leftover strip of land needs to accommodate all the other public amenities like light poles, powerlines, trash cans, bicycle traffic and yes — the bus stop.

This off-the-shelf bus stop, pictured here, might conform to all the regulations, but it doesn’t even provide the promised protection from the blistering desert sun.  Riders huddle behind the structure on uneven terrain next to a parking lot as they wait for the bus. The lack of dignity afforded people that don’t own a car is staggering.  It is not the fault of the bus system or the city planners alone.  The built environment has historically been the playground of the wealthy and powerful.  These conditions are the result of a specific set of perspectives and priorities that emerge when people overlook and disregard the needs of those less fortunate. 

Going to see Double Negative is a rite of passage for any serious art enthusiast.  Although the work boasts being open to visitors 24/7 and is free of charge, a visit to this piece of land art will not be a simple matter.  It is advisable to secure a four-wheeled vehicle and download some good directions — Google maps will fail you.  The work can be viewed best on the top of the Morman Mesa outside the Nevada town of Overton. If you want the immersive experience plan your trip in the summer, dress in comfortable clothes, turn off the air conditioner and roll down your window.

The sculpture now owned by the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles was created by Michael Heizer in 1969.  It consists of two 30’ wide by 50’ deep trenches cut into the edges of the mesa.  The trenches sit on opposing sides of a gorge and magically bridge the gap with a void as powerful as any material structure. 

Heizer created a monumental sculpture not by constructing an edifice but rather by displacing an estimated 240,000 tons of dirt.  He says, “There is nothing there, yet it is still a sculpture.”  The title Double Negative does not only describe the work’s physical attributes but echoes the mathematical and literary phenomenon when two negatives cancel each other out, creating a positive value or an affirmative statement.

If that was not enough the piece also serves as a time piece. Heizer requested that no efforts be made to conserve the work — intending nature to eventually reclaim the land.  In the desert the earth recovers slowly.  Some claim portions of the Santa Fe trail remain visible when flying overhead.  When one visits Double Negative today one can see signs of decay.  It may take a desert pilgrimage to realize that often nothing needs to be added and more can be gained by creating a void.

Within Christian traditions there are a variety of perspectives surrounding natural disasters – their cause, meaning and divine purpose.  Some believe that these events are merciful reminders that humanity is not in control and provide an occasion to turn to the One who is. Some believe that natural disasters are a form of divine judgement in which God allows the righteous to escape. Still others argue that the storms are simply the creation groaning under the weight of human sin.

In collaborate with students at CBU Riverside, this 2025 exhibition in Venice highlights case studies – buildings that have withstood a natural disaster.  Our hope is that this work will shed light on the current situation, identify lessons and encourage design professionals to form appropriate strategies moving forward.

They typically had extended hours of operation and served casual inexpensive meals, often with an emphasis on breakfast. The Waffle House is a contemporary diner franchise known for operating 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. It is said they serve over 2% of all the eggs consumed in the US. There are over 1900 locations in 25 states predominantly in the southeast. A Waffle House will close its doors only under the most extreme circumstances. This is why FEMA (Federal Emergency Management Agency) uses the Waffle House Index to get an informal, real-time indicator of the severity of storm damage and an indication of the recovery assistance that will be required.

The Waffle House franchise has a very robust risk management and disaster preparedness protocol allowing their restaurants to remaining open even during extreme weather events.

When a location is required to close it reopens soon after the threat has passed. The Waffle House Index has three levels. The first is green or full menu, when the restaurant has power, food and minimal or no damage. The second level is yellow which indicates a limited menu due to damage, operating on generators or low food supplies. The third level is red, when the restaurant closes due to damage, severe flooding or destruction. This index not only provides valuable information regarding how a community is doing, but also provides signals on how quickly that community can recover. The buildings themselves are designed and built to be durable and resilient but the building’s program and systems provide essential community needs during times of stress. It is unexpected that this network of humble American diners can play such a critical role in our recovery infrastructure – providing the transparency needed for FEMA to do its work more effectively.

In August of 2016, a powerful 6.2-magnitude earthquake, accompanied by over 45,000 aftershocks and four lesser earthquakes, devastated several communities in central Italy. Like most earthquakes that result in high death tolls, it struck in early morning when most residents were still asleep. This quake took over 300 lives, injured close to 400 people and left thousands homeless. The cost of the damage was estimated at over €23 billion. The centuries old, picturesque hill town of Pescara del Tronto, with around 100 fulltime residents just northeast of Rome, was one of those communities hit hard. During the Middle Ages its location on the steep slope provided a fortified refuge from bands of outlaws.  However, the same construction and hillside location proved to be its undoing in 2016. Surprisingly, the clock tower shown here, built in the 13^th century, was still upright after all the shaking.  In fact, this particular tower has evaded destruction due to earthquakes twice in the past 800 years.

Although the tower’s stability is partially due to quality construction, a perhaps more interesting contributing factor was the tower’s resonance. It is not uncommon for well-built ancient towers to survive earthquakes if their resonance reacts favorably to the earthquake’s frequency. The earthquake generates seismic waves, similar to an ocean wave with peaks and troughs. The frequency of the wave is determined by the depth and strength of the quake as well as the type of soils it is passing through.  Buildings sway back and forth based on their geometry, distribution of weight and stiffness. It is the interaction of these two factors that impact a structure’s ability to withstand the stresses of an earthquake. To greatly simplify matters, when the frequency of an earthquake resonates with the frequency of a building, the structure will suffer its greatest damage. It seems this clock tower survived not only because of its quality construction, but due to its shape, size and weight.

The infamous Chicoutimi River Flood of 1996 was caused by a two-day deluge that produced a volume of water that exceeded what pours over Niagara Falls in four weeks. The Chicoutimi River runs through the Canadian Provence of Quebec and was the biggest overland flood in Canada’s recent history. The rivers in the region rose over 8 feet, devastating many communities, including the City of Saguenay. The flood caused 12 deaths, destroyed 488 homes, and damaged another 1,230. The flood occurred in July at the height of the tourist season, which raised the estimated cost of the damage to $1.5 billion (CA).  Miraculously, this small white house, owned by Jeanne d’Arc Lavoie-Genest and referred to by locals as “la petite maison blanche,” survived and became a symbol of the community’s strength and resilience. 

The small house is pictured in front of a breached dam intended to restrain the floodwaters. This structure’s survival was credited to the owners, who took the precaution of raising the home onto high concrete foundations as the dam was being built. In addition, the concrete foundation walls extended down to solid rock. The surrounding rocks also helped divert some of the waters around the foundation, protecting it from the full force of the rushing floodwaters. In 1975 the Canadian government coordinated with the provinces to develop a flood damage reduction program, which resulted in the production of flood risk maps and the identification of areas of high risk. This led to the adjustment and location of buildings and settlements rather than relying on flood control infrastructure. Unfortunately, the federal program was phased out in 1996-97 due to budget constraints.

In 1962 a devastating super-typhoon hit the island of Guam, which changed the way homes were built.  The US military, having a presence on the island since WWII, had built over 1,000 inexpensive homes using standard wood frame construction and tin roofs. However, after Hurricane Karen’s 176 mph winds destroyed 90% of the buildings on the island, Army officials wisely decided to rebuild using more durable methods. The federal government funded this redevelopment through the Guam Rehabilitation Act of 1963. One of the biggest beneficiaries of the funding was the Kaiser Company, which developed a small, prefabricated, pillbox home constructed out of reinforced concrete that could withstand typhoons as well as earthquakes. (Guam also sits on the ring of fire and is susceptible to significant earthquake risks.) The first iterations of the home had a flat, cast-in-place concrete roof, concrete wall and floor, with little if any insulation. 

This, in combination with the shade-less landscape, produced a heat sink such that, by midday, the indoor temperature regularly exceeded the outdoor temperature. Improvements to these structures came overtime such as insulated pitched roofs, carport additions, tinted windows and more appropriate landscaping. The image here shows one of the Kaiser Homes built on Guam after several additions and improvements were made. It is interesting to note that prior to Western influence, the indigenous population built their structures with poles and thatch elevated on large stone pillars called lattes. Some of these pillars still exist today and date back to around 800 AD. Apart from the enormous stone lattes these structures were susceptible to damage. However, they were relatively quick and easy to repair using available indigenous materials. This approach provided resilience in a very different way.

Homes, no matter how modest, had value, but that value was embedded in its ability to provide for the necessities of life. This mindset and understanding stabilized neighborhoods and helped establish commons goals within a community. When tragedy struck and a shelter was destroyed, the only remedy was to rebuild or simply move on. The only way to mitigate against these risks was to build smarter, better and stronger — to develop assurance in the structure rather than relying on compensation from an insurance company.  There is a big difference between insurance vs assurance.

Even in our sophisticated modern society, it is interesting to note that most homeowners’ policies do not cover what the industry considers “acts of God.” The legal definition of “act of God” is an unanticipated grave natural disaster or other natural phenomenon of an exceptional, inevitable, and irresistible character, the effects of which could not have been prevented or avoided by the exercise of due care or foresight. Therefore, most policies exclude natural disasters such as flood, radiation, earthquakes, sinkholes, hurricanes, tornados, severe storms, fires caused by lighting-strikes, and mudslides, as well as acts of war. This gap in catastrophic coverage is often and imperfectly addressed by state and federal governmental agencies and programs.

As severe weather events increase in frequency and destructive power, cracks are forming in the viability of catastrophic insurance coverage in many areas. I contend that the insurance system has provided a false sense of security or comfort, which has kept communities and the building industry from aggressively pursuing cost-effective solutions for these risks.

The Florida home shown here was a structure that survived Hurricane Michael — a Category 5 hurricane with sustained winds of over 150 miles per hour, which pummeled over 20 Florida counties in 2018.  Michael resulted in 59 deaths in the United States and an estimated $25 billion in property damage.  The owners of this home spent an extra 15-20% to go above and beyond the updated Florida building codes. The upgrades included 12” thick reinforced concrete walls, 40-foot pilings driven deep into the ground, impact resistant windows and steel cables used to hold the roof in place.  The roof was designed to avoid the airplane wing effect and the soffit was sealed to prevent the wind from getting under its edge.  It is interesting to note that the owners of this home initiated the construction upgrades to match their comfort level and assurance of building a home in an area prone to hurricane activity.

Unfortunately, there is no description of his appearance in the Biblical text other than an Old Testament verse in the Book of Isiah. The prophetic text written well before Jesus’ birth, describes the Messiah as having “no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him” (Isaiah 53:1).

Many have turned to the controversial Shroud of Turin for clues regarding Jesus’ appearance. The shroud is thought by some to be the original burial cloth of Jesus and bares a faint brownish image of his face and body. The shroud and its controversy dates to 1354 when it was displayed in a church in Northern France and promptly denounced by some as a forgery. Since then, several tests have been run on the shroud to determine its authenticity. In 1978 American chemist Walter McCone determined the image was painted on the cloth, although his findings are disputed by other researchers. In 1988 a radiocarbon analysis was conducted on the cloth, which determined that the cloth dates to the period between 1260–1390. Yet others dispute these findings — suggesting among other theories that the cloth that was sampled had been tainted.

The intriguing image shown here is a depiction of Jesus developed by British forensic artist Richard Neave in 2015. Dr. Neave and his team X-rayed three Semite skulls previously found by Israeli archaeologists dated from the first century. They used these scans and modern modern-day forensic techniques to generate this depiction. Using digital tomography, the team developed “slices” of the skulls to uncover details of its structure. Then, using special software, they calculated important measurements and how the muscles and skin would look. In contrast to typical Western images, Neave based his reconstruction on features that would have been typical of a first century Jewish male from northern Israel. Jesus would have likely had a dark complexion, dark, short curly hair, a wide face and dark eyes.  Based on skeletal remains he suggests that Jesus was likely 5’ 1” tall and weighed about 110 lbs. Although Neave does not suggest this is a conclusive reconstruction of Jesus’ likeness, he does claim that it is far more likely and accurate than the images and depictions generated to date.

In Japan there are several sophisticated traditions and techniques for repairing ceramics. Perhaps the best known is Kintsugi, or golden joinery, where pieces of a broken vessel are repaired with a lacquer dusted with gold, silver or platinum. The result is a pot, bowl or cup that celebrates the imperfections or damage. In most cases, these repairs make the piece more beautiful and compelling than the original.  Some craftspeople have even been accused of breaking pottery on purpose to achieve this impressive effect. Yobitsugi is like Kintsugi but uses different vessels and reassembles them in a patchwork manner. For example, joining pieces of a blue plate and white plate to form a finished piece. Tomotsugi is another technique that combines pieces of matching objects to produce a finished work. Regardless, none of these traditions are simply intriguing visual effects as a result of pragmatic repairs. Embedded in these traditions are deeply held philosophies that lead one to value the visual evidence of an object’s use, as well as the acceptance of change and fate.

These values and the resulting notions of beauty are often incompatible with the traditional Western mindset, which seems obsessed with maintaining objects in a state of formal perfection. The slightest show of wear or damage is a cause to discard the object. The work shown here is one sculptural relief in a series that explores the beauty of brokenness. I have written about this series using different points of view. However, what is most significant from this vantage point is that the blank frames were purposefully damaged and later stabilized or redeemed. The result is an object that is much more interesting, dynamic and dare I say beautiful. It is significant that the canvas is transformed from a smooth, uniform surface intended to display a two-dimensional image into a dynamic three-dimensional sculptural relief. The canvas was left blank or silent to suggest that the brokenness is the essential prerequisite for a redemptive work, and nothing of substance can be added to this fact.

Most would agree that words are powerful. They have even been credited with shifting world history.  This is the currency of New York artist Jenny Holzer’s powerful work. The image shown here is a portion of an installation at the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain, composed of 9 LED columns that scroll phrases Holzer calls Truisms. She has been collecting short, powerful one-liners since the 1970s. A few notable ones include:  A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE GOES A LONG WAY, YOUR OLDEST FEARS ARE YOUR WORST ONES, ABUSE OF POWER COMES AS NO SURPRISE and MONEY CREATES TASTE. As a conceptual artist, the art and its meaning manifests in the minds of the observer, rather than being embodied in the physical art object. The installation is visually compelling, but the words are what impact and haunt you.

It is interesting to note that Holzer began her art career as an abstract expressionist but became frustrated that she could not adequately animate important themes like physical violence, systematic abuses of power, love, lust and longing. She developed her superpower when she started distilling erudite, academic texts into provocative phrases with a radical, modern mindset. She has displayed her work in museums, festivals as well as public spaces like Times Square. Holzer for the past 40 years has used her simple straightforward words to illuminate war, politics and death. She is perhaps admired the most for resisting ignorance and violence with kindness, courage and humor.

The term “bug” was originally appropriated by 19^th century engineers to describe a defect or mechanical malfunction. It was later picked up by software developers to describe flaws in their code. You may have heard the phase: “It is not a bug, it is a feature” (INABISAF). No one knows who said it first, but the expression became popular among software developers in the 1970s. The phrase was intended to be humorous, implying that a mistake or defect was, in fact, intentional. This phase pokes fun at the inherent ambiguity embedded in computer programing. Software and algorithms may be logical, but they are chock-full of shifting assumptions and inputs, making them less than pristine and predictable.  However, there is some truth to INABISAF.

We see this in genetic science where glitches in an individual’s genetic code often uncovers the source of certain biological functions.

There are also many instances when mistakes, problems or uncomfortable circumstances provide opportunities to deepen one’s understanding or force one to adapt and develop. This is the idea behind the work shown here, entitled the bug is the feature. This work is one in a series inspired by bugs. 

The image here shows one in a series of several small wall reliefs by contemporary Portuguese artist Miguel Angelo Rocha. It is a small-faceted volume that seems to emerge from the wall, creating complex, irregular spatial conditions around its exterior surfaces. This volume is contrasted with a pure cylindrical form emerging from the top of the volume and painted green. As in many of his works, Rocha will often develop a tension between symbolic order and the observer’s subjectivity.

At a recent exhibition, I saw this piece awkwardly positioned in front of a pilaster. Due to its position in one of the gallery’s transitional spaces, this sculpture could have been easily missed or overlooked. I remember being caught off guard and was immediately struck by its power and energy despite its less-than-ideal setting. Because the space was uncomfortable, I snapped a quick photo so I could spend more time studying it later. Personally, I find this work incredibly powerful in its simplicity. It quickly became one of my most admired works that this well-known artist has ever produced. Five found objects. A bent green steel pipe that emerges from a field stone base.  A manipulated car part, painted white, is mounted at the bend of the pipe. The white car part is capped with a what appears to be a piece of an industrial rake and accented with a single black sphere. Perfectly and asymmetrically balanced, yet clearly anthropomorphic.

I have had the privilege of studying hundreds of works by the renowned 20^th century artist Joan Miró.  I have written about Miró’s work before and find that it still holds great gravity today. He seems to have struck a timeless chord, which he would likely describe as the primitive spiritual origins of art itself. Miró was a prolific artist, producing over 2,000 painting, 400 ceramics, 5,000 drawings, 1,000 lithographs and 500 sculptures. Although one senses themes and common threads that weave through this body of work, it is still difficult to fully comprehend his life’s work. Most major exhibitions have, at most, a handful of his sculptural works, and these works are usually over-powered by his paintings, drawings or lithographs. For this reason, it seems that Miró’s sculptural works tend to draw less attention; yet sometimes it is these hidden gems that delight us the most.

This is an image showing the public right-of-way along the riverfront in Bilbao, Spain. This photograph was taken on a spectacular pedestrian bridge that crosses the river that runs through town and eventually empties into the sea. You can catch a glimpse of Gehry’s Guggenheim Museum in the upper portion of the image. What startles me is how much space and infrastructure was offered to the pedestrian in a relatively low traffic area. A generous, luxurious amount of space that is thoughtfully subdivided provides an extremely pleasant, safe and stress-free walking or jogging experience. One could certainly argue, based on this image taken in the early morning, that perhaps it was disproportional based on the traffic. However, it represents an aspiration and priority of experience over efficient movement of traffic through a particular corridor — infrastructure that enhances and elevates life. 

In the past I have written about several rights-of-way that were clearly not designed for human beings, so it seemed appropriate that I share at least one example that was. It is interesting to note that the automobile traffic is not given priority — it is limited to one lane. The car lane is generous but flanked by a two-way bike path and a row of parked cars, which serve as a buffer for the wide sidewalk that fronts the buildings. Even the light rail is run through a beautiful softscape with a lush carpet of grass and occasional grove of trees. The main pedestrian corridor is divided into two generous strips split by a serpentine concrete bench. Each mode of transportation is isolated but connected at the crosswalks that correspond to major intersections that lead into the urban fabric. The path in either direction frames the river, buildings and mountains beyond – a dynamic, civilized, satisfying experience.

I have written several academic papers mostly about my creative activity — this seems to appease the institutions I operate within. However, my main motivation for writing is to gain greater understanding and clarity – which I believe ultimately leads to better creative activity. Clarity translates into more powerful, thoughtful objects, spaces and experiences.

At the urging of a few close friends, I started writing regularly and began posting/distributing one short essay every week. I have been doing this now for over five years.  Shortly after embarking on this adventure, I incorporated some of my writing in the courses I teach. These essays are usually 2-3 paragraphs and focus on the things that we make and surround ourselves with. They usually make a modest point but never wrap a subject up in a bow. In fact, the careful reader will come away with more questions than answers. Certainly, many miss the point of the essays all together. Most of us have been taught to expect direct, comprehensive communication regarding a particular topic.

Those who read or are forced to read expect to gather information that leads directly to action items, which then leads to improved performance or some desired outcome.

When I incorporate these essays into course material, I am not trying to provide clarity or definitive conclusions. I am trying to introduce an important topic and get the reader to think more deeply about that topic. Memorizing information and facts then recalling those facts for an exam, reduces education to an obstacle course. Advanced education requires taking ownership — thinking for oneself. Sometimes this is accomplished by provocation — taking a forceful stance. Sometimes keeping things vague and purposefully puzzling requires one to connect dots, many of which extend off the written page. Often, being straight forward and concise results in the avoidance of meaningful engagement with the material.  Not explaining the material to everyone’s satisfaction challenges conventional expectations and forms a path to new ideas and concepts. The goal is to open the mind and make it receptive to a new framework — to provide an invitation for deeper thought. 

Rethinking requires a mindset and willingness (based on new, credible information) to let go of well-developed tools and techniques or even cherished parts of our identity. (It is important to note that rethinking presupposes that truth exists and that it can be known.) Adam Grant, in his book Think Again, outlines three architypes that stand in the way of our rethinking processes. First, the Politician is one who bases their views on what is popular rather than what is accurate. The Prosecutor is focused on discrediting or challenging a position rather than attempting to decern the truth. Finally, the Preacher presents theories as truth and considers challenges to be an offense. To be a rethinker one must embrace the limits of our understanding and be curious about what we don’t know. The best rethinkers exhibit both confidence and humility — having faith in their strengths but an awareness of their weaknesses.

At its best, this is what great art offers the willing, earnest observer — an opportunity to see our world from a different point of view.  The work shown here, entitled the individual, by Tim Noble and Sue Webster, is one in a series of works that forms a masterclass in rethinking. The object or sculpture in the foreground is a mess of seemingly random discarded, worthless items — a pile of garbage. It is only when a light is strategically placed and turned on, that one sees the shadow of a women cast on the wall.  It is at that moment our perception of the “pile of garbage” is challenged and transformed.  We are forced to reconsider and reevaluate the object before us.  After seeing this work, the question that haunts me is this: How many times have I missed it? How often do I fail to see the beauty and meaning in the complex mess of life?

In previous essays I have suggested that there is currently an epic battle taking place for our attention. I don’t think there has been a moment in history when the battle has been this fierce. We are constantly being confronted with electronic ads, messages and images designed to hold our attention and keep us engaged. There are numerous studies that document our addiction to screens and the resulting adverse impact on our mental and physical health. Unfortunately, the attempts to grab our attention do not have our best interests in mind and do not contribute to the “good life.” How could averaging close to 50 hours per week looking at a screen translate into a life well lived? What is involuntarily thrust in front of us by sophisticated strategies expressed in opaque algorithms is not designed to educate or enrich our lives. The content does not deepen our connection with others or the world around us. They are attempts to instrumentalize our attention for someone else’s economic or political benefit. This has recently been described by D. Graham Burnett as “attention fracking” — an attempt to keep us glued to the screen as long as possible. 

No longer is the goal to get our attention — they already have it. What our best and brightest tech gurus are doing now is finding increasingly sophisticated strategies to suck more time and attention out of our addiction — like fracking the last bits of oil and gas from an old already diminished deposit. How do we reclaim our lives? If one wanted to reestablish control over their attention, where would they go? What would they do? Where are the sanctuaries for our attention? What are the practices that resist market logic and add true value to our lives — make us better human beings? Although every practice can become corrupted, some suggest that the realms of religion, the humanities (as opposed to education focused on professional training), and the arts resist monetization and at their core are intended to enrich our lives. Reading a great novel, pondering a work of art, or praying/meditating can’t be reduced to a transaction, nor are they easily monetized. Yet, they hold the promise of cultivating understanding, uncovering meaning, purpose and perhaps can lead to transformation.

In this complex age of ones and zeros there is a great temptation to reduce everything to a binary choice or decision. It feels good to simplify a matter, express our frictionless like or dislike and often have that opinion or position reinforced and perhaps amplified by other likeminded individuals. This is the currency of social media where we are encouraged to declare our approval for a particular post or express our indifference or dislike by swiping/scrolling past it. (It is interesting to note that most social media platforms have removed the thumbs down option due to its toxic effects.) Making binary choices are also reinforced by our two-party political system and related media coverage. Unfortunately, life is not that simple and most important matters can’t be reduced to a binary choice — thumbs up or thumbs down. Let’s examine something as straightforward as “fire”: Is it good or bad? Fire can warm our homes or be used to cook a satisfying meal. Yet it can also cause a forest fire or easily injure someone. Fire’s benefit or good depends on the context and details that surround its use. Almost everything in life is like this — the closer we look, the more understanding we have, the more complicated things get.

Although we often use the same over-simplification to categorize or judge others, the fact is, people are complicated and can’t be labeled entirely “good” or “bad.” This is why the work of American artist Chuck Close is so compelling. Close has been credited with reinvigorating the modern portrait. He is best known for his monumental faces developed based on a unique formal method utilizing color and structure. He breaks the face up into a grid, each square is filled with multiple colors and various forms and patterns.  When seen from a distance the colors in each square blur together to form an amalgamated color and tone – making the face visible.  However, as you approach the painting the image becomes more complex, fragmented and unclear.  The complexity and bizarre color combinations become apparent and start to dominate your visual experience.  When you stand directly in front of his work the face can no longer be decerned.  What takes over is the seeming randomness and complexity of the colors and patterns. The work shown here is one of Chuck Close’s portraits, entitled James, with a split image on the right that shows a close-up detail of that same painting.

New cars can be turned on and off remotely and can collect images, video footage and biometric data on our bodies. Various devices can track our eye movements to determine what catches our fancy and record when we replay a particular scene in a movie or video. This information is compiled along with financial data to develop complex data sets that can accurately predict our behavior and anticipate our needs and wants. In many ways the “haystack” has a more accurate picture of who we are than our closest friends — perhaps even ourselves.

It amazes me how easily we give up our information/privacy for a meager discount, access to a cool product or modest convenience. Younger folks, who were raised in this environment, rarely if ever think about the trade-offs. For them there are no alternatives — our lives are being observed and measured, without our consent or knowledge, and then used to manipulate our thoughts and actions.

The most disturbing aspect of this new reality is the lack of transparency. We don’t have any idea what information is being collected, who has access to that information, how it is being processed, where it is being stored, who purchased it or how they are using it. It is one thing to have information gathering devices in your car or phone but why would you pay someone to embed these systems into your home.  It may seem cool to wake up in the morning and have the window shades automatically open, your favorite soundtrack gently playing in the background and a pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen while the robot sweeps your floor; however, what are we giving up? Call me old fashioned, but I think of my home as a refuge — a deeply personal, private space. I want as much control as possible over what comes in and out of my home. Personally, I am not interested in a smart home. A dumb one will do.

These similarities define each generation, which in turn predictably impacts the patterns we see throughout history. These four generational cohorts drive the four seasons of history.  Each season lasts for approximately 20 years resulting in roughly an 80-year cycle.

It is interesting to note that each cycle is as long as an individual’s life span. This means that most people experience all four seasons, just at different times in their development. Therefore, each generation is impacted and molded by the seasons in different ways and contribute something unique to each season.  He contends that in 2008 society entered the winter season — triggered by the Great Financial Crises (GFC). In his model the winter season always culminates in great turmoil-social unrest, distrust of institutions, economic distress, political fracturing and war. Going back approximately 80 years, the last winter season in the United States

began with the 1929 stock market crash and culminated with WWII.  Before that the winter season culminated in the US Civil War, and so on.

Assuming these powerful observations are correct, it is interesting to consider the art produced by each generation during these dramatic winter seasons when the trajectory of society shifts. How does each generation experience crises and turmoil? How does that experience impact their ideas, emotions, aspirations and the work they produce? I have been keeping a visual journal for over 30 years and complete 1-3 small works every day. Looking back, I can now see these historical and generational patterns reflected in my own work. Regardless of our ability to clearly decern the time in which we live or predict future events, most of us sense growing conflict, distrust, turmoil, tension and uncertainty.  The image above is one of my many journal entries, entitled Morrison Hill, and completed during this winter season.

Up to this point both the housing and insurance industries have remained profitable under this arrangement. However, it would seem that things have reached a tipping point — at least in some regions. This is why the industry is responding by dramatically increasing premiums or deciding to leave a region altogether. The increased number of claims due to natural disasters has caused an existential crisis for many insurance markets and companies. The situation also raises questions regarding the role of the municipality, owners and designers in addressing these risks.

The current system has certainly had a surprising and dramatic impact on the processes and mindsets that designers use to shape our buildings and communities. In most cases designers simply work within the constraints of this system — relying on standard construction methods/materials and local municipalities to assess risk, establish building standards, grant building permits and ultimately verify that standards have been met. The designer rarely if ever questions the accuracy or efficacy of these various assessments and requirements.  Unfortunately, compliance is considered best practice for the designer. However, what happens when the system starts to crack and property owners can no longer secure cost-effective insurance coverage or municipalities are too eager to facilitate development, become corrupt or are slow to make needed changes?

How would our building strategies change if insurance was unavailable? I suggest there are two basic responses. The first is limiting your potential losses by building temporal structures with the understanding they will eventually be critically damaged or lost altogether. This approach limits the loss of capital and makes it less injurious to rebuild if needed. The second approach is to build to address and withstand the various risks — embedding the insurance in the structure itself. Of course, no measures are 100% effective, and there must always be a balance between the cost of various measures and the level of risk mitigation they provide.

The image shown here is a structure under construction and designed utilizing the later mindset.  The structure sits in an area where the dominant risk is flooding, erosion and scour. Some of the strategies implemented to mitigate these risks were required by the municipality and some were added voluntarily during the design phase. This approach certainly added significantly to construction cost, and the effectiveness of these strategies cannot be fully assessed.  However, the goal was to develop a structure that was in balance with its context — a building that could be sustained with confidence if insurance was no longer available.

House in Springdale cont.  The Virgin River is a small tributary that eventually flows into the Colorado River. The Virgin has a north and south fork, each with different ecosystems and drainage basins. The north fork begins in the mountains of Utah at Cascade Falls — a natural spring that gushes from a cave at a surprising 9,000 feet of elevation. It is this waterway that runs by the location of a project I recently designed in Springdale, Utah. Before passing the project site, the north fork’s drainage basin collects snow melt and rainwater from approximately 356 square miles of land area.  Along the site’s southern edge, the North Fork of the Virgin River is relatively straight, extending approximately 2,000 lineal feet up stream. The low flow channel of the river, adjacent to the property, consists of a wide cobble bed with occasional large boulders. The active floodplain extends several feet from this edge up a steep slope toward the project area. The active floodplain between the low flow channel and the bank consists of sand, gravel and cobbles and is sparsely vegetated with mule fat, mature cottonwoods, and other herbaceous vegetation.   Along the left overbank, the low flow channel extends to the edge of a lower sloped bank that is moderately vegetated with mature cottonwoods and mule fat. The high terrace along the left overbank is vegetated with juniper, rabbitbrush and sagebrush.

Although there is no evidence of the channel shifting in recent history, there appears to be a chance that a dramatic landslide event on the south bank could potentially push the river’s course closer to the project. The City of Springdale has mapped out a multi-level erosion hazard zone (EHZ), which is prone to natural channel movement or avulsion. Although this designation is not considered a “no build” zone, it serves as a notice to landowners of the inherent risks that should be addressed through design, insurance and appropriate land use. The 100-year flood plan sits at elevation 3,880 feet. The High Erosion Hazard Line is at elevation 3,883 feet, and the elevation at the building structure starts at 3,885 feet.  Although the structure sits outside these two zones it does sit within the municipality’s “moderate erosion risk zone.” This triggered a required report, which recommended a riprap barrier on the east and south edges of the site to help secure the soil under the building’s footings during a high velocity flood event. These precautions are part of a new initiative adopted by the city and pushed by the federal government. This was one of the first projects to fall under these new requirements, which added considerable time and cost to the project. Many question the need for such actions. Only time will tell if these measures were prudent or cost effective.

I recently designed a small home in the town of Springdale, Utah. Springdale is located near the edge of the Mohave Basin and Range yet technically sits within the western most tip of the Colorado Plateau. The town is situated along Highway 9 and ends at the west gate of Zion National Park. With a population of less than 600 residents, Springdale hosts over 5 million park visitors each year. The highway runs alongside the north fork of the Virgin River, which runs through the gorge between The Watchman peak to the south and the West Temple summit to the north. Watchman to the south rises an additional 2,600 feet to 6,545 feet of total elevation and the West Temple peak to the north reaches a total elevation of 7,810 feet. The valley creates a unique micro-climate, which sits approximately 3,950 feet above sea level. The area is considered a desert zone filled with semi-desert grassland and shrubland.  

Located less than a mile from the park entrance, the project site sits in the shadow of Watchman peak. The site backs up to and includes a portion of the Virgin River. Across the river — the southern bank — Watchman ascends dramatically forming various sandstone cliff-bench complexes which support Pinyon-juniper woodlands. This diverse, rugged and remote ecosystem supports a variety of plants and provides a robust habitat for wildlife. Like many beautiful, picturesque landscapes the area poses several threats to development, the most prominent being flooding and erosion.  One can never design a structure to withstand all the risks and potential damage. However, due to unpredictable changes in the climate, it is inadequate to simply rely on commonly accepted build standards and practices. We must cultivate a better understanding of the areas where we intend to build and develop better strategies to mitigate potential risks.

Malcom Gladwell wrote about a similar phenomenon in his book The Tipping Point — when an idea, trend or social behavior crosses a threshold and goes viral. Others have made similar observations in the areas of demographics, economics and politics. Often these moments of fundamental transformation catch people off guard unless they have been closely tracking the critical markers of change. It is easy for these moments to remain hidden before they become visible — at which point it is too late to change direction or take corrective action.

Conversely, we are also familiar with various prognosticators crying wolf, sounding the alarm of our impending doom — a doom that never materializes, at least within a reasonable timeframe.   Regardless, the passing of time, when seen clearly and accurately, can be startling.

For example, looking in a mirror and comparing yourself with a photo taken decades earlier or watching your children grow up and eventually start their own careers and families. This is the feeling I got when I recently saw this photograph of the UNLV campus taken in 1957. I moved to Las Vegas and began working at UNLV in 2009 and am amazed at the changes that have occurred here since my arrival. I recently had the privilege of speaking with an elderly gentleman who was born and raised in Las Vegas. He had vivid memories of Las Vegas in the mid ’50s when the population hovered around 56,000. It is reported that the Las Vegas metro area currently is home to approximately 2.3 million residents who host over 30 million visitors each year. Few individuals have personally witnessed this community’s staggering transformation, and with each passing year there are fewer that truly comprehend the magnitude of these changes.

Seeing occurs at several different levels and in many different ways. However, it should always start with defining and considering the overall context or situation. At a philosophical level this might involve garnering an understanding of the human condition and our deep human needs. At the specific, pragmatic level it might involve determining the potential of a particular piece of land, within a particular jurisdiction, for a particular use. Regardless, if the context is not assessed clearly and accurately the actions that follow will always fall short.

I will often have my architecture students construct timelines to reveal hidden relationships between various streams of history. For example, mapping the development of information technologies alongside the evolution of library facilities.

The purpose is to develop an accurate, coherent narrative that points to the next logical iteration — seeing or projecting into the future. Sometimes I will have students engage experts and end-users. These conversations often reveal differences in opinions, divergent perspectives as well as potential synergies that can be exploited. Sometimes after documenting and analyzing the technical features of a site, I will have the students visit the project site at various times of day and document their thoughts and feelings.  This can reveal experiential insights that don’t reveal themselves on a technical site plan or in a site photo. The ultimate purpose of all these activities is to provide an opportunity to see more clearly.

We all have a desperate need to be seen and understood — and that necessitates a community. Although not an absolute guarantee, we all hope that after being known and understood, we are valued and appreciated. 

It is interesting to note that young children often act in inappropriate ways to get attention or to be noticed. They do this even when their actions make it more difficult to validate or encourage them. Negative attention is perhaps better or preferred over being completely ignored.  Vandalism, theft and in some cases harming others can often times be viewed similarly. When members of a community are not being seen, understood or appreciated, it is common for them to engage in disruptive, destructive or harmful behavior … at least others will be forced to confront their existence. Although understandable, these strategies are never ideal and rarely prove to be productive. This is not the best way to participate in a vibrant, healthy community.  If someone’s actions become excessively disruptive or dangerous, communities will enact rules and mechanisms to eliminate, remove or isolate those individuals — as a form of protection and preservation.

One under-appreciated characteristic of a healthy community is its ability to hold one another accountable. Unfortunately, many times corrective action is made in anger, spite, revenge or callous disregard for our fellow human beings. A healthy, supportive community should never correct or discipline as a form of revenge, coercion, exploitation or oppression. In a perfect world, these corrective actions should be taken with everyone’s best interest in mind, with an earnest desire for restoration and healing. Unfortunately, this lofty aim can’t always be achieved, and difficult and tragic actions need to be taken.  In many ways, devising appropriate corrective rules and mechanisms as well as applying them thoughtfully and humanely is the ultimate test of every community. That is why “prisoner art” like the self-portrait shown here by Russell Craig is so powerful and important to consider. 

The point here is one can obtain a great deal information about a matter without having any direct personal experience.

Information is important and almost always holds great value, but there are limits to its benefit. If all that information were gathered to merely recommend a restaurant to others, the effort described here was excessive. However, if I was trying to open or operate a restaurant, the information gathered would be insufficient. If I had little or no experience operating a restaurant and was planning on starting one, I would not rely on my ability to gather and properly process information. I would seek out and hire (or at least be mentored by) someone who had experience — a successful track record of starting and operating award-winning restaurants. What is fascinating is how we continually confuse individuals who have acquired a great deal of information with individuals who know how to successfully apply that information in a complex and dynamic environment. Experience and practice are a critical form of knowledge and arguably much more valuable today in our information-saturated world.  

This certainly applies to art and design, where application and taking action is the chief aim. I have been teaching design for close to 30 years and have seen the academy swing back and forth between valuing and encouraging the production of information vs practice or application. I am quite sure that we are currently in a period where producing more information is disproportionately valued. Now imagine being taught to be a surgeon by someone who had never performed a surgery but rather had spent decades observing, studying and writing papers about the activity? This is what I see occurring in programs whose primary purpose is to grant accredited professional design degrees. I do not suggest that research has no place in a design program — we need researchers as well as practitioners. Rather than reducing it to a binary choice we should strive to calibrate the appropriate balance. Unfortunately, it is easier and simpler to get everyone to move to one side of the ship. It is only when the ship tips dangerously that corrective action is taken — usually resulting in an overreaction and equally harmful imbalance in the other direction.

Interestingly, around the same time this text was having its greatest impact within the academy, the architectural avant-garde was probing “deconstruction” — a literary movement that suggested that a text and its true meaning was not what it appeared to be on the surface but rather embedded in the deep structure of the text. Therefore, to understand a text and its true meaning, it needed to be dismantled or deconstructed. Only then would its true nature and purpose be revealed. 

In architecture, deconstruction manifested through visual or compositional symbolism rather than translating into a tangible, lived experience within the built environment. Unfortunately, these projects never exposed deeper truths but rather celebrated visual complexity, our inherent confusion and lack of clarity.

Never delivering on the promise, deconstruction in architecture was relatively short lived. Regardless, contemporary art and design movements still struggle with this unresolved issue of order, its visual expression and underlying meaning. Not surprisingly, celebrated contemporary works have difficulty situating themselves into Ching’s formal framework. The work shown here by artist John Chamberlain entitled Dolores James was fashioned in 1962. The work is a poignant expression and urge to abandon formal ordering systems. The work is a sculptural relief fashioned with twisted automobile parts and evokes images of a well-curated car wreck. Rather than imposing his will on the various pieces and parts he concerns himself with “fit” — how these desperate, found objects relate and balance one another. 

Most people tasked with shaping the built environment are looking for ways to make our lives more comfortable and pleasant. Their goal is to make life easier, more convenient, to protect us from the uncertainties and stresses of life. However, there are specific environments that are purposely designed to provide us with momentary discomfort and stress. For example, a gym or workout facility offers people a variety of ways to stress their bodies. Research has confirmed that we need to experience regular levels of physical stress to remain healthy. Excessive stress can certainly be problematic, but our bodies are designed to respond to stress in surprisingly positive ways. We require a certain level of resistance that many of us no longer experience in our daily lives. There was a time when life provided that needed stress — gathering our food, keeping our homes warm and preparing for times of lack kept us healthy or physically fit.

It is interesting to note that the fitness center is a fairly recent development and has perhaps become more necessary as our daily routines becomes more comfortable and sedentary.  One space commonly found in these facilities is a sauna. The thought of heating up a small cedar-clad room to 195 degrees and spending time in that room, sweating profusely, with a group of strangers to raise your core body temperature is a strange notion at best. Regardless, regular sessions in a sauna apparently can reduce the risk of cardiovascular disease, high blood pressure, stroke, dementia, Alzheimer’s disease and stress. The pleasure and benefits of such activities do not occur while one engages in the activity, but rather after one has endured the regime. Perhaps it would be healthier and more beneficial if we stopped trying to make our built environment so comfortable and began integrating elements of resistance into the spaces we use every day.

If the relationship continues to develop, our interactions are often mediated through some form of technology — emails, phone calls, text messages, social media posts, etc.

When I was growing up, holding someone’s hand in public was a significant sign of relational commitment. The equivalent today is likely including someone and your interactions with them on your social media page. We manage our relationships through our technology by delaying a response or ignoring a text, by ghosting someone or simply responding to someone’s advances with a few emojis.  Unfortunately, these technologies have greatly contributed to our lack of connection and general loneliness. Today 60% of adults report feeling lonely and those ages 18 – 22, digital natives, are the loneliest. Most modern people immersed in technology have exponentially more interactions and points of connection yet ironically feel unknown or misunderstood. Technology has not only impacted our personal friendships but our relationship with art and the built environment.

Most people today experience art and the built environment on a screen through some digital interface.  Opinions, ideas and conclusions are largely formed without ever physically encountering or confronting the thing itself.  As a result, many makers have dispensed with the physical, material world altogether — making the digital and virtual medium their ultimate end.   This is the case with the spectacular image shown here developed by Josh Vermillion.  My personal situation is to uncomfortably straddle these two distinct worlds, hesitantly adapting to this new every changing digital reality, with a firm foundation and passion for our material world.  From my perspective, I sense society’s disconnection and disassociation with our material world — an inability, especially in the younger generations, to connect and find meaning, beauty and purpose in it. With every new technological development, new exciting opportunities emerge. However, in the excitement, we rarely consider the precious things that are being diminished.

It seems obvious that the world is currently becoming increasingly fragmented.  In the midst of the resulting chaos, it is easy to think this is the way it has always been.   However, there were times when people and cultures had more consensus regarding what is true and how one should order their life around that truth.  These cultures produced art that expressed that consensus, clarity and unity.  Until recently, humanity held that truth resided outside the individual and it was the duty of each person to adjust to that truth.  In contrast today, if any consensus exists, it is built around the narrative that we all determine our own truth and independently decide how to act on that truth – radical individualism. 

Now imagine, eight billion souls inhabiting the planet, all going their separate unique ways – determining their own reality and taking actions that suit them.  Where does this lead us?  Sadly, during these times many look toward strong leaders capable of imposing their will on others to generate momentary order…by denying large swaths of people their ability to believe and act the way they choose – a tragic irony.  How do we stitch things back together and build a functional consensus without resorting to coercion, violence or controlling, manipulating others?  This complex whirlwind is what I am conveying in a recent series of mixed media works on paper – one shown here.

Most art falls into one of two categories. The first is depicting things as they are — truth telling. In our imperfect world this requires looking past the way things should be and delving into the uncomfortable space that lies between our reality and our deep desires. When following this path, it is quite easy to go to the “bad place” and merely startle and depress. It is much more difficult to offer enough hope to keep the work from casting the viewer into despair. In this first case, the best artists generally express the time in which they live and explore the specific struggles of their age. Insightful work taps into feelings and realities that are present but perhaps remain hidden, unseen or unarticulated. This work offers insight and an understanding that you are not alone in the struggle — a moment of clarity that often produces a certain level of comfort. Resolving or gaining control over a matter demands a clear understanding of the way things are.

The second category is depicting things as you wish them to be — yearning. This requires one to look past the way things are, to see and suggest a possible future or alternate reality. This could involve capturing a moment when perfect harmony, beauty and sense of peace are achieved. A moment when everything is in its proper place — achieving appropriate and balanced relationships. This approach does not always point to the future but rather can involve uncovering or amplifying the beauty and harmony that lurks amidst our imperfect reality. In this case the artist is offering up an alternative perspective or insight that produces an unexpected satisfaction, comfort and hope that all is well. This is quite hard to achieve without being trite or naive. It is interesting to consider how non-objective works, which exist outside a particular narrative, situate themselves within these two categories — relying on composition to express either truth or yearning.

The startling image here by photographer Patrick T. Fallon shows a single home that survived the 2023 tragic wildfire in Lahaina on the island of Maui. This wood structure, called the “miracle home” by locals, was originally built in 1925 but had recently undergone an extensive renovation. The restoration included installing a fire rated commercial grade metal roof and removing all the plant material from around the home’s drip line and replacing it with a stone buffer.  Interestingly, the decision to remove the plant material was intended to protect the home from termites and was not a response to the threat of wildfires. Regardless, these two decisions are thought to be the main reasons this home survived. 

There is a growing concern about developing areas that are susceptible to natural disasters such as flooding, earthquakes and wild fires. The frequency and intensity of these events seem to be increasing and expanding. The growing evidence points to the culprit being changing weather patterns brought about by global warming. Areas that were once considered safe to build are now confronting challenges like securing insurance. Interestingly, the example shown here suggests that there are simple design decisions that can make our buildings and communities more resilient to these risks. This is not a transient phenomenon; therefore, designers must gather more information, adapt a new mindset and develop strategies for moving forward — responding to various natural threats through pragmatic design decisions. 

As government agencies and municipalities struggle to respond to the impacts of climate change and are perhaps slow to impose new development standards, insurance companies experience the impacts in real time. So, when the insurance landscape changes it would be wise to take note.

State Farm Insurance, a large national provider of property insurance, in a press release dated May 26, 2023, stated they would no longer accept new applications in California for property and causality insurance. This decision was starling to many and impacted both businesses and residential customers. The reasons cited for this abrupt course of action was to “improve the company’s financial strength” and to respond to “changing market conditions.”  One of the major concerns mentioned was “rapidly growing catastrophe exposure.” As insurance companies and the reinsurance market begin to reprice risk, many home and business owners are left with few, if any, options. U.S. Treasury Secretary Janet Yellen noted earlier in 2023 that “there is growing evidence that these trends in physical risks have led to a decline in the availability and affordability of insurance in certain areas.”  

In Louisiana, it has been reported that since 2020, eleven insurers writing policies in Louisiana have gone insolvent and nearly a dozen have submitted withdrawal notices, signaling their retreat from the state. In Florida, insurance companies struggle to recover from the increasing number of hurricanes hitting the state. Premiums in Florida have gone up 300% in the last five years, according to the Insurance Information Institute. They state the average cost of a homeowners policy in Florida is over $4,200 a year. That is over double the national average of $1,700 per year.  Sudden and unexpected cost increases are putting many homeowners under financial duress. Worse, if homeowners can no longer secure insurance in the area they live, they can’t meet the requirements of mortgage lenders, which ultimately reduce dramatically the market and value of their home.

Some of the most beautiful and desirable places to live have increased environmental risk. When we choose to develop and live in these areas, we must acknowledge that the wilderness cannot be completely tamed … and as we say in Las Vegas — the house always wins.

The image shown here is one in a series of works on paper entitled cutting corners. We are all susceptible to cutting corners. Doing things that we know aren’t right to profit in some way. Corner cutting can benefit us in small or large ways, but the magnitude of the benefit should never be used to justify or rationalize one’s action. I am sure you have heard the saying, “Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with very much, and whoever is dishonest with very little will also be dishonest with much.” The reason this holds true is due to how humans habituate cutting corners. It is shocking and concerning how quickly we can normalize a particular corrupt behavior. 

Recent studies show that when someone does something they know to be wrong — say lying for financial gain — they will initially feel shame and strong brain activity will be recorded in their amygdala.  This is the part of the brain that is thought to regulate, among other things, decision making and motivational behaviors. What is fascinating is that after lying just a few times, say 5-10 times during a workday, the shame disappears, and the activity detected in the amygdala is reduced to zero. We quickly become numb or habituated to the particular activity. We all have the propensity to rapidly normalize our various forms of dishonesty and wrong doing, which should make us all very uncomfortable.

Some of the buildings at the facility are so large they reportedly have their own interior “weather systems” with occasional precipitation. They have designed and built special aircraft simply to transport large parts required to build … more aircraft. In addition to providing safe, dependable aircraft for millions of travelers, the importance of this company to our nation is incalculable. That is why we should all be concerned when systems in that company appear to be faltering. The most important question is this: Can the issues be identified and fixed?

Without inside knowledge one cannot be sure about the cause(s) of Boeing’s recent difficulties. However, some speculate that the company became increasingly focused on the business of making aircraft rather than making great aircraft. This phenomenon is not unique and is becoming increasingly common.

It occurs when individuals take their eye off the main thing and begin focusing on what that thing can do for them. This self-focus can quickly permeate an entire organization and create a culture that is no longer fixated on its primary task and reason to exist. We all feel this shift and the inertia of society’s increased self-focus. It is so rare today to find someone who is truly captivated with their work and finds their greatest reward in the work itself. Regardless of your job — running a multinational company, making art, building homes, screwing a panel on an aircraft or cleaning toilets — do you take pride and find meaning in that work? Or do you care more about your status, salary, next break or upcoming vacation?  What makes Boeing’s situation so startling and disturbing is the fact it is literally a matter of life and death. If this speculative cause is correct, the haunting question is clear: Do we have the ability and will as a society to turn from our growing self-focus and strive toward greatness?

The Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain, is Frank Gehry’s masterpiece. I will never forget watching the documentary that recorded architect, historian and critic Philip Johnson’s first visit to the building. He broke down in tears and could not gather himself for quite some time. Johnson later declared Gehry’s work the “greatest building of our time.” Remarkably, the museum is often credited for revitalizing Bilbao’s economy and establishing it as a legitimate European cultural center. The museum attracts millions of visitors every year and has more than paid for itself through collected taxes. Very few works of architecture come close to this extraordinary level of multifaceted success.  The largest exhibition space in the 350,000 square foot facility is dedicated to an epic installation by sculptor Richard Serra. It is fitting that these two makers, who utilize ship-building technology, would achieve such symbiotic harmony in Bilbao — a city with a rich connection to the industry.

Euskalduna was the historic ship-building company that operated in Bilbao from 1900-1984. 

The image shown here is a rarely photographed yet critical element in the sprawling complex. It stretches underneath an adjacent bridge and then soars into the sky. The tower makes a dramatic and arguably excessive pedestrian connection from the bridge to the river front. It serves largely as a monument or landmark of sorts. On the opposite side of the bridge, the side of the tower facing away from the museum appears solid and opaque, clad in elegantly curved limestone panels. The curved surfaces split at the very top of the tower, as if opening to the heavens. On the opposite side the tower exposes its structure, connections and the technology used to construct the doubly curved surfaces of the museum. This is where the buildings secrets are revealed. It is where one sees technology and artistry working together to achieve a masterful coherence.

New York artist Sol LeWitt is considered one of the founders of Conceptual Art and Minimalism.  Starting out, he worked odd jobs including serving as a night watchman for the Museum of Modern Art in NYC as well as a graphic designer for the then young architect I.M. Pei. Some believe these diverse experiences led him to develop a unique approach to art making, which involved laying out simple instructions to be carried out by others. In many ways this approach challenged the idea of authorship, traditional craftmanship and the idea that art was precious and unique. LeWitt would often combine a schematic sketch with a set of simple instructions.  These instructions were then independently carried out by several assistants who strictly followed the artist’s directions. 

Interestingly, LeWitt connects his work and practice to that of an architect. He wrote, “An architect doesn’t go off with a shovel and dig his foundation and lay every brick. He’s still an artist.” The work entitled Wall Drawing #831, partially shown here, is a large mural designed for Gallery 208 at the Guggenheim in Bilbao, Spain. It is one of his first murals that utilized acrylic paint — highly saturated, vivid colors. The work offers one a bold and powerful experience — enveloping the observer’s vision and making it impossible to fit the entire work within the frame of a camera. By painting this work directly on to the wall, LeWitt fuses his work with the architecture, raising questions concerning its permanence, value and conservation.

Communication is often characterized by a lack of empathy or real human connection. For example, it is easy to say or write something in an email, text or post that should never be said to someone’s face or in a larger gathering. The lack of personal connection produced by electronic media can easily lead to simplifying or dehumanizing others.

In contrast great conversations almost always occur in person, face to face. So much of connecting as human beings involves sharing an experience and picking up on non-verbal cues.  What are people wearing and in what setting did the conversation occur? What was one’s body language, subtle facial expressions and timing? What emotions were being transmitted?  

This is what artist Marina Abramovic was silently and powerfully confronting during her 2010 work at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC. Pictured here, people would wait for hours for her to silently stare into their eyes for several uninterrupted minutes. The work was simple, direct and powerful — an act of human connection in a city that prioritizes communication and transaction over conversation and connection. It is critical to consider this basic, yet largely overlooked, human need and what conditions facilitate meaningful conversation and connection. When was the last time you had a great conversation or felt a deep human connection? In this often impersonal, electronic age we should all strive to develop spaces, experiences and opportunities for meaningful conversations and connection.

Portuguese street artist and activist Artur Bordalo (aka Bordalo II) is an international artist who makes installations and 3D murals from recycled trash. His goal is to draw people’s attention to waste and over-consumption. Between 2012 and 2022 it is estimated that Bordalo repurposed over 60 tons of old tires, pieces of wrecked cars, discarded appliances, plastic waste and aluminum cans making over 200 sculptural animals like the one shown here located in Lisbon.  He believes making animals with trash draws attention to the destruction of species caused by societies over consumption and waste. 

Bordalo started doing graffiti when he was 11 years old and eventually studied painting at the University of Lisbon. He studied at the university for over eight years, yet as a true rebel never completed his degree.  Although his work reportedly focuses on ecological themes, the real strength of the work lies in the act of redemption — taking items that have been discarded, deemed worthless and elevating them to delightful, inspiring installations. It is said that to be a true artist, one must see things that others do not, and Bordalo does not disappoint. He sees and fashions a world of beauty and opportunity in what other see as a pile of garbage. 

This large-scale assemblage sculpture by Chris Burden reminded me of a story about a man who fabricated several tall poles and placed them in the middle of a busy street. He then placed powerful lights at the top of each pole. When asked why he built the structures, he answered, “To get the lights up very high.” When asked why the lights needed to be so high, he answered, “So people are able to see the poles and avoid running into them.” In isolation, the man’s answers are completely reasonable, logical and rational explanations … for taking an utterly absurd action.  Although our rational and logical faculties are powerful tools, they are not an antidote for foolishness. 

Due to the complexity of our society and daily existence, we often get lost in the weeds and fail to ask important overarching questions such as, how does this activity benefit the world and contribute to human flourishing? We often put too much faith in our ability to operate rationally within our limited sphere of operation and overlook the need to understand and ponder the meaning, purpose and ultimate impact of our collective actions. It is important to note that the most critical questions can’t be answered with an equation or algorithm. They almost always require the application of ethical and moral judgements.

The transition from high school to college can be challenging and bewildering for many. One of the many challenges is the shift away from teacher-centered learning to a more learner-centered approach. For the most part, university level educators shift learning strategies and techniques from those designed to teach children (pedagogy) to those designed to teach adults (andragogy).  One of the pivotal assumptions is that adults are largely self-motivated and interested in learning.  For this reason, university students are expected to take greater control of their education, operate more independently and set their own goals — focused on self-actualization.

There are several important characteristics of adult learning. While teaching a child, one assumes they are starting from scratch; an adult, however, is expected to utilize their life experiences as a critical component of their foundational knowledge. The relationship between student and instructor also changes. In high school instructors are called teachers and at the university they are called professors.

University professors serve more as guides and mentors who help fill knowledge gaps when needed. They also prod students to consider or ponder issues that develop their personal opinions, insights and character. Professors are experts in their field and engage in research/creative activity within that field — contributing to the advancement of the discipline.  A professor is a person who professes.

An adult’s education involves setting goals and assuming responsibility for one’s own learning outcomes. It should develop one’s ability to apply various techniques and tactics to meet diverse real-world challenges. As a result, an adult educational experience should make meaningful connections with experiences outside the classroom setting. It should develop strong character traits such as integrity, honesty and courage. Adults need to move past childish self-interest — to develop empathy and understanding of others. Learning as an adult requires taking risks with imperfect information and overcoming our natural fear of failure. A college education is not about studying for a test or getting good grades but rather preparing one for a life well lived.

On a recent trip to Porto, Portugal, I got the opportunity to study hundreds of works by Spanish artist Joan Miro. The exhibition was vast, spanning six decades of his career. Miro is considered one of the greatest artists of the 20^th century. He is known for his radical innovations and fascination with spiritual matters, mystical visions and dreams. He studied prehistoric art, cave paintings, and petroglyphs, and he believed that art should return to its roots to retrieve its original spiritual power. His body of work is not easily defined, combining various mediums and techniques. However, what remains consistent is his abiding attention to materiality. Due to the unorthodox techniques he employed, his work requires greater care when being displayed, photographed and preserved.

What was evident after viewing this collection was his relentless exploration and experimentation. In several pieces he burned holes through the canvas incorporating the forms this process generated into his compositions. Some of the burnt edges were so well integrated, you were unaware the holes existed until the back of the canvas was revealed.  There were countless painted sculptures made of manipulated objects as well as paintings on a variety of unexpected materials. The piece shown here is a painting on a handmade jute tapestry. Like the burnt holes, the texture of this surface is masterfully incorporated into his composition. Casting aside conventions, he also added found objects to the work, one of which dangles powerfully from the bottom of the tapestry. The result is mysterious, primal and surprisingly satisfying.

In 2023 I had a sculptural work accepted into an exhibition in San Diego entitled Blackout. I have written about this piece before, but while considering the exhibition I had some additional thoughts regarding the fundamental nature of black — and its potential meaning.  Perhaps shocking to some, black is not actually a thing … it is the absence of a thing — namely light. The opposite of black is not white … it is light. Therefore, black is ultimately defined not by what it is, but rather, by what it is not. Black can’t exist without light — literally.  In order for black to exist and be understood, it must use the scaffolding that light creates. When we paint a surface black, the pigment absorbs much of the light that hits it. Depending on the makeup of the pigment it will absorb greater or lesser amounts of the light. Vantablack, for example, is a proprietary coating that absorbs over 99% of the light that hits its surface. This is the darkest black humans have been able to produce to date. The work shown here uses a pigment that claims to absorbs close to 97% of the light.

Interestingly, light contains the entire visual spectrum or the wavelengths that create the spectacular, vibrant world we live in. A prism can help separate and isolate these light waves and make them visible. A rainbow is nature’s prism; it can separate various wavelengths into ribbons of color that cross the sky. In contrast to the process of separating light waves, when an object appears red, the surface of that object is absorbing the other wavelengths — allowing the red spectrum to be reflected into our eyes. A bright white pigment allows almost all the various spectrums of light to be reflected. Light is energy and can heat objects up. The darker the object, the greater amount of light energy it absorbs. Light is needed for plants to grow.  Even our bodies are said to need light to survive. We can generate electricity with light. Black does no such thing. It is defined by what it is not, by the absence of light, and therefore offers little in return. Perhaps one useful aspect of black is that it can provide us an increased awareness and appreciation of light.

It was a submission to a competition held by the Royal Portuguese Railroad Company for a bridge to span over 520 foot — which was the greatest span ever attempted at that time. One might think Eiffel’s proposal was accepted due to its bold use of the latest technology or perhaps its sheer beauty. However, it was likely the cost of constructing the bridge that closed the deal. His proposal was an astounding 1/3 less than his nearest competitor.  The bridge was considered such a feat that scholarly papers were written and a 1:50 model of the design, accompanied by drawings and calculations, were exhibited at the 1878 World’s Fair.  Construction of the bridge began in 1876 and completed in 1878.

This bridge was the precursor and laid the groundwork for his better-known work in Paris — the Eiffel Tower. The Iron Lady was constructed as the centerpiece for the 1889 World’s Fair and to mark the anniversary of the French Revolution. At 1,083 feet, the tower was the tallest structure in the world when it was built — a distinction it held for over 40 years. It is still the tallest structure in Paris today and attracts close to six million visitors per year. It is hard to imagine but the tower was highly criticized by the artists and architects of the day.

Their opposition centered on a long-standing debate regarding the relationship between architecture and engineering. This excerpt of a protest letter from the “Artists against the Eiffel Tower” gives you a sense of the intense opposition:

 We, writers, painters, sculptors, architects and passionate devotees of the hitherto untouched beauty of Paris, protest with all our strength, with all our indignation in the name of slighted French taste, against the erection … of this useless and monstrous Eiffel Tower … To bring our arguments home, imagine for a moment a giddy, ridiculous tower dominating Paris like a gigantic black smokestack, crushing under its barbaric bulk Notre Dame, the Tour Saint-Jacques, the Louvre, the Dome of les Invalides, the Arc de Triomphe, all of our humiliated monuments will disappear in this ghastly dream… stretching like a blot of ink the hateful shadow of the hateful column of bolted sheet metal.

Perhaps there has always been an uncomfortable tension between new technology and what, at any particular time, is accepted as beautiful and appropriate. What seems to overcome this natural resistance to innovation is a solid pragmatic foundation developed over time.

There is a football field-sized exhibition space at the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain, dedicated to a grand Richard Serra installation. The space holds seven commissioned works that make up the installation entitled The Matter of Time. The installation is epic, and as a result a smaller adjacent gallery filled with his models is often overshadowed. The image here is one of several scaled models Serra used to explore and test his spatial investigations that were placed in this antechamber. Serra chooses to work through scaled models rather than through sketching. This is how he determines if the piece is properly resolved and successful.

His models are simple yet incredibly direct — they utilize the same materials and are shaped with the same type of equipment used to form the finished sculpture. The massive, curved planes are self-supporting, so he is also able to simulate or demonstrate the works’ structural stability. Notations appear directly on the model locating slabs and seams. These models become the blueprints or directions used to fabricate the full-scale sculptures. For those of us interested in how things are made, this display was, in many ways, more rewarding and insightful than the main exhibition.

Contemplation is an attempt to decern the ultimate meaning of a matter — the deep truth if you will. Considering this definition, contemplation does seem to be in short supply these days. There are several contributing factors. For one, most question the very existence of meaning or truth, and, if it does exist, they question our ability to identify or adequately communicate it. To believe this renders the search or quest for meaning and truth pointless.

Another factor is our lack of stillness. We rarely stop moving long enough to have a coherent thought. Our days are filled with action and striving. When things slow down we rush to fill the void by turning on the radio, listening to a podcast, checking our email, news feed or scrolling our social media accounts. Very few people regularly carve out time to retreat, be still and contemplate. I would argue this is one of art’s great gifts to the world. If approached properly art give us an opportunity to pause, challenge our assumptions — to contemplate important matters. It is unfortunate that most use art as a distraction or to justify their values and opinions.

What is more disturbing is when the artists themselves and the art industrial complex ignore the ultimate purpose of art and produces/sells works primarily as financial instruments, works that match a client’s couch or cynically mimic others’ work. When the industry fully adopts the idea that there is no truth or ultimate meaning, art offers little if anything to society other than momentary status or sense of style. When art is stripped of its meaning it leaves even the earnest seeker void. There is still great art being made every day, but to find it one must be patient and willing to carve out a silent space to contemplate meaning and perhaps find its truth.

(12/06/2023) This morning my ritual of making an entry in my visual journal — a journal I have been keeping for close to three decades — took a turn. This was a tragic week for the UNLV community due to a mass shooting that left four people dead and several injured. It is hard to process or make sense of such events. For those of us who have lived in Las Vegas for some time, it was hard not to recall the tragic shooting in 2017 at the Harvest Festival on the Strip that left 59 dead and over 500 injured. To date, this remains the deadliest mass shooting in US history. It is hard to fathom but the US currently averages close to two mass shootings per day — a startling figure considering a mass shooting is defined as one where more than four individuals are killed or injured. Although it did not receive nearly as must press, sadly that same day six people were shot and killed in Austin, Texas. 

When life is taken it is always tragic, especially for the individuals who are personally and directly impacted. Yet, I sense as a society, we are all getting numb to the perpetual trauma.  When we do carve out time to consider these events, most of us feel overwhelmed and unable to change things for the better. In many ways the best we can do is comfort those in pain and extend tenderness and understanding to those around us. As a maker, I question if any of my work can transcend my personal need to record and process the matter. Regardless, and with humility, I thought I would share my recent journal entry entitled “blood cries out.” This is the haunting phrase God uses in the book of Genesis when he confronts Cain for killing his brother Abel. 

Speed is a thing. For example, people that speak faster tend to dominate and direct conversations. Time is money, so when a task is completed quickly money is saved — certainly when billing on an hourly basis. When I was a young designer working in a team with other talented, more experienced designers, I would often spend extra time in the evenings or on weekends to complete a model or drawing so my ideas would be given serious consideration.  The designer who can generate three proposals in the time others can generate only one will dominate the process. Like it or not, for better or worse, speed matters. Unfortunately, speed does not guarantee a proposal is the most thoughtful, nor does it ensure it is ethical or moral.  In fact, speed reduces the likelihood that a particular idea or proposal was thoroughly vetted.  Speed is a powerful tactic that can be used to dominate or overwhelm a competitor. We have all seen successful companies, in a rush to be “first to market,” release marginal, half-baked products. 

It is interesting that as the world’s appetite for speed seems insatiable, the slow movement has emerged. The slow movement counters our desire for greater and greater speed by focusing on doing things better, rather than faster. It advocates slowing down and doing less. When tasks are prioritized as important, determining the right speed or amount of time one should allocate to those tasks becomes paramount. Although it appears that the principles of the slow movement are needed more than ever, they will most likely get crushed by the AI steamroller combined with the unprecedented informational fog generated by social media and information technologies. Who is going to pay individuals to ponder unforeseen implications, unintended consequences or ethical/moral considerations when there is serious money to be made — boat loads of money? The parallels between the slow movement and the arts and crafts movement during the industrial revolution are eerily similar. Like it or not, the race is on.

The Bilbao Fine Art Museum houses an important collection of regional art. One of the Basque artists featured in this collection is Amalau Zanko — responsible for the sculpture shown here entitled Roble. Roble is the Spanish term for white oak or oak tree — the wood of choice for shipbuilders in Europe for hundreds of years. The center of Basque culture is situated along the Bay of Biscay in north-central Spain and south-western France. This relatively small yet distinctive people group, genetically linked to the Irish and Welsh Celts, were historically known as skilled farmers and seafarers. Due to their geography and access to the required natural resources, they developed a reputation for quality shipbuilding. Although the material and craftmanship has strong links to the region’s nautical traditions, this sculpture is also steeped in the complex and mysterious world of Basque mythology.

The Basque people are currently strongly aligned with Roman Catholicism but did not make this transition until the 10^th century. Prior to their conversion, the culture was dominated by folklore based largely on animism — the belief that every natural thing in the universe has a soul or spirit.  Animism is not considered a formal religion but rather encompasses a variety of religious practices through which people cultivate relationships with powerful spirits thought to inhabit our physical world. This work is one of 18 wooden sculptures entitled the Cosmogónica Series that Zanko made based on mythological characters, forces of nature and traditional objects of Basque culture. Interestingly, this work was a predecessor to Zanko’s subsequent public sculptures, which were dedicated to the region’s sailors who were lost at sea.

If you have ever wrestled an equally matched opponent, you know how strenuous and demanding it is. Wrestling requires intense focus and is so physically demanding you can only engage for short periods of time. It is one of the oldest sports and does not require elaborate facilities or equipment. In fact, the ancients use to wrestle without any clothes or gear in a patch of dirt. It was, and still is, a struggle between two human bodies. In that sense it is one of the most direct combat sports.

I was a competitive wrestler for close to a decade while growing up in Iowa City and eventually attending University of Illinois on a full athletic scholarship. Wrestling played a significant role in my formative life.

It may seem odd, but, while contemplating this painting I can’t help but consider the differences between wrestling and dancing. There are striking similarities and profound differences between the two activities. Dancing with a partner also involves two human bodies with direct contact. However, rather than opposing one another’s movements, dance tends to be cooperative, coordinated and usually harmonious. Although physically challenging, dance is an act that is largely expressive and intended to be beautiful and inspiring. As I consider these differences, I realize I have always been more interested in the dance — making art. The following image is an excerpt from a series of mixed media paintings I produced focusing on the word. This work is entitled wrestling. 

David Sax, in his recent book entitled The Future is Analog, cogently outlines the deep failures of the digital promise to improve and enrich our lives. He does not downplay the benefits of our digital future or suggest that we can keep our digital world from continued progress. What he does suggest is that the digital experience is currently not serving our deep needs — our need for human connection and sense of belonging, our need for complex, dynamic physical experiences. He demonstrates that so much of our digital experience is being driven by considerations other than human flourishing. Have you ever called a company for help and been subject to an AI customer service maze, or spent hours returning something you purchased online because it wasn’t what it appeared to be? Perhaps you were attacked or throttled on your social media account by a mysterious algorithm or unidentified “people” who don’t know and have never met you? Have you sat through endless Zoom meetings at work with little hope of accomplishing anything of substance? These are just a few common examples of how the digital world favors “efficiency” over making us feel more human.

I currently teach design courses online and regularly post my personal work online. I continue to struggle with these important issues. The digital experience cannot replicate or replace experiencing a great building or work of art first hand. A physical experience is immersive, holistic and complex. A physical experience involves all the senses in concert, while a computer screen or a pair of virtual reality goggles mutes much of that experience. For this reason, I have resisted turning my art into NFTs. In addition, when I post an essay online about a particular work, I never use an image that conveys the entire object or space I am writing about.  I do this on purpose. I don’t want anyone to think the image or my words are a substitute for experiencing the work for oneself. I secretly hope that what I post online will encourage the truly curious to seek out the work or space and experience it for themselves. It is hard at times to understand the value of the physical world, partly because we never leave it and therefore rarely consider it — like the air we breathe. Interestingly,  when we are forced into digital spaces that diminish our humanity, we begin to understand the importance of our physical world.

I recently read an article about coping with change and uncertainty by Maggie Jackson. She suggests that her daily ritual of swimming in the ocean every morning, a pattern she developed during the pandemic, made her more resilient to the challenges or stress brought about by change and uncertainty. When we encounter something new or unexpected, stress hormones flood the brain, and we frantically look for answers and some resolution. We can panic, withdraw, freeze up, or press into the troubling situation. If one has the proper mindset our cognitive system works diligently to update outdated understandings. Not-knowing interrupts our current program of action and, if allowed, neurotransmitters boost the mind’s receptivity to new information. Jackson argues swimming in the ocean with its churning waves, shifting currents, various weather conditions, and potential encounters with sea creatures trained her to deal with changes and uncertainties in a more productive way.

Throughout her explanation I couldn’t help but draw parallels between swimming in the ocean and designing a project. Designers are constantly being thrust into different worlds that they know little about. The project may be in a country, city or community with which they are unfamiliar. Many projects begin with a new client, team, municipality and program.  You undoubtably are given unrealistic budgets and timelines. When I start a new project, the only thing keeping me from losing my mind is knowing that I have successfully navigated similar situations before. The more times you go through the process of being overwhelmed the more comfortable and confident you get at navigating the stresses, uncertainty and unforeseen shifts that inevitably occur. Designers that are attuned and prepared for the uncertainties make better decisions. They realize that every new project is an invitation to learn — an opportunity to be curious, explore and press into the unknown.

As a result, the built environment is the culmination of our competing and collective ideas, needs, desires and dreams. Regardless of one’s intention, alterations and additions to the built environment impact our collective experience politically, economically, aesthetically, technologically, philosophically, ecologically, materially, spiritually, and so on. The built environment is an intricate, dynamic system of deeply connected factors yet exists as a singular, holistic entity. When someone builds a new building, road, park or piece of public art, it is like inserting a new cell into a living organism. That small cell can act as a catalyst, alter the organism’s DNA, or be rejected. For this reason, the built environment should be viewed as an endless source of meaning, purpose, fascination and discovery. 

No one is capable of mastering all the intricate relationships, systems and infinite interactions that operate in the built environment. Nor can anyone, with absolute certainty, predict the ultimate outcome of any proposal.

Every decision that is made or action that is taken becomes intertwined with the whole and therefore impacts every facet of the built environment, whether it was intended or not. The thoughtful professional is aware that these complex interactions exist, studies them intently and acts with humility — knowing their understanding is always incomplete. Most participants tasked with shaping the built environment are understandably overwhelmed by this complexity, so many specialize or focus on a single aspect or system at the expense of all others. Unfortunately, some go a step further and convince themselves, and attempt to sway others, that their focus is the most important consideration, around which all other considerations must orbit. This, however, does not reflect reality. I often tell my students that architecture is like making a pizza. Some people may fixate of the crust, the sauce, the toppings or the temperature of the oven, but at the end of the day they are responsible for producing the entire pizza and will be judged on how good it tastes.

Making art is an intuitive process. Arguably one’s intuition is more critical when making “abstract” works — when one probes and explores the unseen realities and attempts to make them visible. I have always trusted my intuition, often times long before I can settle a matter logically or with concrete evidence. One reason I trust my intuition is that I train it. Part of the training involves developing daily routines that are meaningful and enriching. Every day I read or listen to a significant lecture or presentation. I then carve out time to ponder it l and draw out the truth. I hike every morning in the desert and watch the sunrise. I make art every day. I spend time with that art — studying and pondering it. I gather my thoughts and write. 

I often start making art without a clear direction, allowing compositions to emerge and develop. It is not uncommon for me, after the fact, to observe themes that relate to my daily activities and observations. I was recently pondering a series of works on paper — one shown here. I found them strangely satisfying but was confused as to why. Where did it come from? Why did I feel so strongly about the work? After several days I realized it related to the rock formations I hike past every morning. I have become fascinated by how large stones crack and decay. Pieces often split off and find a resting place around its base. If the rock separates from a cliff it falls into the canyon. These violent events are rarely witnessed, but in the stillness the sense of energy remains. I see that observation being explored and expressed in this series.

Contemporary Spanish artist Pello Irazu is credited with renewing Basque sculpture. His work is diverse and compelling. One thread that weaves though all his explorations is the complex relationship between the viewer, the artwork and space they both occupy. Although his pieces often incorporate traditional two-dimensional elements, like the piece shown here entitled 14-9, he is always thinking spatially — like a sculptor. In this particular work a portion of the piece seems to leap off the page, out of the frame and land on the adjacent wall — allowing the observer to literally inhabit the space formed by the work.

Apart from his strong spatial sensibility, his “style,” media or approach is not clearly defined and, as a living artist, continues to evolve. In a recent interview he discussed how his work was influenced or changed when he lived and worked in Bilbao vs London vs New York. He sees himself operating within a post-modern world – a hybrid reality where nothing remains pure.  Similarly, his body of work, which incorporates sculpture, painting, murals and photography, blurs the boundaries that separate traditional art genres and categories. I find his work fresh, engaging and absolutely delightful.

This pair of suspended figures is a startling installation by Spanish artist Juan Muñoz (1953–2001), located in the lobby of the Museo de Bellas Artes (Bilbao, Spain). From the ground level the tension is heavy. The two static, grey figures rotate slowly on axis, creating a sense of austerity and instability. The figures are identically clothed, strike a similar pose and are adjacent but clearly distinct and isolated. A skylight illuminates the pieces from above, and a set of stairs wraps around the lobby allowing the visitor to circle the figures until they are eye to eye. The rotation of the work and the path up the stairs continually change one’s relationship to the work. At the top of the stairs, one notices the figures are gripping a strap with their teeth. 

As the sense of stress and peril peaked, I was surprised and bewildered by the grin on each figure’s face — as if their circumstance was a choice, perhaps a performance. I was struck by the thought that we often willingly put ourselves in impossible situations and that these predicaments give us a thrill — make us feel more alive. This work made me consider the city I currently live in, Las Vegas.  A town that celebrates risk taking and thrill seeking. Have our lives become so sterile and sanitized that we are forced to manufacture a sense of adventure, drama or even danger? It is curious that the personal satisfaction of taking a risk — and surviving — is heightened by sharing the experience with others, perhaps in person or online after the fact. Could manufactured distress and drama be a counterweight to the relative comfort and safety of our modern lives?

In a recent article concerning AI, the author suggested that jobs that required human empathy and out-of-the-box thinking will be less impacted — at least in the near term. No disagreement here. However, to that list I would add jobs or tasks that require ethical considerations. Interestingly, I have always placed these three factors at the very top of my list when making or educating young makers.  I contend these three considerations are essential to what makes art and design a meaningful and important human endeavor. As opposed to the doom and gloom, perhaps this AI moment will provide an opportunity to liberate makers to consider these deeper, more important matters. Look at what happened to painting after the invention and proliferation of the camera — another technological advancement. Up to that point most painting documented historical events, albeit from a privileged perspective, and immortalized the powerful. The camera, and later motion pictures, proved far more accurate and efficient at documentation and storytelling.

While some mourned the loss of traditional painting’s subject matter, techniques and practices, in hindsight the camera liberated painting and the painters to explore more interesting and important ideas. They no longer needed to focus on realism, mastering difficult techniques or the outward appearance of things. They could start exploring ideas, feelings, our identities and motivations — the realities that lurks beneath the surface. The example shown here is a portion of a painting by Cy Twombly. It is interesting to consider that, while developing an image using a simple AI software downloaded on your smart phone, you must focus on the idea or “prompt.”  To control the outcome requires a higher level of cognitive awareness — you must think about your thinking. Not ignoring or downplaying the potential disruption and harm caused by major technological shifts, the great benefit of AI lies in its ability to liberate our thinking — allowing a greater focus on more important matters such as empathy, innovation and ethics.

As a “maker,” the way the narrative embraces the physical or material world strikes me as one of these distinctive, powerful and encouraging features.

I apologize in advance for the over-simplification; however, most Eastern traditions seek to detach one’s self from the material world and some go so far as to suggest the material world is an illusion that masks the ultimate reality beyond. Many Western traditions see the material world and our bodily appetites as the ultimate temptation or distraction that must be brought into submission, suppressed and conquered to achieve a noble or virtuous existence. The secularist, one that believes that the material world is all that exists, with nothing beyond what can be seen or measured, denies any ultimate meaning or purpose that can be attributed to the material. Still others believe the physical world is so transcendent that it should be revered, perhaps worshipped and therefore, to the extent possible, left undisturbed — undefiled by human medaling. However, the Biblical text describes a physical world that is good yet requires human intervention and stewardship. It describes a world that has been soiled by human actions but will ultimately be restored and brought back into perfect harmony by its creator.

The text suggests that ultimately humans will not be transformed into ethereal spirits that float about in the heavens, to be absorbed in some collective consciousness, but rather will be given restored bodies to inhabit the very same world we occupy today. We will do that in community, eating, hugging and engaging in meaningful work. It suggests that this plan to restore our planet and humanity has already been set in motion. Restoration does not start at some distant moment in the future but can begin today through our willing actions and deeds. As a maker I find this framework incredibility hopeful. It allows me to see great purpose and meaning in the work I do. It frees me up to acknowledge and revere nature, the physical world, humanity and simultaneously see corrective work that needs to be done. Makers play a role in this narrative by thoughtfully and carefully shaping our physical world. The text implies this work is important and imbued with meaning and purpose. I also find it intriguing that the first person described in the text as “filled with God’s Spirit” was not a prophet or teacher but rather the maker tasked with designing and building the tabernacle with its furnishings

Most of us agree that the stories we tell ourselves and repeat to others are powerful. These stories mold our thoughts, values, beliefs and ultimately manifest in our behavior or actions. So regardless of your personal beliefs or traditions it is valuable during this season to pause and contemplate the unique and radical nature of the Christmas narrative. The idea that the God who created the universe would choose not to be distant or impersonal but rather come to earth to dwell among us is simply astonishing. What adds to the radical nature of this story is that God chose to be nurtured in the womb of a young girl and delivered, not in a palace but in an animal stall.

God came, not as an angry, vengeful, all-powerful overseer, but rather a poor and vulnerable baby. Emanuel — God with us.

The sculpture shown here is an abstract interpretation of the manger. The piece was a part of an exhibition I put together years ago entitled “no room at the inn.” A catalog of this exhibition is available in the documents section of my LinkedIn profile. I wish you all the very best this holiday season!

– although this idea proves to be extremely difficult when applied to one’s political views. For the careful observer, it is evident that we all make various truth claims, even if we don’t share them with others. These claims impact the stories we tell ourselves and ultimately translate into attitudes, actions or behaviors. Sometimes the word truth is used to convey something pure and set apart. For example, something that can only be determined by God — something that is not sullied by human interaction or manipulation. Sometimes the term is used to imply something or someone who is genuine and real. The Greeks often thought of truth in terms of sincerity, being pure or clear — a disposition that was not contaminated by malice or wickedness.

The Greek term for truth or sincerity has a very curious story. In ancient times dishonest porcelain merchants would fill cracks in their pots with a wax mixture. Porcelain was highly valued but fragile and very difficult to fire without cracking. A pearly-white wax pressed into the cracks could not be detected unless it was held up to the light or the vessel was filled with a very hot liquid. As a result, honest dealers would mark their vessels ‘sine cera’ or without wax.  The phrase was adopted to convey sincerity, honesty and integrity — not hiding one’s flaws.  The piece above is a series of works from my visual journal exploring this idea of truth and sincerity entitled without wax. 

There is little need to monitor or check up on that individual — their motivation has been internalized. Individuals dedicated to helping those in need have made similar observations.

It is not enough to feel an obligation to help the poor and less powerful. A sense of duty or perhaps the goal of feeling better about oneself will not sustain one’s work and focus. Some have even drawn a surprising connection between beauty and social justice. To sustain social justice, one must see the beauty in the people you are helping. Beauty develops desire and ultimately makes any effort overwhelmingly attractive, regardless of the difficulty and obstacles one will inevitably confront. Beauty fuels one’s motivation and focuses one’s efforts. This is the primary reason I require my students to interview, spend time with and write about the individuals that will be served by their project.

The photo here is a family my students interviewed in Pakistan’s Northwest Frontier Province during an earthquake relief effort.

As makers we should harness beauty not just as a means to entertain, provide comfort or distract people from the pain and injustice in the world, but rather to expose, motivate and activate our desire to take productive, just actions. Beauty is not decoration or something that is applied to a project at the end of the process to make it pretty. It is a mindset that needs to permeate and impact every decision that is made. Currently, there is not enough discussion regarding beauty and the role it plays in art and design. Perhaps it makes our modern analytical minds uncomfortable. Regardless, pulling us all toward the undervalued, vulnerable and less fortunate — making just acts more desirable and attractive — may be one of the makers most important superpowers. 

In Neil Howe’s latest book, The Fourth Turning is Here, he lays out the three ways humanity has conceptualized time. The first is chaotic, in which human history has no discernable pattern. Events unfold randomly and without meaning or purpose. The second is cyclical, which has prehistoric origins and is rooted in rhythms, planetary cycles and seasons. The idea of time being cyclical alleviates the fear of chaos and informs rituals and activities like planting, harvesting, celebrations and sacred activities.  Interestingly, modern-day clocks and calendars are still based on this notion of continual and perpetual repetition. The third way of conceptualizing time is linear. This idea implies there is a beginning and an ending to history and events. This view suggests time has a direction and is often accompanied by a strong sense of progress. Judaic, Persian, Islamic and Christian cosmologies all embrace the idea of linear time. However, during the enlightenment the idea of linear progress really took hold and a strong belief in indefinite scientific, economic and political improvements emerged. That is where most people are today, but Howe begins to reintroduce compelling evidence of cyclical historical patterns.  

While reading this book I was reminded of a series of paintings I did in 2001 entitled synthesis – a graphic that combined all three of the concepts Howe described in his book. The image shows a yellow spiral form that has a clear beginning point and ending point that breaks the edge of the deep blue frame. The spiral has a linear quality as well an ever-expanding cyclical, repetitive path — changing in thickness in a random and unexpected way. The yellow spiral sits on a cosmic blue backdrop containing random, asymmetric patterns. The frame is pierced by four red spikes, and the yellow spiral shifts or breaks at regular, predictable intervals. I suggest this image synthesizes the chaotic, cyclical and linear. Perhaps we are not limited to operating under just one of these ideas, and they all exist and impact human history simultaneously. When I was painting this, years ago, I was not thinking about time but rather how individuals learn and grow. Yet I am fascinated with how this relatively simple composition became a gateway for me to explore and consider complex ideas and observations regarding human history and time.

Narrowness or being narrow minded is certainly not an attribute that is celebrated in society today. It is also common to think that being open minded is a required ingredient for creativity or using one’s imagination. After making art and engaging in countless compositional investigations the past 30 years, I have noted a fascinating paradox. Namely, that narrowness is a key to productively exploring and appreciating the infinite, endless possibilities that exist in this world. When we narrow our focus on a particular material, process or idea we are then able to focus on its expressive possibilities or manifestations. For example, once Pollock chose to disperse paint with a stick, endless possibilities emerged. Think of all the songs that have been written using the same notes and chords. How a guitar with six strings can produce such varied sounds and moods. It is as if limiting or narrowing our focus unleashes expressive exploration. 

The image above captures a monotype print in a series entitled the same ten strings. In this exploration I took ten strings, inked them, placed them on a plate and ran a single print. I then removed the strings, re-inked them, placed them on a plate and ran another print, and so on. I was and still am mesmerized by the endless compositional possibilities and the feeling that emerges from each print. I display these prints in sets so the observer can delight in the variation as well — making their own critical observations and discoveries. This frame of mind and process is at the heart of most of my work. Surprisingly, after 30 years I am still captivated and excited every day by these explorations. Although I could literally make prints every day with those same 10 strings, there is a point of diminishing returns. When I get to that point in my compositional interrogation, the search is on for the next set of elements, processes or ideas that will sufficiently limit my focus. Narrow is the way …

He used this opportunity to explore the notion of a new aesthetic spirituality based on abstract spatial innovations. He began the commission in 1952, but by 1954 the church had banned his work.  Unable to complete the commission he turned his attention to a series of smaller experiments with the goal of activating space through the use of emptiness and stillness — like the one shown here.

This work has clear spiritual motivations expressed through emptying out simple geometric bodies. There are several philosophical and spiritual traditions that deal with “emptying.” For example, the term sunyata — emptiness or voidness — is a philosophical idea shared by Hinduism, Jainism and Buddhism. Although this concept has multiple complex meanings, it is often tied to a meditative state where one empties their mind to achieve emotional detachment. In contrast, the Christian notion of self-emptying requires deep attachment and engagement.

The term kenosis refers to the act of relinquishing one’s divine attributes. This idea was ultimately manifest in Christ, who humbled himself by taking human form and serving as a willing sacrifice for humanity. Early church teaching went further and implored followers to be like minded and selfless, putting others’ needs above their own.

Oteinza’s sculptural work and writings had an enormous impact on modernism as well as other artists such as Richard Serra. In 1959 at the pinnacle of his career — having recently been awarded the first prize for Sculpture at the São Paulo Biennial — he unexpectedly announced that he would abandon his sculptural pursuits. He explained that the purpose of art was not the art object but rather the formation of the artists themselves, and not to merely elevate the artist but rather train them to engage society directly. This shocking announcement was a powerful expression and perhaps the perfect culmination of his sculptural investigation — an arguably humble, self-emptying act.

This quote that appeared in an 1861 publication entitled Oysters sums up the enthusiasm: “The oyster, when eaten moderately, is, without contradiction, a wholesome food, and one of the greatest delicacies in the world. It contains much nutritive substance, which is very digestive, and produces a peculiar charm and an inexplicable pleasure. After having eaten oysters we feel joyous, light, and agreeable—yes, one might say, fabulously well.” Today I know that the fondness for oysters can divide a room, so for full disclosure I adore them.

It wasn’t until the mid-twentieth century, when over-fishing dwindled the availability of oysters, that this humble container was repurposed as a Chinese takeout food container. The dramatically increased interest in Chinese cuisine — albeit adapted to America taste — took off after WWII. During this period there was simultaneously an explosive demand for “takeout” foods, and “Chinese food” became a popular option. Fredrick Wilcox’s economical paper food container was ideal for Chinese takeout due to its self-insulating properties and ability to hold moist dishes, various sauces and soups.

The popularity of Chinese food and the use of these containers has only increased over the years. Today there are more than 40,000 Chinese restaurants in the United States, making them more common than McDonalds.  These containers have become so popular and widespread that the Smithsonian National Museum of American History mounted an exhibition of the Chinese takeout containers in 2011 entitled Sweat and Sour: A Look at the History of Chinese Food in the United States.

Found objects, irrespective of scale, have a history, and their origin relates to a specific moment in time. They have a pre-existing meaning, purpose, and logic or deep structure. Unlike most artists who utilize found objects as a cynical alternative to producing an original, unique work, this sculptural series entitled takeout treats the humble oyster pail as a set of circumstances that await a response — an opportunity to express and explore one’s limited but transformational agency. The use of found objects in contemporary art can help confront our troubled, complicated history and unpack events that have been forgotten or marginalized.

In 1894 Chicago based inventor Fredrick Weeks was issued a patent for what he called the “paper pail.” Inspired by Japanese origami, the box was made of a single folded piece of waxed paper secured with a metal handle. The design resulted in an inexpensive, sturdy, disposable, leak proof container. The contents could be eaten directly from the box, easily slipped onto a plate or eaten on the unfurled box itself — serving as a disposable paper plate. Weeks designed these containers to transport raw oysters, but due to its ability to hold moist, sauce-based foods it was adopted by “Chinese” take-out restaurants in the United States after WWII. It was also occasionally used to sell honey. 

Over the years the design has stood the test of time. It is still being widely used with few if any alterations. The boxes are still being manufactured in the United States for the US market and are predominately exported to other Western countries. Ironically, you will be hard pressed to find these containers in China or other parts of Asia. In the 1970s Fold-Pak, the major manufacturer of the paper pail, started printing a graphic on their boxes using Chinese symbols and the image of a pagoda. Interestingly, the graphic designer responsible for the imagery remains unknown. Although today this ingenious container has become an icon of “Chinese” take-out food, some argue this ingenious take-out box is as American as apple pie. 

A good friend, who ran the local food bank for years, used to describe our relationship to food by asking three simple questions. Is there enough? Does it taste good? How does it look or how is it presented? He argued that these three concerns and their relative importance revealed your level of affluence. Regardless of our perspective, most people would agree that having a meal is more than simply nourishing the body. Some consider eating a spiritual act and give thanks before each meal — noting that the items we ingest have given their lives to perpetuate ours. They also acknowledge the labor and laborers responsible for preparing the meal. Some believe a meal should be a communal event, and as often as possible be taken with others. When we eat out, the chef or restaurant owner is responsible for developing an environment or experience around the meals they serve. The range of that experience can span the simple and pragmatic diner to the sophisticated and luxurious Michelin 3-star restaurant. The experience may also vary based on the table you are given and your server.

When we take our food to go or have it delivered, we, by default, curate our own experience around that particular meal. We may get take-out at a drive-thru and consume it in our car as we drive down the road.  We may have the food delivered to our home and eat it on the couch with a bottle of wine while watching a movie. I prefer to eat take-out at a park or next to a lake. Regardless of the food’s quality, eating in a beautiful natural environment always seems to elevate the experience. Eating take-out rather than dining-in became a necessity for many during the pandemic. Apart from driving me to hone my cooking skills, the pandemic made me more appreciative of how eating take-out forced me to consider the environments and experiences I developed around eating my meals. Take-out liberates one from a specific location or given set of circumstances surrounding a particular meal. It requires a bit more work, but take-out gives you agency to transform a less than satisfying dining experience into a more dignified one — it provides you more control.

Making is therefore one approach that offers up the possibility of developing actionable or achievable innovation.

There are different levels of knowing, and one way to mask one’s lack of knowledge is to simply copy someone who has undoubtedly spent decades developing their skill and understanding.  This is certainly the easiest way to produce something that appears competent. Regardless, you still need a nominal amount of knowledge and discernment to determine who or what to copy given a particular set of circumstances. It is far easier to teach a student to engage in enlightened copying than to teach that student the discipline, skills and knowledge needed to innovate or develop something novel. I would argue this is why most design programs and professors teach their students to copy. Interestingly, I think that is the compelling case for the use of AI in the design fields.

AI is arguably the ultimate copy machine — taking what exists, exploring endless variations at breakneck speed.

Although it is estimated that 85% of our economy is dependent on true innovation, the cost is great and, in the design fields, almost always born by the maker. There are too many dead ends, costly mistakes and unproductive rabbit holes. The marketplace rarely rewards the true innovator — unfortunately, it is usually the second or third copier who reaps the rewards.  Entrenched interests resist innovation, and the public is largely put-off or confused by something truly unique or novel and rarely appreciate its value immediately. I have heard that in order for something truly new to be accepted by the public, it has to be contained within something that is at least 90% familiar. Regardless, true innovation will always require time, knowledge and a level of dedication that few possesses.

I often say things or make things intuitively and afterward spend a considerable amount of time unpacking their meaning and significance. I don’t believe one has to have complete understanding or control over their ideas and processes to produce something significant. Often our intuition and gut response is spot on, and our minds need time to catch up.  It’s been over a year since I made the work shown here. The series of sculptures was entitled living stones. There is a Biblical text that was the inspiration for the work that talks about people being formed into a holy temple like living stones. Echoing the text, I mentioned in the artist statement that this invitation comes with a requirement for one to bridle their own self-interest and be joined with others. A willingness to become part of the common effort and perhaps never be seen or celebrated. Living stones are intended to join together to accommodate one another in order to achieve a greater end. 

What always bothered me was the sculptures I made don’t fit together — it was never a thought or intention. They are all singular objects, albeit similar in substance and technique, but each with a unique internal and external expression. When exhibited in the same space they are often placed on their own podium and never touch each other — as if they are competing for attention. Ironically, the work does not demonstrate the hopeful promise presented in the text. It does, however, communicate all too accurately the current state of society. It is as if we have lost the desire or ability to selflessly sacrifice for others — to serve, work together, without recognition, for the common good. We don’t fashion our lives to accommodate the needs of those around us, to join in a common effort. Rather, we focus on ourselves, demand recognition, insist that other accommodate our needs and, like a room full of children, we all scream for one another’s attention.

I have always been fascinated by the Mojave Desert — the hottest and driest desert in North America. I live on the edge of Las Vegas — the only major population center in the Mojave — and make it a point to get into the desert as often as possible. One of the special lifeforms that thrive in the desert southwest is lichen. Interestingly, lichen is a community of two or more distinct yet interdependent organisms — fungi, algae and occasionally bacteria. There are more than 20,000 different types of lichen, which have adapted to almost every ecosystem on the planet. Although these organisms are often overlooked, it is estimated that lichen cover approximately 7% of the earth’s surface. These complex communities produce a surprising array of colors and textures. When combined with the wide array of rock formations found in the Mojave, one is struck by the endless combination of these wild living compositions. Whoever considers this desert wilderness lifeless or lacking color has not spent enough time in it or examined it closely.

It is fascinating how these distinct organisms support and cooperate with one another to thrive in this harsh desert environment. New research is revealing how complex lichen is; however, the basics are these: The algae utilize photosynthesis to produce energy for the fungi. In return the fungi provide structure and protects the algae from the elements. The fungi can also pull nutrients from the rock and eventually break the rock down to form soil. The lichen absorbs water and nitrogen directly from the atmosphere and are therefore considered a reliable indicator of air quality. After a rain, the lichen’s excess nitrogen leaches into the surrounding soil fertilizing the nearby plants – contributing to a supportive ecosystem. Ultimately, when lichen die, they decay and develop small pockets of new nutrient dense soil. Although some types of lichen are poisonous, most can be consumed by other creatures. Some types have even been used to develop medicines and dyes. Seems that we have a lot to learn from the humble lichen.

I am not a big fan of the ubiquitous foam cup. I don’t particularly like the way they feel in my hand or on my lips when I take a drink out of them. I am occasionally impressed with the way some have used them to form letters and messages by wedging them in the cells of a chain link fence. However, artist Tara Donovan has taken the foam cup to an entirely different level. The piece shown here, entitled Styrofoam Cup Sculpture, is an installation of billowing cloud-like structures that envelope the observer. Some of the clouds measure up to 20 feet by 6 feet and are held in place by glue dispensed from a common hot glue gun you could pick up at any craft store. The way these structures diffuse light is stunning and magical.

Tara is known for taking common everyday objects and transforming them into something that surprises and gets one to think about the object in a new light. She has also made works out of No. 2 pencils and drinking straws. She specifically selects objects that are mass produced and when placed together can form unique patterns and experiences. Her process does not begin with a preconceived design, but rather emerges from a dialogue she has with the object — allowing the object to dictate the forms and shapes that develop. She explains, “With every new material comes a specific repetitive action that builds the work.” I have always been captivated by work that transforms a humble, everyday object into something inspiring and transcendent.

Although one could argue humans have always been self-absorbed, the nature of this obsession, in my estimation, has increased exponentially over the past several decades. For instance, as a child, when my family visited the Grand Canyon, we rushed to the edge and looked out into the vastness and felt small. We studied the vista and tried to take it all in — to experience the moment, to record a memory or feeling.  It never once occurred to any of us to take a selfie. If, by chance, one of us had a camera loaded with film and solicited a stranger to take a family photo, it would have been placed in a photo album and largely kept a private matter. Today, a dominant instinct would be to take a selfie and instantly post or publish it on the world wide web for everyone to see. 

We spend too much time and energy curating images on social media sites in order to project an exciting, fulfilling, successful, perfect life rather than actually living that life. How did we get to this point? A moment in history when virtually everyone believes that what they are doing and experiencing is worth broadcasting across the globe.

Is it simply about getting attention and likes, or do we really think that our lives are that remarkable — that we are providing something of real value to those around us? Perhaps this thought never occurs to us, because we have made everything about ourselves. Even when we seemingly care for someone else or something bigger than our narrow self-interest, we are often angling for something in return, such as mutual admiration, increased status or perhaps envy.

For all those who believe they are making a difference with their social media account, before you make another post, consider the first selfie attributed to Jan van Eyck in 1433. His self-portrait is entitled the “Portrait of a Man.” It took van Eyck years to develop his artistic skills and due to this painting’s exquisite detail, it likely took several months to complete. It resides at the National Gallery in London in its original frame, which is engraved along the bottom with the motto “As Well As I Can.” This inscription is thought by historians and scholars to constitute an overt challenge to his fellow artists and to serve as a calling card for prospective clients, basically saying, “Look at what I can do with paint.”

When I was a young boy my mother made me take piano lessons. I am told I was quite good for my age; however, at the time I did not have much interest in the piano. Learning the piano was difficult, and the rewards were evidently too slow to manifest. I grew impatient, and as soon as I was allowed, I stopped practicing and playing.  Like so many, I look back as an adult and wish I had stuck with it. I envy proficient musicians who persevered to achieve such seemingly effortless expressive freedom. To attain that level of skill requires dedication — countless hours, many of which are undoubtably spent reluctantly and with minimal joy. However, as with any developed talent, the toil eventually becomes a refuge — a powerful form of expression, a tool to explore and understand the nature of life. I don’t know of any accomplished person who does not see the yoke as their path to true freedom.

Our relationship to our work and toil is complex and multi-faceted. I am extremely glad that I found my way to the visual arts. This is not a common, supported, well-marked path in our society. Unlike music, very few children are forced to take art classes when they are young.  Looking back, I see the seeds that were sufficiently watered, but ultimately it was something that I pursued — a murky and mostly solitary process of self-discovery. Neither of my parents were artists, and I fortunately attended well-funded schools that had not cut their art programs.  Although I was never overtly discouraged, I don’t remember a single instance when I was encouraged in this pursuit. Regardless, at some level, I did not have a choice. This is who I am and how I navigate the world. I don’t know how else I can explain my compulsions and obsessions — like manipulating pizza boxes.

I spend a great deal of time in the desert, and one phenomenon that has captured my attention is interesting and unique rock formations. The image here shows a rock that was sculpted and formed by the wind. Although the rock was originally produced from the same material there were areas with less dense or durable deposits. As the swirling wind picked up sand and started to wear down and smooth the surface, these pockets of less durable material were removed more quickly. You can find the opposite effect too — sometimes small spherical deposits are surrounded by less dense material. As the rock deteriorates, these small spheres of rock slowly emerge.  When fully released they fall to the ground. Locals call them Indian Marbles.

It is interesting to consider that these dynamic formations are made by an invisible process that, due to the time frame, is difficult to detect or measure. These forces gradually reveal hidden differences in the structure of the rock. Differences that always existed but were not initially visible. Like life it can take a long time for the true nature and relative durability of a matter to be revealed. All we can do is yield, relent and marvel at the impact and result of these unseen forces. I see how life’s constant abrasions are what mold our character and reveal our true motivations. Time and life’s relentless challenges can slowing remove our less durable desires and ambitions. I am comforted by the ancient text that promises “He, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished.”

There is something compelling about witnessing a transformation. We all seem to take particular interest in seeing something old, broken, imperfect, substandard or un-useful become whole, refined, useful, and beautiful. I think we delight in seeing positive change because we all secretly long to transform some aspect of our own lives. Seeing a successful transformation gives us hope that our flaws and mistakes can somehow be redeemed. This is one reason for the success of the television show Extreme Makeover, which first aired more than 20 years ago. It chronicled ordinary individuals who were guided by a team of experts to undergo plastic surgery, exercise regimes, hairdressing and wardrobe transformations. At the end of the show the individuals were presented to their friends and family and their reactions captured.  Interestingly, this show later gave rise to a “home addition” where people’s homes were transformed in a similar manor. 

Curiously, the home addition became so popular that it spawned a complimentary show that revealed the behind-the-scenes difficulties and travails of each original episode. People are not only interested in seeing these transformations but understanding the way in which they occur. Something that became a fascination with many viewers was how certain individuals could see the potential in a particular situation — potential that remained hidden from most. This is the superpower of an artist, designer or maker. A gifted maker learns how to explore, decern and evaluate possibilities, then exploit opportunities to realize a preferred outcome — to call forth things that are not, as though they were. The piece shown here is one in a series of works that transformed a flawed, unsatisfying painting into a number of dynamic sculptural reliefs. This series was personally gratifying and reinforced the idea that no situation is hopeless, and with a bit of courage, insight and skill anything can be transformed.  

So much of life is about timing. The rub is that we have little control over it. Often the best we can do is to position ourselves and prepare, so if and when the stars do align, we can seize the moment. This idea has been reinforced recently during my morning ritual. I have been taking the same hike every morning for months. I wake up in the morning before the sun rises and reach a ridge that overlooks the Las Vegas Valley and Red Rock National Conservation Area. For some reason I get cell reception on the ridge so I will snap a quick photo on my cell phone and send it off to my wife. Every morning conditions are different due to weather, the season, when I leave the house and encounters with wildlife. Most mornings the view is incredible; however, there are days when I am caught off guard by the beauty. I just happen to be at the right place at the right time and the reward feels priceless.

Interestingly, these moments only last a few minutes and then quickly transition into something more mundane. What heightens the experience is that I appear to be the only one there to witness it. Even the photos I send my wife, or occasionally share with friends, pale in comparison and never fully capture the encounter. I have never come across anyone else up on the ridge at sunrise. I imagine this is largely due to the barriers, or what is required, to get there. Like waking up at 4:30 am, hiking uphill for over an hour in the dark and doing so on a regular, consistent basis. After all that work you are never guaranteed a spectacular view. Perhaps you could get lucky, but based on my experience, you can expect to witness something truly special less than 5 percent of the time. With these odds very few are willing to position themselves to seize life’s rare opportunities. 

So much of what impacts our lives lies outside of our control. Farmers can’t make it rain, and even if it is predicted in advance, they can’t keep a hailstorm or hurricane from devastating their crops. Economists speak of black swan events — situations that can’t be foreseen. Many believe life itself was created by a series of serendipitous events, while others believe that life was the result of an all-powerful creator. Interestingly, what everyone can agree on is this: Whatever happened when the universe was formed, humanity had very little to do with it. Due to our lack of control and inability to foresee the future, a great deal of time, energy and treasure is spent attempting to calculate the probability of various potential outcomes. Some give in to the unknown and simply cast lots or flip a coin when making critical decisions. The fact is that we never know what the future holds. We don’t even determine whether we take another breath. This doesn’t mean that we don’t have agency. Famers still need to plant their crops in hopes of a successful harvest, and we can exercise to improve our health with the prospects of living longer.

This tension between our agency and our lack of control is explored, expressed, even celebrated, in countless works of art.  For example, Jackson Pollack, when making his splatter paintings did not control the exact placement of the paint on the canvas. However, he did control the stick dripping with paint. He controlled his arm movements, the way he flicked the stick, the color of paint he dipped the stick into, and all these factors had a significant impact on the overall composition. Several artists have taken a step further and made this tension the primary focus of their work and practice — utilizing chance operations or stochastic (random) processes. One such effort is the work shown here entitled Time-Out / Temps Mort, which was developed by Ogrydziak / Prillinger Architects.  It is the result of an exploration that incorporates indeterminant factors within a digital process. They utilizes C++ programing language — a software and script that allows precise, natural forms to emerge. This specific form was generated by controlling and curating random digital processes.

“You say to a brick, ‘What do you want, brick?’ And brick says to you, ‘I like an arch.’ And you say to brick, ‘Look, I want one, too, but arches are expensive and I can use a concrete lintel.’ And then you say: ‘What do you think of that, brick?’ Brick says: ‘I like an arch.”

One common strategy is using an essential material and its module to develop larger modules or components that can then be replicated using similarly industrialized processes. We see this strategy at play in building components, furnishings, modular construction and the ubiquitous suburban sub-division. Many suggest that emerging technologies such as 3D printing have begun to challenge these long held conventions and mindsets — ushering in the age of mass customization. Other than the dimensions of its build area and perhaps its scaffolding strategy, the 3D printer is not governed by traditional or long-standing modules and therefore frees the designer to explore forms and expressions that are too difficult or costly to produce through conventional means.

However, this freedom comes at a price. One of the most difficult challenges any maker faces is what I call the crisis of infinite possibilities. At every turn the maker is forced to choose from an infinite number of options.  For example, if a choice is made to use the color blue from the infinite number of color options, the designer must still choose what shade of blue — there are infinite shades of blue. After a particular shade of blue is selected, is it flat, glossy or somewhere in between? Another set of infinite possibilities. To complicate the matter, the way the chosen blue is experienced depends on its size, shape, orientation, the lighting conditions, and the other colors or materials placed around it — each factor presenting another set of infinite possibilities, not to mention their incalculable interactions with one another. In a practical sense, having a brick or traditional module that resists or limits one’s exploration can be a great advantage and comfort.

During the last 100 years or so, countless artists have produced works that utilize or are inspired by found objects. The introduction and artistic appropriation of common everyday objects began after WWI as society became increasingly disillusioned with the established social order. This extreme skepticism gave rise to a view of the world called nihilism. Nihilism rejected truth, moral principles and purported that life was absolutely meaningless. Some artists who sought to express this loss of meaning began utilizing these items in their work. Why take the time and effort to develop unique original works if there is no point? Ironically, the ultimate expression of nihilism is to destroy or to do nothing at all. Why go to the studio or make art if everything is meaningless? This is likely why the movement was short lived. However, many of the techniques and processes that were pioneered by these cynics continued to be used. For example, well-known artists utilizing found objects include Duchamp, Oldenburg and most recently Koons. Interestingly, Koons, one of the most financially successful artists of our age, is the only one mentioned here who insists there is no meaning attached to his work.

I regularly utilize common everyday items in my own artwork. I developed a series of sculptures by painting and manipulating pizza boxes. My current series entitled take out, an example shown here, utilizes Chinese take-out food containers and chop sticks.  In contrast to many historic precedents, my work is not cynical or meaningless. I consider the “found object” a cultural artifact — a product of a particular way of life, society and geopolitical/economic system within which I am immersed. The object presents me with a predetermined condition and context — a meaning that I have little or no control over. By manipulating and altering these objects I am exercising my agency and gaining some control over my circumstance. Some have interpreted my works as deconstruction, but I don’t see them that way. My works are rational, stable and ordered. My constructions are often complex — inspired by patterns found in nature.  My work is hopeful, not critical or cynical. It acknowledges we often lack control over our given situation, yet have substantial authority and possess the ability to be proactive and assertive — to alter, impact and reconfigure our reality. 

Modern society is obsessed with greatness. One recent piece of evidence is the popular use of the acronym G.O.A.T. — greatest of all time. It is most used in conversations about athletes and entertainers but seeps into our mental framework, impacting almost every aspect of our lives. While most focus on the surface conversation, the more interesting observations and information is gathered by paying attention to how we attempt to make these determinations. How is greatness defined, and specifically how is greatness defined in art or the built environment? Some focus on the individual and their accomplishments. Once that person achieves a certain status, everything they do is considered great.  Picasso, for example, is and should be considered one of the greatest artists of all time. As a result, everything he produced, regardless of its quality, is considered valuable and in most people’s eyes great.  Greatness by association.

Regarding the built environment, many use the matrix of usefulness to determine if a space or design is great. Does it address an important human need or desire?  Others focus on performance — how well or efficiently a design achieves its objectives. The business minded might utilize R.O.I. (return on investment) as the ultimate criteria for greatness. Still others might emphasize longevity or standing the test of time, aesthetics or appearance, intellectual rigor, or perhaps the way something makes us feel.  Declaring something is great is easy — we do it all the time without even realizing it. However, examining the criteria and processes we use to evaluate greatness reveals what we value and hold dear.  Regardless of our particular opinions and determinations, it is certain that the way we determine greatness reveals more about us than the things or people we are evaluating.

So much of our life is determined by things out of our control. We don’t choose the moment in history or country in which we are born. We don’t choose our race or determine our biological/chemical makeup. We don’t choose our parents, family or relatives. The fact is, we are all dealt a different set of unique circumstances from which it is almost impossible to escape. Similarly, makers often don’t get to choose their clients, co-workers, or collaborators, and they have limited control over a project’s context, budget or timeline. What we do have control of is our response to the given set of circumstances. It always helps to start with a clear, objective understanding of the given situation, but after that, our responses and our choices define our success and/or failure. 

Found objects have a pre-existing meaning, purpose and logic (deep structure) — a given set of immutable circumstances or conditions. Unlike most makers who utilize found objects as a cynical alternative to producing an original, unique work, I use these objects as a starting point — a given set of circumstances.  The work is largely an exploration and expression of control — the impact of our limited but transformational agency. This work is a testimony to our ability to add, subtract, manipulate and transform a particular set of fixed conditions. This particular body of work utilizes the Asian takeout food container and accompanying chopsticks as the starting point.

This work will be exhibited at Pricilla Fowler Gallery located in downtown Las Vegas through the month of July.

Although exciting for art enthusiasts and liberating for the artist, this shift is hard for some to process. The most celebrated contemporary art today rarely utilizes traditional art making techniques and rarely manifests as an oil painting on a stretched canvas, a bronze/stone bust, or a watercolor framed behind glass. The processes, technologies and materials used in art production today are so fresh and diverse that they become a significant factor in understanding the message and meaning of a particular work.

The work shown here utilizes sheet vinyl with an adhesive backing. The material is commonly used for signs, decals and car wraps. Architects and designers utilized this material for renderings, models and other representations before the proliferation of computers and color printers. I was exposed to the material and process in my architecture design courses. The sheets are commonly cut with an X-ACTO blade – a modeling knife with a very sharp edge.  The removable blades are numbered based on their shape and intended purpose. I am partial to the number 11.

In fact, I was so proficient with these blades that after seeing my handiwork, I received a lifetime supply of number 11s from the manufacturer. I am currently working through my supply and plan on passing down any unused blades in my will and testament.

What is interesting and important about this process is that it is largely subtractive, rather than additive. You cut and remove material as opposed to a traditional painting process where you continually add material or pigment to a surface. Today, most sign makers use a laser cutter to form various shapes and letters. In my work the cuts are made by hand with relative precision and without ambiguity. I don’t try to mask or hide the inevitable score marks left on the surface beneath.  There are no do-overs; once a cut is made you either live with it or start over. You can’t simply cover it up with another layer of paint. Although there are numerous colors available, there are no mixing colors. Similar to collage, you must accept and work with the given palate. The ability to place colors and shapes onto a surface is immediate and satisfying.

The quote above has often been attributed to Albert Einstein; however its origin is likely Bob Samples. In 1977 Samples published an article entitled “Mind Cycles and Learning” where this statement appears. Rather than a direct quote, he was attempting to capture Einstein’s general position regarding the power of our intuition and the role of rational thought. I know to some the origin of this quote is extremely important. However, rather than get in the weeds regarding the attribution, I prefer to revel in the truth of the statement. Is it any less true if Einstein did not make this exact statement?

Our intuition is the source of innovation and discovery. It is the mechanism we use to anticipate what lies beyond empirically established facts. Intuition is largely based on our feelings, emotions and reactions to various, often complex situations or phenomenon.

Even if one attempts to suppress their intuition, it proceeds and directs any rational pursuit. Our intuition is an important, critical capacity. Educational models and creative methodologies that neglect or discount intuition, fail to develop, train and refine this vital cognitive tool. Unfortunately, design education has largely abandoned the subjective in favor of lesser approaches that can be more clearly measured. We discourage the use of expressive language and avoid discussing or evaluating how spaces or objects make us feel. It is much easier and less messy to analyze an energy model, preform a calculation or follow a rigidly prescribed process — turning one’s back on the sacred gift. All great innovative works are knowingly or unknowingly guided by an intuitive leap. 

The first time I utilized the technology was more than 20 years ago, when it was lesser known and largely hidden from the public eye. At that time a high-quality machine cost more than $500,000 and required specialized training to operate. I partnered with a lab at Georgia Tech — grabbing unused machine time between funded research projects. I read scholarly articles about mass customization and how the technology was going to revolutionize manufacturing.  Although this still may be true, the wheels of progress often require a great deal of patience and persistence. The inertia of existing technologies and processes are sticky and powerful forces that slow down any technological adoption. Existing manufacturing infrastructure that has achieved scale constitutes a huge investment of time and treasure. This massive investment can’t simply be abandoned or transformed quickly.

Our transition to clean energy sources, for example, is complex with many moving parts and will take decades to realize. Even when technological transitions are complete there are always ways to utilize the older technology. So, I suspect the fossil fuel industry will adapt and survive — just in a diminished capacity. This is why I was surprised, encouraged and delighted to see Adidas’ new running shoe. It utilizes 3D printing technology to manufacture a midsole. What is exciting is that the design could not have been practically produced any other way. It is an intercut lattice that is designed to propel the runner forward with every stride – transforming each impact into forward motion. This appears to be an ideal application for this technology and represents the promise of many predictions for this technology. If I were in the market for a running shoe, I would definitely try them on for size. 

I have had a life full of adventures. As I get older, I ponder life more often, consider the decisions I have made and the experiences I have accumulated over the years. Early on these adventures were initiated by my parents and the way I was raised. As an adult the adventures were mostly due to my wife — whose mission in life is stirring the pot. It is not like I had to be dragged into these adventures — I was a willing participant and occasional instigator. However, the nature of an adventure requires you to leave your comfort zone to venture off into the unknown or at least the unfamiliar. As an adult my teaching career took me to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and later to Las Vegas, Nevada. Neither of these places were on my bucket list, nor did I ever imagine living in either city. Regardless, I am very appreciative of both communities, the people I met and the opportunities I have been afforded. However, I don’t consider either place home. I have often heard the bold truth uttered, “You ain’t from around here…” At best I felt like a welcome guest, at worst a carpet bagger of sorts. These communities were not always comfortable or convenient places to live. 

It is interesting: As my wife and I approach retirement age and have choices regarding where we would like to live, we are mildly perplexed. When you go on an adventure, the assumption is that you will at some point return “home” and at this point neither of us really know where that is. I always felt that my work and life have been full of meaning and purpose, but it has never been tied to a particular geographic location. I have always been willing to get up and go if an opportunity presented itself.  Although my wife and I grew up in the same town in Iowa, none of our family members remain there, and most of our friends have moved away. We haven’t been back for decades and would likely not recognize it if we returned. I finally realized that I was never on an adventure with the promise of returning home. Instead, my wife and I have been on a quest. A quest, as opposed to an adventure, has no end or particular destination and is largely driven by meaning and purpose. So, our next move will feel less like an adventure and more like another chapter in an ongoing and continuous quest for meaning, purpose and opportunity.

At that time in my community there were no organized leagues or youth teams, so I played pick up ball with friends, neighbors or with classmates during recess. Over the years I developed some skills and saw myself becoming a professional basketball player. When I got into junior high school and went out for the basketball team, I couldn’t even make the varsity squad. Until that moment I had not been confronted by the limitations of my gene pool.  Unfortunately, no one in my family tree was over 6 feet tall and our wingspan, although proportionate, was also far below average.  My chosen, perhaps naïve, sense of identity took a major hit.

Amidst my disappointment, a friend invited me to compete in a wrestling tournament. On a whim I agreed. Other than getting in a few scuffles I had never wrestled before. I did not have any of the gear, so I wrestled in a pair of running shoes, shorts and a t-shirt. I didn’t even understand the rules or how to score points. To everyone’s surprise I took home a bronze medal at my weight class. It was explained to me that this was a prestigious competition — my friend did not even place in the tournament.

Long story short, five years later I pinned my opponent in the state finals and earned a full ride athletic scholarship to attend college. Wrestling opened doors and taught me a great deal about life — I am extremely thankful. However, I never really wanted to wrestle and still occasionally fantasize about playing in the NBA. It’s curious that wrestling, which was never my chosen pursuit, became a part of my identity.

I think this is a common narrative. I have heard several accounts of people discovering their identity and purpose in life on the way to a place to which they never arrived. I am surrounded by young people making consequential decisions regarding their future. I encourage them to pursue their passions, but also remind them that life is not so much about determining who we are as it is about discovering our place and purpose in this world. Where and how we can make a meaningful contribution. Some of the best advice I have heard given to young people is to focus on micro goals and remain open to opportunities that emerge. The fact is our identity and purpose in life are not static and change or evolve over time.

Some may notice that I shy away from using the term create or any of its derivatives in my writing. For me using this term is too presumptuous, perhaps arrogant. Traditionally, to create implies producing something from nothing — an activity reserved for God or the gods. Mere mortals, on the other hand, simply use the things that exist around us to fashion our world. You may have heard the ancient saying “There is nothing new under the sun,” and I tend to agree with that statement. This is not to say humans do not innovate or develop novel, original things, but the way we do this is by combining and shaping ideas and things from what already exists. That is why I prefer to use the term making.

Making requires the development of a complex body of knowledge in conjunction with refined motor skills. It involves one’s entire mind and body. It is one thing to gain theoretical knowledge on a matter or perhaps watch a YouTube video of someone demonstrating a particular process. It is completely different when you engage in the activity of making yourself. The thousands of interrelated details that need to be coordinated, the smell, the hum of the equipment, the resistance of a particular material, all develop a more complete, wholistic understanding. Mastery requires knowledge that must be accumulated by doing something repetitively, over time. For the attentive and thoughtful maker this experiential knowledge is not just a means to realize a vision but a wellspring of ideas and inspiration.

It is interesting to note that recent research revealed experienced industry experts do more exploring, experimenting and testing than beginners. This cultivated curiosity and practice is needed to produce anything of quality. It is not only the cultivation of the exploratory mindset but the development and maintenance of the infrastructure or platform required to engage in that exploration. A biologist may need a lab outfitted with advanced technical equipment. An artist needs a studio, tools and materials. A designer might need a powerful computer with specialized software. An astronaut needs a spaceship. Exploration is time consuming and costly.

The process involves countless hours with no guarantee of a productive outcome. Yet civilizations are built on the discoveries and work of explorers — the risk takers. We often hear the stories of the successful explorers and their great contributions. However, we almost never hear about the countless failures that led nowhere. The acclaimed inventor Thomas Edison famously failed more than 1,000 times before he developed the lightbulb. The only reason we have this account is because he ultimately prevailed.  Consider how many explorers remain unknown and toil every day in relative obscurity. It takes a certain type of individual to devote their life and bear the cost of probing the unknown — we should never take these individuals for granted.

In a recent conversation I made the provocative suggestion that sustainability had largely replaced ethics in the design professions. How can anyone argue with “saving the planet” and with it the human race? Let’s call it enlightened self-interest. Unfortunately, the deep question to ask is not if we should “save the planet” but “why” we should save it? Until we answer the “why” question, our actions, motivations and convictions will undoubtably waiver. If we are doing it to simply save ourselves or to appear ethical in an attempt to further our careers and sell our services, the immediate, self-focused and short-term benefits will always guide our actions.  I can’t help but think about the countless, unknown throngs of individuals that built the cathedrals in Europe — those who toiled their entire life knowing they would never personally witness its completion or fully benefit from the structures they devoted their lives to build. I just don’t see that mindset at play today. Until we come to terms with “why” we are “saving the planet” we will continue to be confused as to how we should accomplish it.

The “why” used to be embedded and expressed in the things we made and perhaps they still are.  However, I suggest a great deal of what we produce today has devolved into making copies of copies or the result of elaborate processes purposely detached from any meaning or purpose. I am regularly meeting talented, skilled makers that don’t have clearly held convictions but rather are focused on furthering their personal stature and reputation. In my opinion the sustainability movement has been hijacked and is more focused on perpetuating its own existence and imposing external expectations/controls rather than igniting personal responsibility and innovation. They do this while offering the promise of professional advancement and a sophisticated marketing platform. Until we get back to considering the deep “why” of what we do, we will continue to fall short.  All that will remain are checklists, marketing platforms and costly memberships/certifications.

It has been several years since we had a proper monsoon season in Las Vegas, and I must admit I forgot how wonderful the desert becomes during the rains. Our monsoons are less dramatic than those experienced in Tucson, which sits to the south in the Sonoran Desert. Las Vegas is located in the Mojave Desert, which receives substantially less rain per year. The desert southwest is big sky, and the heavens occupy 2/3 of our visual frame. The sky therefore has a dominating impact on one’s perception and experience of the landscape. At mid-day the sky in Las Vegas is usually clear with subtitle shifts in shades of blue with an occasional contrail. This season, when the clouds rolled in, I was reminded of how beautiful and transformative the sky can be.

This image was captured by my wife on her phone camera. It is one image in a series she has been taking during our afternoon walks. The clouds are like a second magical landscape floating above the horizon. A friend who is a high-speed acrobatic pilot talks about the acceleration of flying through these clouds and bursting above them into a pristine, silent, pillowy wonderland.   The thing I find most interesting about these photos is what they omit. The fact that my wife intuitively did not include the banal mess that rests beneath these clouds is telling. Including what was constructed on the land beneath would certainly soil the apparent beauty that glides above. 

When I was a young student, I remember being enamored by the work of architect Antoni Gaudi. The buildings he designed were so expressive and different from any other buildings I had seen. His work seemed so innovative and, dare I suggest, revolutionary. I wondered what kind of mind could conceive of such structures? I also secretly hoped I could develop such imaginative, unique structures. My final two semesters of my undergraduate education I spent studying in Copenhagen, Denmark. I was fortunate during this year to be able to travel extensively throughout Europe and made it a point to travel to Spain and visit several of Gaudi’s buildings. I loved Spain: the people, the pace of life, the way the streets were filled with families late into the evening and the way people of all generations would dance in the plazas. I enjoyed learning about each region and their distinctive culture. I enjoyed the food and wine. After spending an entire month in Spain, I didn’t want to leave. 

Of course, I had to visit Gaudi’s unfinished masterpiece — Sagrada Familia — and it did not disappoint.  This was before the internet, cell phones and UBER, so tracking down Gaudi’s lesser-known buildings required some work and persistence. I remember walking through neighborhoods and down back roads searching for various buildings. Curiously, during these meandering excursions I began to see several buildings, built around the same time that had similar characteristics.  It made sense that the same craftspeople doing work for Gaudi were doing work for lesser-known designers. A lot of this work was quite good. It was then that I realized Gaudi’s work needed to be seen as an extension of the time, culture and community in which he practiced. He relied on the skills, materials and technology that were within reach. I would never want to take away from Gaudi’s genius and accomplishments, but after my travels his work seemed less revolutionary and much more a product of evolution.

Josh Vermillion, a friend and colleague at UNLV, has been exploring a new tool that uses artificial intelligence to generate images based on verbal prompts. Although I am largely ignorant to how the software operates my basic understanding is as follows: Based on verbal prompts the software searches a database for relevant content and morphs various items into a composite graphic — developing a unique image that didn’t exist prior to the prompt. The entire process takes a few minutes, and if you don’t like the results you can ask for another round of images to be generated or simply modify your prompt. The images Josh has shared are powerful and voluminous. Due to the speed and quantity of images that can be generated the maker is largely orchestrating the parameters of the prompt, curating and selecting images for further development. The image shown here is the result of a three-minute architectural exploration.

For those of us who have spent countless hours and thousands of dollars developing similar images or renderings of proposed buildings, this tool is cause for great excitement and extreme concern. Granted, these images are currently two dimensional and would require an enormous effort to translate into a viable building proposal. However, as an ideation tool it appears to be remarkable. Not only does the program appear to have access to more information than the human mind can retain, but one of its hidden advantages is the balance the maker has between control and chance. If a maker controls everything in a process, the result will always be limited to what they have seen or experienced before. It is only when they let go and allow for the unexpected to occur that true innovation can emerge.  An important feature of making is to calibrate the relationship between one’s control and the unplanned, happy accident.  

It seems that everyone wants something different from art. Whether is going to a concert, visiting a museum, purchasing a book of poetry or using art to elevate the status of a product or political position, our motivations and expectations vary. I recently heard an account of an individual who was required to take a music appreciation course while in college. At that time, he had little interest in music, but the course fulfilled one of the program’s requirements. So he studied the subject and worked hard in the course in order to get a good grade, further his desired career and ultimately get a good job. In other words, he listened to music in the hopes of eventually making a lot of money.  Well, something must have clicked. Fast forward 30 years and that same person had a successful career but was now spending a good deal of money on tickets to regularly attend the symphony. His motivation had changed. He was no longer listening to music to further his career — a means to an end — but rather because he earnestly found the music beautiful, uplifting and deeply satisfying — an end in itself.

As an artist, this is a hopeful story. The ultimate reason that anyone should seek out an artistic experience is because it is personally enriching. However, being able to appreciate the arts is less about acquiring knowledge and more about throttling one’s self-interest and ambitions so the work can be experienced on its own terms. Ironically, “visual” art is not solely about appearance but rather an experience — impacting the way we feel and think. When I go to a museum or view a piece art, I expect to be challenged, to leave the encounter having felt something unique and different. I expect to have thoughts that are novel and elevate my focus beyond my limited everyday concerns. If we are simply amused by the encounter, we leave the work unchanged, it could be argued we have squandered our most precious commodity — our time.  Conversely, if we leave the encounter with new questions, a different perspective, deeper insight or a feeling of earnest satisfaction, we have received the greatest gift art can offer.

This observation caused me to ponder why this is the case. What idea or mindset would result in the loss of wonder? The answer to this question has many complicated and individual explanations; however, I would offer up a few general observations.

Many scholars have pointed out contradictions and serious challenges facing our current modern mindset. Relativism — our disbelief in absolute truth — certainly diminishes the value of discovery and its ability to help us navigate a complex, ever-changing world. Historically, absolutes offered a stable rock on which to build our lives and assess our actions amidst the storm of change and uncertainty. In addition, the way moderns formulate their identity leave them fragile and vulnerable in a world that isn’t required to accept them on their terms.

Discarding the notion of an all-powerful, all-knowing universal entity and suggesting we have essentially become our own gods has contributed to the crippling of our imagination and sense of wonder.

Belief in an entity that far exceeds our own ability, thoughts and ways, opens our imagination to what lies beyond our understanding — to wonder about the things we have yet to discover. When we put ourselves at the center of everything, we limit the potential outcome to our personal experiences, thoughts and understandings. It is only when we acknowledge there is something beyond our grasp, a reality beyond our reason, that we become excited and motivated to explore and discover. It is as if the modern maker is wandering in the wilderness of their own making.

However, one could easily use 3D software to give simple shapes and planes precise levels of transparency and reflection, develop a lighting source, place those objects in a particular environment and accurately simulate various visual effects. Each tool presents various opportunities or advantages as well as significant limitations.

The tools we use fundamentally change the way we think and explore. Often when we use a particular tool and have done the difficult, time-consuming work of mastering that tool, we fail to acknowledge how it has molded our thinking. Some even become dogmatic and skeptical of new tools and approaches, focusing on their limitations rather than the new opportunities they offer. In extreme cases, the work produced using these tools seems to pose an existential threat and are attacked in one way or another.  When we engage in making the goal should not be to exult or favor one tool over another but rather nurture a deep awareness of how the use of various tools shapes and impacts our processes and thinking.

Unfortunately, when educating young makers, some programs are still drawing an unproductive distinction between digital and analog tools. They keep their students from using the computer for the first few years of their development – until their patterns of thinking and processes are established. They contend only then is it “safe” to introduce the computer as a tool. This strategy reveals more about the limitations of the instructors than addressing any real educational goals. Individuals that were taught a particular subject matter in a particular way with a particular set of tools have difficulty transferring their knowledge using unfamiliar tools and processes. It could be argued that limiting student’s investigations to a particular set of tools and processes during their formative years is a form of indoctrination as opposed to education. 

I can’t think of a better way to start my day. I occasionally contemplate taking a different route but rarely do. What is interesting is that this particular hike feels different every morning. Depending on exactly when I start out, the sun will hit the land in unique ways. There are always subtitle shifts due to the seasons and unpredictable encounters with wildlife. Some days there are clouds. Once I hiked the trail during a thunderstorm. The more I hike this trail the more I enjoy it.

I am reminded of the writings of artist Giacometti, who contended that we see things through our knowledge and understanding. When we look at something we don’t just perceive the reflected light that is hitting our retina. Seeing involves the accumulated knowledge and experiences we have with that particular thing. 

For example, if we look at an apple, we know there is a core and seeds in its center, we also know how that apple would taste if we bit into it. If art is predominately about seeing, and representing what we see, the result should be much more complex and richer than simply depicting the light hitting a particular surface from a particular point of view. This observation explains what I have been experiencing on my hikes. Every time I take that hike and my knowledge and understanding increases, the more I enjoy it and the more I am enriched by it. It is very similar to a meaningful, long-lasting relationship. It is also the reason I obsess over a particular compositional exploration. By working in series my understanding deepens, which yields rewards and opportunities that would be impossible without a sustained commitment.

I can’t think of a more clever way to describe the essential differences between the two domains of knowledge. Each pursuit has a fundamental nature which comes with great benefits as well as significant limitations. They are not in conflict with one another, as many believe; they are both complimentary and absolutely necessary. A great deal of exceptional art today explores the meaning and beauty imbedded in various technological advancements. The image here is the product of a collaboration between Zaha Hadid and Neri Oxman using 3D printing technology. Our current infatuation with science, which requires one to limit one’s scope and variables, drives one toward increasing specialization. In contrast, the arts and design fields require integration, synthesis leading to broader, more diverse explorations and understandings.

As the pendulum inevitably swings, I can’t help concluding that at this moment the world needs a better grasp of meaning and purpose — what some would call wisdom. Wisdom is not just knowing something but knowing what to do with what we know — understanding how to apply knowledge to specific life situations. For example, we know how to fill the internet with pornography but don’t know how to repair a relationship. We have made countless machines and devices to destroy each other but few if any that establish peace.  Science or technological innovation does not show us how and when to deploy our knowledge or inventions. Seems to me the folks pursuing the arts need to stop apologizing for not being a scientist, technologist or engineer, do a better job of embracing the art’s essential purpose, and more forcefully assert their work into our society’s discourse.

I have always seen the benefit and reaped satisfactory rewards by methodical incremental progress toward achieving a particular end. I remember my father, who was quite brilliant, saying regularly about our family, “We are not the smartest folks, but we work hard.”

On the first day as a junior designer, I remember the lead designer asking me to lay out a tile pattern for the restroom floor of an elementary school. The limited nature of the task was a bit startling, but I started to work. I thought about the compositional moves made up to this point. I thought about the children and how I could design the floor to make their experience delightful and surprising yet sophisticated. I even thought about the janitor that would be tasked with cleaning and maintaining the floor. I did my very best to design something that would enrich their lives, albeit in perhaps a small way. As a result of the work that day I was incrementally trusted with greater and greater responsibilities.  I later found out this was a test of sorts, to see if I understood the importance of every detail in a project. No design task was too small or insignificant.

Later in my career I co-founded a design/build firm where I designed every project like it was my own. I imagined myself working and living in every building I designed. I imagined living in the neighborhood and having to look at and interact with the building every day. I tried to consider how the structure could enrich people’s lives. Regardless of how wealthy, powerful or enlightened the client was or how big the budget was, I designed the project with the same mindset and rigor as the restroom floor. As a result, our firm attracted clients searching for quality and value on a tight budget. In spite of our modest commissions, we managed to win dozens of AIA Design Awards including an AIA National Small Projects Award on a simple home (shown here) for a family displaced by Hurricane Katrina — that commission was obtained after numerous firms turned it down because it would not yield a profit. It was not my intention to do this type of work, but if you take every design opportunity seriously and use it as an opportunity to help others flourish, you will never wonder why you are doing what you do.

This hunger can certainly push the boundaries of a specific discipline but also manifests beyond a specific specialization. Nobel Prize-winning scientists, for example, report to have three times the number of hobbies compared to the average person. They are particularly likely to engage in creative pursuits such as music, painting, acting or writing poetry.

These activities are said to train the brain to generate and redefine ideas that can lead to original insights. Mastery of different fields allows you to look at a particular situation from multiple points of view. This cross pollination leads to more original creative production. Maya Angelou, a poet, journalist, actor, filmmaker, civil rights activist, dancer and singer, is one example of this phenomenon. Her body of work is astonishing and arguably exceeds the sum of her individual accomplishments. It is interesting to note that “creative geniuses” also utilize metacognition to plan and monitor progress of their projects.

This act of deep reflection makes their efforts more efficient and leaves more time to work and explore.

Perhaps the most surprising of the fundamental traits is “intellectual humility” — acknowledging one’s flaws and limitations. Ironically, this realization boosts learning by encouraging one to address the errors and gaps in one’s thinking. It is much more important to live with doubt and uncertainty than it is to insist on knowing something that may be wrong. Even Plato acknowledged that the wisest people are those that understood their limits. Researchers also point out that even if you possess all these essential traits, you still need a bit of luck. To be in the right place at the right time with the right group of people. Even the most promising individuals can easily miss or be over-looked for opportunities that allow them to cultivate their abilities and ultimately shine.

I recently wrote about a hike I have been taking every morning for several months. Part of my ritual involves taking a picture of the sunrise and sending it to my wife when I get to the top of the ridge. This morning I started thinking about the images I share with her and how they relate to my direct experience. The top photo on the split image shown here is a typical shot I might share with my wife. However, most of the time during the hike my attention is focused on the trail, shown below.  The trail is uneven and rocky and if you don’t pay close attention you can end up tripping, perhaps falling on the rocks, or worse, mounting a cactus. Even though I am surrounded by dramatic, awe-inspiring vistas, I conservatively estimate that 85% of my attention needs to be focused on the trail itself. Isn’t that like life? If we want to move forward, we need to pay attention to our next step and what lies right in front of us.

Interestingly, both these images were taken from the exact same location. The camera was simply pointed in a different direction — focused on a different thing. Most would prefer seeing the upper photo, which is why I shared that image with others. However, the lower image admittedly has its intriguing qualities, too, and in a very different way is beautiful.  As a believer in the power of thoughtful routines or atomic habits, I enjoy and appreciate the everyday — the view of the trail. Regardless, if all I did was look down at the trail, I might as well be hiking in a parking lot or around my suburban neighborhood — this would save a bit of gas and time. Nevertheless, the top image is what keeps me coming back to this hike morning after morning. Like life, we occasionally need to stop focusing on our next step and enjoy the view. To consider the big picture, the meta narrative that makes our work and daily grind meaningful, rewarding and beautiful. 

Our relationship to work in the United States is complex but statistically we are considered the most overworked country in the world. In a traditional culture one’s identity was often related to your role in your family and work was simply a means to sustain the family. That is not true today; in fact, most moderns get their identity from the work they do. So, it is easy to understand why so many of us attempt to justify our existence through our work. Part of our compulsion to work relates to the uncertainty surrounding our employment. The lack of job security in our system leaves us feeling continually vulnerable and pressured to prove ourselves — to demonstrate our worth to others. Our work stresses have been exacerbated by technology that allows us to work from anywhere at any time — making it difficult to stop working. Technology also helps perpetuate an illusion that we are masters of our destiny or are in control of the increase that comes from our efforts. With all these pressures it is easy to see how people can become worn down and burnt out. 

We all have a need for rest, but rest is not just about stopping our work or doing nothing. We can set aside various tasks or go on a vacation but still feel the aching perpetual need to prove or justify ourselves — to further our professional goals. True rest requires a level of satisfaction in what we have accomplished. This is a hard nut to crack as a maker because there is always something that can be tweaked or improved. In a real sense there is no end to our work. We must develop strategies for determining when our work is done, having reached a satisfactory conclusion given a particular set of circumstances. True rest requires us to acknowledge we have limits and don’t maintain total control. It’s similar to a farmer, who must plant, sow and harvest while simultaneously accepting that they can’t make it rain, control when the sun rises or stop a flood. We all need to rest in what we have done and what we have accomplished with the time, effort and available resources at our disposal — knowing we have done our best. Only then can we step back and truly rest from our toil.

Due to Freud and other thinkers, the modern understanding is basically the opposite — that our feelings should never be suppressed but rather explored. In this view our feelings hold the key to unlocking our deepest desires and human needs. We are largely encouraged to embrace our feelings and act on them.

Thankfully, there is a third option that is often misunderstood or overlooked. This option contends that there is no inherent conflict between our feeling and intellect. Our feelings and thoughts are coherent but molded and determined by what we hold most dear — what we love.  For example, if we value ourselves above all else this will result in a selfish, self-centered mindset that will permeate and saturate both our thoughts and feelings. It follows that our feelings and thoughts simply reveal or uncover the truth about what we truly value. Our feelings and thoughts are a foil that allow us to reflect on our true identity and compare that with our aspirations. In a way our thoughts and feeling are tools for self-reflection and evaluation. Changing or controlling one’s thoughts and feelings is not therefore dependent upon work or discipline but rather earnestly shifting one’s affections.

I find the latter mindset most helpful when evaluating, assessing and determining the greatness of a particular work of art, building or space. It is critical to use a holistic approach, probing both the mind and emotions — processing our emotional experience and how it relates to our intellectual, analytical experience.  Great art does not necessarily make us happy nor does it comfort us by reinforcing our deeply held ideas and values. Great art is a tool for self-reflection and self-evaluation. Great art offers us an opportunity to become better — more self-aware and, perhaps in the end, gives us a reason to alter our affections.

The work shown here is a monotype print entitled tearing the veil. The tear represents the point when we receive an invitation to participate in the world’s restoration. Accepting this offer, however, comes at a price. It requires each individual to surrender, bridle their free will and resist the attempt to control their own destiny.

I have been waiting more than two months for my auto mechanic to acquire four new engine mounts for our cargo van. The recent global turmoil and apparent dismantling and reconfiguration of our global networks has caused me to contemplate our possible futures. For the past half a century markets and free trade has defined the global order. This openness coupled with relative cooperation has led to the greatest period of prosperity the world as ever experienced. Consider that an iPhone uses hundreds of suppliers located in more than 43 different countries, and in turn each of those companies are connected with various global supply chains to procure materials and inputs. The average smart phone uses between 60-70 different elements on the periodic table. No country on the planet has all those elements in sufficient quantities nor do they possess the needed infrastructure to turn those elements into the thousands of required components. 

We take infrastructure for granted — for the past 50 years we have not had to really worry about it. We don’t really know who made the soles of our shoes, the people that grew or delivered the food we purchased at our local grocery store, where the chip in our refrigerator was made or what company mined the rare earths required to build our electric vehicle. There is a chance we don’t even know how to pronounce the names of the rare earths required to produce an EV. I can’t help but believe that our way of life is shifting before our eyes. The items we currently take for granted may not be as plentiful moving forward. If those items are available, they may become financially out of reach for many. As a maker I need to reconsider what materials and equipment I require to do my work and understand who sources those items …. and perhaps where those companies source their inputs. When I asked my mechanic, who’s been in business for more than 20 years, when the parts would arrive and where they were coming from she didn’t know.  

I have done my share of remote minimalist backwoods camping, but there is something magical about traveling to an extremely remote location with access to all the modern conveniences — such as a great cup of coffee, prepared hot meals, entertainment, electricity, and a proper bed. This is exactly what I experienced while visiting the Princess Louisa Inlet on the west coast of Canada. The fjord is close to four miles long. At the north end is Chatterbox Falls — a large stream and waterfall that delivers its cold fresh water into the saltwater bay. Surrounding the falls is a 2,200+ acre preserve that is operated by the Nature Conservancy of Canada and the Princess Louisa Conservancy Society in coordination with the Canadian Park Service. To get to the falls you must travel by boat or float plane. My trek there took several days, beginning with a car ride from Bellingham, Washington, a bus, a long walk with luggage, two ferries and finally a small speed boat. The last leg of the trip set off from a private resort called Malibu situated on a dramatic spit at the throat of the inlet. The water rushes back, forth, around the isthmus as it makes its way through a narrow passage. The currents created by the tide can reach over nine knots. This can make entering the inlet difficult for less powerful boats.

From this location you have amazing 360-degree views that stretch up the entire sound. In 1940 this amazing piece of land was purchased by Thomas Hamilton, an American aviation executive, for $500.  Hamilton developed the land into a luxury resort called the Malibu Club that attracted the jet set and Hollywood elite. However, in 1950 the resort was abruptly abandoned due to a polio outbreak. Plates and dishes were simply left on the tables, while furnishings and bedding were left in place. In 1953 the property was sold to Young Life and turned into a camp for teens. The Malibu Club has been expanded and refined — it is now capable of being used year-round. The campus is now powered by a new hydro turbine that harnesses a waterfall a few miles across the outer sound. The electric cable was accidently dropped during installation and the submersible used to find the Titanic was employed to retrieve the line.  Every week a large private ferry brings in a new batch of visitors and all the needed supplies. A small full-time staff and an army of more than a hundred volunteers run the resort, which is now equipped with every manner of accommodation and convenience. The opportunity to experience this breathtaking landscape with such support was splendid and luxurious.

Whether it is making paper airplanes or dabbling in origami, most of us have explored folding. Take a thin sheet of paper and through a series of strategic folds, one can add rigidity while forming a 3D object. Albeit more abstractly and with less planning, this is essential what artist John Keppelman has done with this piece entitled Garapata. He is cutting and folding paper in what he describes as an automatic process — one without a specific intent. This method attempts to tap into the unconscious mind with the anticipation of finding surprising and interesting forms. Selected explorations eventually get translated into larger objects made of painted aluminum. The work is mounted to a dark brown post, intended to disappear into the landscape beyond, giving the impression that the piece is floating. Although, his pieces are obviously not meant to fly, the form and its position remind us of the paper planes we made as children and tossed into the air.

What adds to the drama of the work is the white color and the contrast it produces with the dark natural background. It is not only the color but the geometry of the work that adds to the obvious distinction between the natural condition and the human construction. Despite this juxtaposition, Keppelman’s inspiration for this construction was based on nature. Specifically, a location on California’s coast called Big Sur that he visited often as a young boy, a canyon with a river that emptied into the Pacific Ocean. Keppelman considers himself primarily a painter, which is why his sculptural works are curiously not to be viewed in the round. Many of these explorations in folding are intended to be hung on a wall or mounted to a post.  They are intended to be seen from the front or side — like signs or paintings. Rather than using paint on this piece he manipulated the form to modulate the light on each facet. 

Most of us incorrectly believe that our intuition and emotions begin in our brain which then tells our body how to act or react. However, recent research suggests the opposite. The connection between our bodies and our minds are far more interesting and complicated than once thought. Another fascinating study was conducted on stock traders at investment banks. Traders need to make split second decisions to buy or sell based on various analytical charts that never tell the entire story. They have to make quick decisions based on a “gut feeling.” The first thing researchers did was measure each trader’s interoceptive sensitivity — their awareness of the inner state of their body. They then monitored their performance and found that the highly interoceptive individuals significantly outperformed the individuals with lower bodily awareness. It is interesting to consider that our gut — or the un-conscious knowledge recorded in our bodies is often more rational and reliable than our mind.

Evidently, we can increase our sensitivity to our body’s knowledge through meditation, mindfulness and breathing exercises. One of the more interesting techniques to increase sensitivity is keeping an interoceptive journal. The first step involves sensing, labeling and regulating our internal signals and the second step is to identify connections between a particular sensation and the pattern of events we encountered. As an artist I have been keeping an interoceptive (visual) journal for more than 25 years. I paint 3 small abstract paintings each day. After I complete the work, I tape it to the wall and ponder its result for weeks before I file them away to make room for the next round. Not only do I recall the procedures, techniques and strokes but consider the color, form and composition. I then consider how those works make me feel. I am training my intuition, my gut. I am recording complex unconscious knowledge deep within my body. However, when I paint, I never overthink what I am doing and give way to my feelings and intuition. I allow them to lead me to a conclusion.

Most of us can agree that the stories we tell ourselves and repeat to others are powerful.  These stories mold our thoughts, values, beliefs and ultimately manifest in our behavior or actions.  So regardless of your personal beliefs or traditions it is valuable during this season to pause and contemplate the unique and radical nature of the Christmas narrative.  The idea that the God who created the universe would choose not to be distant or impersonal, but rather come to earth to dwell among us is simply astonishing.  What adds to the radical nature of this story is that God choose to be nurtured in the womb of a young girl then delivered, not in a palace, but, in an animal stall.

God came, not as an angry, vengeful, all-powerful overseer, but rather a poor and vulnerable baby.  Emanuel – God with us.

The sculpture shown here is an abstract interpretation of the manger.  The piece was a part of an exhibition I put together years ago entitled “no room at the inn.”  A catalog of this exhibition and more information concerning this work is available in the documents section of my LinkedIn profile.  I wish you all the very best this holiday season!

As mentioned in previous essays, Richard Serra’s sculptural work is concerned with space and its relationship to the human body — measuring oneself against form and void. Although his work always has a strong presence as an art object, to objectify his work misses the point. He develops works that are large enough to be occupied and experienced. The piece shown here entitled Wright ‘s Triangle (1979-1980) stands about 9’ tall and forms an equilateral triangle with 36’ long edges. The work is made of enormous 3” thick slabs of Corten steel, which seem to be balanced at the corners, suspending gravity, and creating a precarious, dynamic, perhaps dangerous impression. The tack welds at each corner, included for safety reasons, were an unfortunate and noticeable compromise.

Although Serra’s work is like architecture in that it is monumental and can be occupied — spatial in nature — he has been quite critical of the profession. He feels most architects see sculpture as something that should harmonize with the building and provide a decorative balance. In contrast and unburdened by function Serra’s work is a pure spatial experience. It took more than three years to select the site for this sculpture, which now sits in the center of a tree-lined pedestrian corridor on the campus of Western Washington University. Its location requires people to walk beside it, through it and around it. Its open corners invite the curious into its bowels where one’s gaze and focus are re-oriented.  The triangular interior provides a surprising calm amidst a bustling campus – providing a moment to contemplate and reflect. Up lighting inset and flush with the surrounding pavers delivers a theatrical evening and late-night experience as well.

The Bloedel Reserve is considered one of the 10 best botanical gardens in the United States. It is a 150- acre site on Bainbridge Island located across the sound from Seattle in the Pacific Northwest. The land sits within the sacred ancestral territory of the Suquamish people but was acquired by Virginia and Prentice Bloedel in 1951. The Yale-educated Prentice was an educator, environmentalist, and reluctant heir of a successful timber business. The property was their personal residence for more than 30 years and became their laboratory to explore the relationship between people and the natural environment.   He collaborated with noted landscape architects and designers such as Thomas Church, Richard Haag, Fujitaro Kubota and Lain Robertson.

The site was developed with a commitment to ecological principles. For example, this reflecting pool, like all water features on the site, was placed near natural ground water sources.  One of the most fascinating facts regarding the garden stems from the fact that Prentice was color blind. Consequently, there are hardly any flowering plants. The plant material is mostly various shades of green. The composition focused on developing textural variation as well as the tone or relative lightness or darkness of each plant. The sky was also masterfully considered with its changing tones and textures. This particular outdoor room features the sky as its ceiling, which at certain angles is also reflected in a shallow pool that defines the floor. The reserve is one of the best examples of using texture and tone to develop dynamic and compelling spaces defined by plant material.

This is an image of a compelling sculpture developed by Donald Judd that remains untitled. It sits on the Western Washington University campus and has done so since 1982. It is a minimalist 7’ x 7’ x 14’ Corten steel box with two open ends and two angled plates that subdivide the interior of the box. Judd’s work is minimal and has been described as rigorously democratic, lacking any clear hierarchy. This particular piece is one in a series of works that explores both the interior and exterior, the subjective and objective. This series is like architecture in that it is simultaneously contained within space and contains space. What makes the work so radical is that up to this point sculpture had traditionally been solid or monolithic, often carved out of stone.  At the time, Robert Smithson described Judd’s series of boxes as elusive in what they capture, hold and what is missing.

In opposition to the rational modern tendency to endlessly break things apart to study and understand its components, Judd was charting a course in the opposite direction. He sought to develop sculptural works that were wholistic — pieces that offered an un=fragmented, unified but perhaps contradictory and ambiguous experience. Works, for example, that simultaneously embodied both order and disorder.  The ultimate goal of the box series was to develop a material structure that would intensify the experience one has with the immediate surroundings. Therefore, where and how Judd placed this work in the landscape was of deep concern to him and a matter of significant consideration. He felt that no space was “neutral” and that spaces were either created indifferently or with knowledge — their meaning was developed with ignorance or with knowledge.

I asked a colleague once why he chose architecture as a pursuit.  He boldly and without hesitation confessed it was to achieve immortality — to ensure his existence would be evidenced long after his death. Although his answer startled me, after considering it, it did not seem that unreasonable. After more than 2000 years we are still fascinated by the pharaohs of ancient Egypt largely because of the pyramids — structures designed to immortalize and withstand time. Much of our building and making is in fact an attempt to impose one’s mark on the earth. I think this is why I am so fascinated by what appears to be makers taking the opposite approach. While walking through Western Washington University’s campus one wet summer morning I came upon this wonderful environmental sculpture by Robert Morris. In the middle of a grass field, steam was mysteriously rising from the ground. The sun and the wind would play with the steam like a flickering flame in slow motion before it vaporized into the atmosphere. It was mesmerizing.

I later found out that the piece was powered by the campus steam works and was on a timer set to emit steam three times a day for 30 minutes, at 8 am, noon and 5:30 pm. When the piece is not emitting steam, it appears as a simple 20’ x 20’ concrete curb filled with fist-sized rocks placed at the bottom of a slight hollow. A student, who attended Western, told me that on certain cool winter mornings when the wind is still, a thick steam will fill the hollow. Walking past it is like walking through a thick cloud. What a wonderful piece to live with — dynamic and ever-changing — not an immovable object but rather a fleeting experience. It reminds me of an ancient biblical text: “You do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away.” Like all great art this piece explores a potent truth, namely that being human is beautiful due in part to our mortality.  Not knowing if this particular moment might be our last makes our time more precious, full of purpose and meaning.

Have you ever noticed that when we interact with someone in an empathetic manner our facial expressions will change and often mimic the expressions of the person with whom we are interacting?  Researchers have established that our brains take cues regarding our emotions from sensations generated by our body. We use our body to experience, simulate and share emotions — to actually feel the emotions others are experiencing. One of the most interesting findings was that people who had Botox treatments were less able to generate facial expressions and as a result were less accurate in judging the emotions of others. Another way we understand and process information, ideas and events is through embodied imagination. Rather than processing a situation from a neutral or impartial perspective, we imagine ourselves in that situation and simulate what it would be like personally. This self-focused approach has proven to be an incredibly effect cognitive strategy. 

As unscientific as this strategy might seem, it ironically has led to numerous significant scientific discoveries. Most famously is the example of Einstein imagining himself riding on a beam of light, which eventually led to the development of the Theory of Relatively. Another well documented example is Jonas Salk, inventor of the polo vaccine, who would regularly picture himself as a virus or cancer cell. I don’t know when it began but I don’t remember a time when I did not project myself into or imagine myself in various situations and environments. I am particularly proficient at projecting myself into spaces, small objects or works of art and then changing the scale or the size of my body in relationship to it. This is one of the primary ways I navigate life. When I talk to others, I am shocked at how few people engage in this type of activity. The image shown here is a quick sketch that simulates one of my art pieces at a larger scale. The original work measured only 28” x 18” X 12”.

Mark di Suvero is responsible for this bright red construction that sits out front of the performing arts center at Western Washington University. The piece is entitled For Handel and was completed in 1975.  The work originally had a swinging element that hung from the upper beam and was reminiscent of a metronome. Majoring in philosophy, Suvero was sympathetic to the notion of the logical construct and the assemblage based on various empirical observations. He was particularly interested in Einstein and his theories surrounding space and time. Suvero did not want to erase the evidence of production and labor like many of his minimalist contemporaries, so he chose to reveal welds and retain several imperfections.  He did this because he believed in the power and energy of human creativity — what has been described as evidence of a personal and hopeful control over modern technology.

Another goal of Suvero’s was to break down the barriers between art and the viewer. He wanted art out of the museum, to go beyond the visual and engage the viewer in a direct way. The beams that point your gaze skyward were anchored by several large beams that sit directly on the ground in a plaza. These beams are regularly used as a bench or as a balance beam. Interestingly, when the piece had been fully assembled but prior to its final placement Suvero reportedly saw nine students riding on the hanging metronome element like a giant swing. Although, this was dramatic evidence he had achieved his intent, the ultimate and disappointing decision was made to remove the swinging element.  Regardless, based on secret confessions, the 27’ tall construction is regularly scaled and mounted by capable, adventurous students. In perhaps several unexpected ways … mission accomplished.

We all have something that we value above all else. For some it is acceptance and belonging; for others it is money, power, fame, social status, knowledge, pleasure, family, or a particular intimate relationship. You know you place a high value on something if you would have a hard time living without it. When we value something a great deal, we begin to worship it. We order our life around achieving or maintaining that ultimate desire or deep need. Some of us don’t spend enough time pondering these matters and lack clarity regarding our deepest held values, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist or impact our lives. We often claim we want something but are unwilling to take the needed actions to make it happen — throwing into question whether that was something we really desired. This is why investigating art and the act of making is so fascinating. When we make or possess a work of art, we are expressing and exposing our deepest held values. 

Those values are revealed through the thousands of decisions that we encounter when we are fashioning a thing. Those values are also expressed when one commits resources to purchasing a particular art object and perhaps living with that work for a lifetime. Not all the things we value are good. Many, upon closer examination, are not productive or beneficial and can ultimately prove destructive. It is a process of self-discovery to ponder the spaces you use and the things you have surrounded yourself with. We can use these things to better understand who we truly are. What do these things reveal about your values? Do they reveal any contradictions between your stated values and your accumulative actions? How might you alter your thinking, spaces, or behavior to better reflect your aspirations and goals?

Two heads are better than one, or so the saying goes. Despite our culture’s preoccupation with individual genius, most innovation is accomplished in collaborative, highly effective teams.  Unfortunately, Jonathan Haidt, a psychologist at NYU, points out that human nature is 90% competitive, self-interested, and intent of pursuing our own ends. Only 10% of our nature is ultrasocial, demonstrating the ability to think and act as one for the benefit of the group. The question then becomes, how do we create cohesive groups that are prepared to act as a single unit? Well, the modern military has been training cohesive units and refining effective team building tactics for centuries. One of the most effective and commonly used exercises involves what experts call muscular bonding. Soldiers spend countless hours marching in formation and engaging in other tightly coordinated movements.  After prolonged coordinated movement and collective rituals soldiers report to experiencing a strange sense of well-being, a sense of personal enlargement, becoming larger than life. This feeling and sense of belonging translates into greater effectiveness, cooperation and cohesion on the battlefield — a willingness to sacrifice and work for the benefit of the group.

This emphasis on the group over the individual extends to the way in which the soldiers are required to live. They wear the same clothes, often share open restroom facilities, and their cherished personal items are often kept out of public view. Military housing does not express preference, nor does it appear to favor one individual over another, other than perhaps one’s rank within the organization. Although the military is an extreme regarding team building, many other tactics are used throughout society to build group cohesion. Teams function better when there are activities that involve “shared attention” — focusing on the same information or object. Research shows that we learn, remember and act upon information better when we are in groups. Groups that can collectively prioritize their thinking increase mental bandwidth and process information and situations more deeply. Researchers suggest that almost everything human beings do today, in terms of generating value, is accomplished in teams and not by individuals. By developing spaces and situations that allow for unique and novel ideas to emerge, groups can think more efficiently and effectively. Collective intelligence is the key to achieving greatness.

Abstract reasoning and our ability to process abstract information must be learned and has its limits.  Some speculate our brains have effectively reached their limit — operating near optimal capacity.  Interestingly, IQ scores (the best measure of abstract reasoning) have stopped rising worldwide and have even begun to drop in advanced countries such as Norway, Denmark, Germany, France and Britain.  Some speculate it is due in part to smart phones, computers and other devices used to off-load a great deal of the abstract calculations and computations required to navigate modern society. These devices undoubtably have become extensions of our minds and integral to our thinking processes. At a time when navigating the world is requiring more imagination and innovation, we should not continually expect more and more from our brains but rather learn to extend them by using the things, spaces and people around us.

I contend that art, compositions and the spaces we curate can reinforce, record and document important ideas and information. The things we make and the things we surround ourselves with are more than mere niceties. They impact the way our brain functions and have the potential of extending our mental capabilities. Art can also be used as a tool for reflection, insight, and discovery — exercise equipment for the brain — increasing our perception and imagination. This is one of the reasons I almost always paint non-objective abstract compositions, which are open ended and ambiguous. I also display my work in sets or within a “field.” This offers the observer an immediate means to compare, contrast and probe the meaning embodied in each compositional variation — an everlasting visual gobstopper. Selecting a work of art is more than finding something that matches your couch or fills a void on your wall. It should be about selecting a companion that is challenging, one that enhances your growth and extends your mental prospects.

This is a shortcut of sorts, a tool our brain uses to simplify and process information quicker. However, these shortcuts often result in inaccurate, naive mindsets. There are said to be three ways our minds generate these simplified essences. The first is by the anchoring effect — when we rely too heavily on the first piece of information we encounter. The second is the availability heuristic — when we overestimate based on what readily comes to our mind. Finally, the self-serving bias — when our personal preferences shift our understanding and expectations. One role of art is to challenge these biases — to challenge the way we experience the world and perhaps eventually the way we think and operate.

I recently attended a senior exhibition of chairs produced by industrial design students at Western Washington University. One chair blew my mind — challenging what I thought a chair was or could be. The image here shows a portion of the chair, which consisted of two components. The first element was a dark foam-filled rectangle — the size a small, thick sleeping pad.

The second was a pink woven rope that was draped around the pad. I was admittedly bewildered and slightly annoyed at first. It was not until I saw the accompanying video of the chair being used and manipulated that my opinion was transformed. The video was a performance piece — a dance between the chair and a human body. The chair came alive, filled with meaning and more beautiful as time elapsed. Its essence was only apparent while it was being manipulated and used.

All the remaining chairs were outstanding, thoughtful, innovative, and well-crafted, however, all but one checked the box of what I expected to see. The chair here un-anchored my expectations. It challenged what readily came to my mind and exposed my personal preferences. I have seen and experienced a great deal of art and design in my lifetime, and these moments occur more and more infrequently. Yes, a chair, but it transcended a mere chair and became art. Art that altered the way I understand and experience the world. For this I am extremely grateful.

I understand why most students might hold this position, but making choices and judgements is inevitable and our personal decisions almost always have a significant impact on others. Navigating this mine field and developing good judgement is an essential skill of a great designer — choosing one possibility over another for the benefit of others. Design or making art is at its most basic level a process of exploring possibilities and making choices or judgements that reflect priorities.

St. Augustine famously suggested that most of humanity’s problems and difficulties don’t arise due to the things we hate or dislike but rather placing the things we love in an improper order or priority. For example, loving your career is a wonderful thing.  We should all love what we do. Loving your friends and family is also a good and admirable thing. The difficulty is prioritizing, balancing, and ordering these things. Most likely we have all, for a period, prioritized our career over our family or important relationships and discovered the eroding impact this can have. In some cases, if the behavior persists, the damage done to those relationships can circle back and damage our ability to achieve the very career goals we are seeking to achieve.

One of my friends calls this messy balancing act “relationshit.” It is truly difficult balancing all the things we love and value. We must prioritize and make decisions constantly about what we value as well as when and how we will demonstrate that value.  It is no different when we are making something.

Like life, great writing, great design and great art all require the maker to develop clear priorities, concepts or goals and pursue them with a level of rigor and consistency.  In order to do this with conviction the maker, with or without awareness, is constantly determining that one course of action is better than all the other options. To accomplish this clarity and consistency some makers go so far as to impose a set of “rules” that guide their actions.  For example: Mondrian (one of his works is shown here) for a period limited his compositional studies to a white rectangular canvas with vertical and horizontal black lines and filled various fields between these lines with primary colors — yellow, red, blue or grey. To limit yourself to a simple set of rules requires you to say no to all the other compositional possibilities. To devote your life to this limited set of rules over time requires an extraordinary level of commitment and conviction. It requires setting priorities.

Books are ways we record and keep our stories and memories alive. Books powerfully transmit our knowledge, hopes, fears, aspirations, accomplishments, and tragedies. It is fitting then, that this form should be embodied in an artistic pursuit. Book art is exactly that, and one of the best collections I have witnessed is in a small regional museum on Bainbridge Island — a short ferry ride from Seattle.  The collection, which contains more than 1,300 original works, was gifted to the museum by Cynthia Sears.  The collection continues to grow each year, and selected items are displayed and rotated in an intimate jewel box of a gallery on the second floor. This past summer curators pulled out several pieces in the collection and filled the entire second floor with book art. I was fortunate enough to be on the island while this exhibition was being held. It did not disappoint.

Many of the pieces in this collection appear more like a traditional book until you open them and are caught off guard by the world within. However, I was more intrigued by the works that seemed to challenge the book itself as an object. The work pictured here, entitled Field, was developed by Portland artist Katherine Kuehn to memorialize the souls that perished in the World Trade Tower collapse. The book takes the form of a scroll, mounted to a wall, that contains 2823 French knots (one for each tragic loss) and an entry from David Henry Thoreau’s journal penned on September 11, 1853. The quote contained in the work reveals that Thoreau knew that every observation of nature he made was destined to decay. 

However, systems that are based on freedom and fueled by inspiration, fairness and mutual respect are durable and resilient. I believe this deeply and have seen it play out throughout my brief life … in the micro and macro contexts. I also believe that most people know basically how they should treat other people (as they would want to be treated). So why are there so many instances of people mistreating each other so horribly?  It is as if we can’t help ourselves — we consistently fall short. When we attempt to address the issue, most people focus on fixing their behavior to simply avoid its negative consequences. They are not interested in pursuing fundamental change, which is far more difficult and demanding.  Unfortunately, anything less than fundamental change is not durable.

So, how does one fundamentally change their behavior? It may sound corny, but the only way I have been able to sustain positive change is through a loving relationship. For example, when I deeply care for someone and know they truly care for me, when they ask me to change an unproductive habit or hurtful behavior, I am much more likely to accommodate and make a fundamental change.

Any real sustained change is fueled by my desire to draw closer to that person, not to simply avoid an unfortunate consequence. This is why I get concerned when individuals in the sustainability movement utilize scare tactics, fear or humiliation in an attempt to change people’s behavior. In the same way, if people focus on the devastation caused by earth’s rising temperatures, droughts, wildfires or rising sea levels rather than adjusting our fundamental relationship with our environment, lasting, durable change will always elude us.

The built environment will never remedy human nature, but lasting change can be catalyzed through compelling design — not through another calculation, extraordinary technology, or scientific predictions of our impending doom. These are certainly needed on occasion, but the only way to change our fundamental relationship to the planet is by designing and preserving environments we continually fall in love with.  Making spaces that make it easier for us to align our passions and desires with our perceived duties — by providing opportunities to explore life’s possibilities within a meaningful, inspiring and beautiful context.

In 1966 astronomer Carl Sagan boldly announced that there were two important criteria for a planet to support life. The first was the right kind of star, and the second was a planet the right distance from that sun. At that time scientists calculated the odds of finding another planet like earth were one in a septillion (that is a 1 followed by 27 zeros). This makes the odds of winning the Powerball Lottery look like a sure thing. This did not discourage the marshaling of great scientific minds and resources to search for extraterrestrial life. This marked the beginning of a government-funded program called SETI (Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence). Today science has uncovered more than 200 known parameters required for a planet to support life making the odds of life occurring anywhere in the universe utterly staggering. Government funding of SETI was pulled in 1993 but continues its work with private funding. 

Peter Schenkel, author of three books on extraterrestrial life and strong proponent of life on other planets, admitted in an interview in 2006 that due to recent scientific findings the earlier estimates “may no longer be tenable” and “it seems appropriate to put excessive euphoria to rest.” Setting aside the odds of any planet in our solar system supporting life, astrophysicists currently understand that if any of the fundamental forces of the universe, (gravity, electromagnetic force, and the strong and weak nuclear forces) were altered by more than 1 /10,000,000,000,000,000, no stars would have ever formed in our universe. The odds of the universe existing as we know it, and the odds of the universe producing a planet that supports life are simply ridiculous and beyond reason. Yet here we are, gazing at the universe from NASA’s James Webb Telescope, which is sending images back to a tiny blue planet teaming with life. We are all witnesses to this unimaginable miracle. We are all witnesses to its beauty.

I understand it may seem strange and uncomfortable to admit, but I really enjoy my own artwork. I enjoy living with the pieces I make that don’t get sold right away. Sometimes I secretly hope a piece won’t sell so I can hang out with it a bit longer. I recently produced a series of works that manipulated the humble pizza box. I find it curious that the average person really doesn’t know what to do with this work. The pieces are whimsical, playful, and simultaneously full of meaning, serious. It is hard for people to hold two seemingly opposing views simultaneously. Most people prefer to have their notions and expectations about things, including art, simplified, and reinforced rather than challenged. Conversely, I enjoy being surprised by art rather than being comforted by it. I demand it in my art. Interestingly, I am continually surprised by the work shown here, even though I made it. I have seen a great deal of art in my lifetime and never recall seeing any works that utilized pizza boxes. That alone gets me going.

There are several other reasons I enjoy this piece. One is that I enjoy seeing common everyday objects elevated in unexpected ways. Another reason is the pizza box was sliced and unfurled yet remains continuous and whole. The way it was manipulated hides the fact that it is a pizza box until it is examined more closely. It doesn’t just give up its secrets, it demands a bit of work. The inside of the box is painted one of my favorite colors and is an echo of where the yummy stuff is supposed to reside. The piece hangs on the wall and is about 5’ in height — the size of a small human. I don’t know exactly where this comes from, but at some point, I imagine each of my unique abstract works as a person with a distinct personality, set of conflicts and potential. I anthropomorphize the composition.

Ever since radio waves from space were detected by Karl Guthe Jansky in 1932 there have been scientists building radio telescopes and listening to the heavens. In the late 1950s two Cornell University physicists speculated that the extraterrestrial civilizations could be attempting to communicate using radio waves at 1420 megahertz — the frequency of hydrogen, which is the most common element in the universe. This helped accelerate the construction of several radio telescopes in a search for extraterrestrial intelligence (SETI). In 1961 Ohio State University completed the construction of an enormous radio telescope commonly referred to as the “Big Ear.”

The structure was quite strange — looking like a football field with two large parabolic fences at either end. Due to its size and design the telescope could only be adjusted in height or altitude and relied on the earth’s rotation for its horizontal position. On August 15, 1977, an unexplained signal, which lasted 72 seconds, was detected by the Big Ear and discovered days later as a volunteer paging through reams of data. His discovery is noted on the image here showing a portion of the original print out. For obvious reasons it has been referred to as the “WOW! signal.” It may not look like much to the un-trained eye but remains the strongest indication of an extraterrestrial transmission ever detected.

So much of our life involves navigating emotions. Our ability to understand and manage our emotions and the emotions of those around us — emotional intelligence — often determines our success personally as well as professionally. As in the series Star Trek, some people attempt to suppress their emotions, like the character Spock, and others aspire to harness their emotions and passions like Capitan Kirk. There are several theories regarding our emotions, from Aristole, who believed we all had 9 basic emotions, to Darwin, who observed 34 emotions that he believed we shared with other animals.   Scholars at Berkeley recently stated that there are 27 discrete emotions. Their list interestingly includes aesthetic appreciation, boredom, romance and sexual desire but curiously excludes envy, gratitude, loneliness and love. 

Regardless of one’s disposition regarding human emotions, I have yet to meet anyone that doesn’t have them or thinks theirs aren’t of the utmost importance. I have always believed that our emotions are the tool we have to navigate situations that are too complex to resolve in a linear manner. They are in many ways the guardians and regulators of our complex modern life.  It is interesting that studies show deaf and blind individuals have the same facial expressions when experiencing various emotions as their seeing and hearing counterparts. This suggests that our facial expressions may be hardwired to our various emotions. The work shown here, PHIL No. 5, is one piece in a series that focuses on the mysteries surrounding our human emotions. This work utilizes photographs taken of my friend Phil while he conveyed a number of emotions through facial expressions. 

My closest friends know that it can take me awhile to process complex, surprising or novel situations. In some cases, I have answered questions hours and even days after they were asked. It took me that long to get a handle on my thoughts and sort through my feelings. (I hope there are at least a few folks out there that can relate.) The good news is if the question or situation is sufficiently troubling, I will almost always persist until I come to some resolution or insight — even if at the end of the process I must endure a persistent discomfort or lingering frustration. When I am in a situation like that and feel something quite strongly but can’t figure out exactly what I am feeling, or how I should respond, I often involuntarily humph, moan or sigh.

Over the years I have learned to keep the volume down on my wordless groans. I have no idea what I am trying to say or express, it just bursts forth — unfiltered reverberations that seemingly emerge from the depths of my soul. The work here is one piece in a series entitled wordless groans. They are re-configurations of paintings that I never resolved and never felt right. It has been said that even if we have no idea what our wordless groans signify, or where they come from, the Spirit can interpret them and guide us through the discomfort and confusion. I am personally relieved by the notion that I don’t always need to have the right words, my feelings sorted, or my thoughts gathered. It is simply enough to let out a groan.

for instance, can have a dramatic influence on the result. The wrong move can easily drain a composition of its life and vitality. I understand this may be a stretch for many, and it is certainly difficult to imagine that such a small move could have such a significant impact. That is why I was so delighted to learn about the findings of numerous scientific investigations that illustrate this idea of fine tuning as it relates to life in our universe.

Most are familiar with the term “Big Bang,” a phrase coined by Fred Hoyle, a British astronomer, in 1949. It described a theory that the universe can be traced back to a specific point in history and a massive explosion. In recent years, evidence and observations have been piling up in support of this theory, the nature of our expanding universe as well as our unique situation on planet earth. Most of us can intuit the special qualities of our planet and its ability to support life, but these recent discoveries have illuminated how very special it is. Our earth can support life because it is in a perfect distance from the sun and has the perfect mass to preserve the atmosphere around our planet.

Oddly enough, Jupiter and Saturn are the perfect mass and distance from earth to absorb most of the asteroids that would otherwise pummel our planet — eventually destroying the conditions required for life.  Our solar system is also in the perfect position within the universe to support life on our planet.

The conditions that need to be met for life to exist on our planet and the odds of these conditions being met are startling and truly mind boggling. One of the most dramatic illustrations of fine tuning relates to the mass of the universe, which, remarkably, has been calculated. Hugh Ross, astrophysicist at Cal Tech, explains in his book, Why the Universe Is the Way It Is, that if the universe’s mass was altered by one part in 10 to the 60^th power, it could not support life. This is a very large number … so to put in simpler terms: If the entire mass of the universe was changed as little as the weight of a dime, it would eliminate the possibility of life. This calculation is so outrageous it is difficult to comprehend … but perhaps now it is less difficult to imagine how fine tuning can impact a particular composition and how special it is when you seem to get it right. 

Bob claims he was hired in the 1980s to reverse-engineer the propulsion system of an extraterrestrial space craft at a secret site called “S-4.”  That site was said to be located near the US Air Force facility commonly known as Area 51 in southern Nevada. His work at S-4 involved investigating an antimatter reactor that was powered with a mysterious substance called “element 115 or (E-115).” Lazar’s story was first reported by a Las Vegas investigative reporter at KLAS, and the story quickly spread throughout the globe. Lazar said he came forward because he felt information of this magnitude should not be kept from the general public.

The propulsion system was said to be equipped with anti-gravity emitters that distorted the gravity field just beyond the craft — allowing it to “fall” forward at amazing speeds. Lazar stated that his exposure was limited to the propulsion system and that the work being done at S-4 was highly compartmentalized. Although he never saw or had any contact with aliens he noted that the seats in the saucer he examined were small, as if for a child. He also mentioned that the other scientists referred to the aliens as “the kids.” During a compelling documentary film, Bob sits down at his kitchen table and sketches out the space craft as he understood it.

A portion of that sketch is shown here. You can purchase a print of Lazar’s sketch on the internet. It is interesting to think about the importance of this humble sketch if Lazar’s story proves to be correct.

Bob says he received master’s degrees from MIT (physics) and California Institute of Technology (electronics) although the institutions claim to have no record of him attending. Lazar alleges that many of his records were scrubbed after he came forward with his story. What is curious is that Bob Lazar has classmates that remember him being on campus, and his name appears in the 1982 directory at the Los Alamos National Laboratory in New Mexico — not a designation given to someone without credentials. He currently runs a private lab that produces refined chemicals and elements for other labs. In 2017 Lazar’s modest facility was curiously raided by the FBI. He says he suspects that they were attempting to recover some E-115 he had taken from S-4. It is interesting to note that Lazar has not profited from his story nor does he seem like the kind of person who seeks attention. When asked if he would come forward knowing what he knows now, he hesitates, acknowledging that coming forward has had a negative net impact on his life.

Balancing a complex composition, like life, requires consideration, knowledge, awareness and skill. It takes time, experience, wisdom and a willingness to forego one’s immediate impulses to maintain a lasting harmony. In life, our individual needs and churning circumstances make finding balance an imperfect process that involves continual recalibration.

The naïve notion of symmetry does not resonate with my personal life experiences. Take my body, for example. Yes, I have two legs and two arms and so on. However, I write and throw with my right hand, which has developed muscles on one side of my body that are less developed than the other side. I part my hair to one side. One of my eyes is slightly bigger and sees better than the other, and one of my ears is more sensitive than the other. I have had more cavities in the right side of my mouth where I prefer to chew my food. I am told that my heart, liver and several other internal organs are not centered in my body.

Injuries over the years have given me a slight asymmetry in the way I move. I could continue, but I trust you get the point.

As a result of these and many more observations I believe that pure symmetry only exists as an abstract idea and never truly plays out in our physical world. I do, however, perceive balance … everything seeks an equilibrium. So, I am compelled to explore compositional balance through asymmetry. The work shown here is an example of this pursuit. The activity, engagement and energy on the right side of this compositional investigation are balanced by the rest, calm and stillness on the left.  The weight of the colors and fragmented forms on the right are balanced by the lightness and stability of the field on the left.  The vertical white lines and voids are balanced by the more horizonal lines and voids. In life and art there is a time and moment for everything, so we should spend the bulk of our effort attempting to curate an asymmetric balance.

The term wilderness can have many meanings. Here, I am using wilderness in the broadest possible sense. It encompasses the wild, remote natural areas not controlled by humans — environments that are untamed or curated. It also includes the untamed and often wild human condition — the wilderness of our internal lives. The wilderness is opposed to the civilizing impact of human society and infrastructure, which is largely focused on increasing our personal comfort and safety. Entering the wilderness willingly is an act of self-discovery. In European literature the wilderness is often a place of danger and evil.  Thanks to authors like Emerson and Muir, people in North America perceive the wilderness more romantically — as a much needed tonic for the hectic hedonism of modern life.

The wilderness becomes a place of self-discovery and perhaps a place to cleanse one’s soul by stripping away the protections and structures that sustain our lives. 

I have always believed that makers should understand what would exist if they chose to make nothing — the wilderness. Only then can we fully grasp the impact, purpose and meaning of our work. I believe that the wilderness often holds the answers to the deep questions we have not yet asked. It is getting more difficult to find, yet consider this:

“True wilderness can still be found, but it’s hard to reach and dangerous when you get there, which is probably why it still exists.”

Michelle Paver

I have always been deeply interested in what some refer to as thin space. These are spaces where one feels closer to the divine or a spiritual reality that transcends our everyday existence. You can have a transcendent experience at the cash register of a mini mart; however, there are spaces that seem to offer an experience where you are more likely to make that elusive connection. Thin space can be experienced while on a hike — enveloped in nature, standing in front of a master work at a museum, at a concert hall or perhaps in a cathedral, temple or mosque. One of the virtuosos of thin space is the artist James Turrell, and one of his most impressive works is “Roden Crater.” It is located in northern Arizona at the site of a dormant natural volcano, which he is transforming into a sublime observatory for celestial phenomena. 

The project started in 1972 and remains unfinished but is already being considered the masterpiece of Turrell’s life-long obsession with human visual and psychological perception. When complete the project will contain 24 viewing spaces and 6 tunnels that focus your attention on the open desert skies. Far away from human-made distractions the work features numerous apertures that capture the light during the day and the star-filled skies at night. It allows one to focus on the quality of light itself and begs one to contemplate the nature of light and time within the stillness of the desert landscape. What is remarkable and surprising about these spaces, similar to the cash register at the mini mart, is they are not intended to be experienced in solitude — they provide a profound communal experience.

We take daily showers, water our fields and drink to our hearts’ content. Water always seems to be there when we need it. We take it for granted. Water is one of the only substances that becomes lighter than its liquid form when it transforms into a solid. Although, we all know that an ice cube will float in water no one can really explain exactly how or why this occurs. Almost all other substances get heavier when they cool, but as water cools it sinks until it hits 39 degrees, then inexplicably starts to get lighter. By the time it becomes ice it is 9% lighter than liquid water. Consider what would happen if frozen water was heavier than liquid water.  Ice would accumulate at the bottom of the lakes and seas killing all the aquatic life.  Conversely, by floating, water ice forms a blanket of sorts over the water insulating the life below during the cold weather.

Another unique characteristic particular to salt water is that it absorbs the non-visible light from the sun but allows the visible light to pass through, which allows the sun to feed the plants and bacteria that in turn feed larger oceans creatures.

Liquid water also has a unique surface tension due to its molecular bonds, which allow it to form droplets much easier than other liquids. This is what enables water vapor to form precipitation as it rises in our atmosphere. If water did not have these unique bonds the water vapor would escape our atmosphere, breaking the water cycle and quickly depleting our water supply. The surface tension allows trees to extract water from the soil and transport water up through small capillaries to each leaf, which in turn chemically transforms into the oxygen we breath. This curious molecular bond also allows water to dissolve vital life-giving minerals from rocks and distribute them perfectly both in our bodies and in the soil to nourish various plants. So the next time you turn on that faucet, consider how miraculous water truly is and how it is perfectly calibrated to sustain your life.

Whether it was the possibility of spiritual enlightenment, life after death or reincarnation, every great religious tradition made sense of suffering by integrating it into a coherent meta-narrative. These narratives not only delt with suffering, but, in most cases made suffering a prerequisite for strength, growth and self-actualization. This perspective served humanity as an amazing source of resilience. Even in this modern age, the overwhelming data generated by secular researchers finds that people of faith are better equipped to deal with suffering than their non-religious counterparts.

The modern secular mind, having dispensed with these meta-narratives, insists that what exists is simply what we can see, touch, measure and explain in some empirical manner. So, how do you explain the purpose of suffering empirically? Of course, some of our suffering is self-inflicted — caused by ignorance or bad decisions — but what do you say to innocent victims of slavery, the Holocaust, a natural disaster or, more recently, the suffering children in Ukraine? What does the secular mindset offer these victims of unjust suffering other than identifying it as an unfortunate circumstance?

Richard Shweder, social anthropologist, sums up the secular dilemma this way: “The knowable world is incomplete if seen from any one point of view, incoherent if seen from all points of view at once and empty if seen from nowhere in particular.”

The secular mindset renders suffering pointless and leads us to believe our best option is to avoid pain and suffering at all costs — an impossibility. This avoidance leads us to indifference and detachment toward the suffering of others. When we personally experience suffering, it breeds anger and/or despair. If this life is all there is, why not seek our own personal comfort and satisfaction, even if it requires us to delude ourselves? If the things we make reflect our perspectives and narratives, it must be asked, what kind of art does the secular mindset produce? Much of the art produced today represents an obvious attempt to ignore or distract us from pain and human suffering. Unfortunately, when most artists do confront difficult issues the work often foments anger and/or despair and leaves us there — offering no clear path forward.  Thankfully this work rarely ends up in someone’s living room — most of us would prefer a painting of a colorful flower arrangement. The image shown here, by Jeff Koons, is entitled “Cat on a Clothesline.”

We design gates and thresholds to keep people in … or certain people out.  We decide what people will see and experience when they look out a window … or what people are able to see when they look in. We can impact what people hear and the quality of the air they breathe. We determine how much light there is in a room and the quality of that light. We greatly impact people’s physical and mental comfort. We determine the capacities and deep structure of a particular space which, in turn, determines what is possible … and so on.  It is an awesome and powerful responsibility that many of us do not take seriously enough.

For me the most important issue is the designer’s motivation. More specifically, are they working in the best interests of the people that will ultimately inhabit the spaces they design? My mother, shown here, was a kindergarten teacher for more than 30 years, and she was a kindergarten teacher in and out of the classroom. She fiercely defended children with their safety and wellbeing in mind. She never used the word “no.” I witnessed her spend countless hours reorganizing spaces for the kids in her class or for grandchildren arriving for a visit. She did this so the children could freely explore and learn with a limited number of rules or restrictions.

It is hard for some to imagine, but my mother literally never said “no.”  She was, however, extremely skilled in the art of redirection. When a child was engaged in inappropriate or harmful behavior she would get them interested in some constructive activity. She was a masterful teacher, a wonderful mother and grandmother.

I want to design like my mother. I don’t want to say “no.” I want to inspire and unlock people’s curiosity and feed their imaginations. I want to redirect their attention to things that make their life better and worth living. I want to design spaces that facilitate safe, productive and respectful interaction with others. I want to build spaces that are affordable, accessible and can be sustained without undue burden. I also want to know when to stop “designing” and step away so the inhabitants can possess the space and make it their own. I want the people that use the spaces I design to have the things they need to grow and prosper. Probably the most difficult aspiration is to design into each space an appropriate amount of resistance to promote growth and maturity. Simply accommodating people’s every need and desire may appear gracious but ultimately does not produce a healthy, supportive, productive environment.

Some readers already know that I keep a visual journal. I have been keeping it for decades, and most days I make several entries. The journal has become a daily ritual, so I have accumulated and cataloged thousands of small mixed media works over the years. Sometimes I will share an entry online and occasionally include some in various exhibitions. Numerous works have been purchased by various collectors or institutions and are geographically dispersed. I once had a dear friend spend a weekend in my apartment while I was traveling to examine as many as he could. Part of what makes this body of work so compelling is its mere size and the inability of anyone to comprehend it in its entirety.

I don’t think of myself as a very secretive person, but there are certain entries that I don’t show anyone and certain entries I destroy shortly after making them. This may seem odd, but it is getting harder and harder to have private moments. In this high-tech world we are either sharing our life on social media or being recorded and monitored by the devices we use.

I don’t destroy or keep certain entries private out of shame or embarrassment, but rather as a way of cultivating a private internal life. Keeping some of our feelings, aspirations and ideas private is largely a forgotten part of a healthy internal life.

Kurt Vonnegut once responded to an inquiry from a high school student that was published by the Huffington Post and illuminates this issue. Vonnegut first implored the student to start making art and continue making art for the rest of his life. He then gave the student a specific assignment to write a six-line poem and to make it as good as possible. He then told the student not to read it aloud or share the poem with anyone. Rather tear it up into hundreds of pieces and distribute the fragments in several garbage cans that are placed far apart. He explains this process comes with its own reward and is a part of “becoming” self-aware and “growing” one’s soul. We all need to cultivate a private internal life.

The western idea of a utopia is most often linked to an attempt to recreate Eden described in the book of Genesis. To return to a time when humanity was in harmony with each other, the environment and their God. Ironically, the term utopia comes from the Greek language and translates as “not a place,” which is probably why so few utopian experiments are sustained over time.  This is why the Amana Colony is interesting.

The people who call themselves Inspirationists established mills and shops utilizing old-world skills.  They quickly garnered a reputation for producing goods of superior quality. Today the Amana society is incorporated and continues to manage the collectively owned 26,000 acres of prime Iowa farmland.  Although agriculture remains its primary economic base they have several restaurants, shops, furniture stores and operate Amana Refrigeration Inc. — a leader in the manufacturing of various modern-day appliances.The community currently has over 450 communal buildings distributed in seven villages.  Although I would not suggest the community is Eden it is by some measures a success.

Two decades ago I developed a series of sculptures I entitled “investigations in light.” In order to form the challenging geometries, I utilized one of the first industrial 3-D printers that was stationed at Georgia Tech through a small artist grant. I developed a number of these golden translucent cubes (one shown here), which I displayed on an 8-foot-long by 8-foot-wide custom light table. The cubes were abstract interpretations of the “New Jerusalem” written about in the Book of Revelation. In the last days it is written that the city will descend from heaven, having the form of a perfect cube. It was described as being made of “pure gold, like transparent glass” and will have no need of the sun or moon because it will be illuminated by the very presence of God.  Although most would agree with the historical definition, that utopia doesn’t exist, what certainly does exist is a deep yearning to live in a community where everything is as it should be.

His breakthrough work was a triptych completed in 1944 entitled “Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion.”

My understanding is there are two common means of formulating one’s identity. The first is referred to as the traditional method and is determined by external forces and influences. These externals could include religious doctrine, cultural values or family/community expectations. These forces form the standards and rules that govern one’s identity.  We then must struggle to conform and control our feelings and behaviors as best we can. Our self-esteem is determined and bestowed by others largely by how well we conform to these expectations. Having others determine our identity can certainly be a dangerous and stifling proposition.

The second manner of constructing one’s identity is sometimes referred to as the modern method, which requires us to find our identity within — independent of external influence and forces — by relying on our personal feelings, desires and emotions. We are then told to enter the world on our own terms, requiring those around us to accept and validate our identity. Although the modern method

addresses the main flaw with the traditional approach, there are still several problems associated with it. One problem is that most of us are not clearly in one camp or the other. We all need acceptance, so what happens when those around us do not accept, validate or agree with our chosen identity?

Another difficulty is our ability to effectively self-evaluate. Part of this is due to Johari’s Window, or the things we are unable to know about ourselves. I am sure this is why so many seek out counselors and therapists.  We are all limited in our self-awareness and have contradicting, inconsistent and unstable feelings or ideas about who we are. This can create a great deal of complexity, stress and anxiety, not to mention anger or outrage, when we are not validated or accepted by others. The modern approach has the tendency of turning all our relationships and interactions into a transaction — an exhausting maneuvering for mutual validation. To complicate matters, most of us are attempting to navigate our identity with one foot planted in each of these opposing worlds. I can see this tension, anxiety and uncertainty clearly expressed in Bacon’s self-portrait. 

Our understanding of darkness is saturated with circumstantial and symbolic meaning. Most violent crimes occur in the dark and many people tell their teenagers that “nothing good happens after 10 pm.” It makes sense that if you are doing something wrong you would want to obscure your activity as much as possible. Interestingly, as we have witnessed recently, doing something wrong unapologetically, in plain sight, is so counter-intuitive it can also provide effective camouflage. Regardless, the association between darkness and wrong or evil behavior is a powerful metaphor in our society. This metaphor has been reinforced and amplified by ancient phrases like “the way of the wicked is like total darkness.” Paradoxically, we can never truly understand the nature of light without experiencing various degrees of darkness.

This recent pizza box manipulation explores the nature of darkness. I used a special light absorbing paint that purports to soak up more than 98% of the light that hits it. From a distance the surface of the box appears as a flat silhouette with no visible articulation. As you get closer the folds and manipulations, although obscured, become more evident because no paint can absorb 100% of the light that hits its surface. Regardless, darkness is not really a thing, but rather it is the absence of a thing — it is the absence of light. Therefore, darkness is not the prevailing factor, it is the light that controls how dark something can become. We all live amidst and contribute to the various degrees of darkness. Our bad behavior is inherently destructive and diminishes what could be. However, neither darkness nor bad behavior can build new worlds. They can only cling to the scaffolding fashioned by positive, constructive forces.

One may assume that thirty pieces of silver was a good deal of money in ancient times. However; in Hebrew culture it was the exact price paid to a slave owner if their property was inadvertently gored by their neighbor’s ox. Famously, thirty pieces of silver was also the amount the temple priests paid Judas for betraying Jesus. Perhaps a lesser-known reference to thirty pieces of silver occurs in the book of Zechariah. After being employed as a shepherd he told his employer to pay him what he thought he was worth and was given thirty pieces of silver — a great insult. In response, God instructs Zachariah to “throw it to the potter” so he tossed it into the temple court to be given to the potter working there. Written five hundred years before his birth, many believe this was a foreshadowing of Jesus’ betrayal and crucifixion.

Eerily, tossing the silver coins into the temple court was exactly what Judas did with his blood-money before taking his own life. The priests, not wanting to put tainted money back into the temple treasury, used it to purchase a field from a potter where they could bury foreigners — the “potter’s field.” These thirty pieces of silver have always served as a powerful metaphor for how we all too often treat those around us. If we are fully transparent, we are all capable of dehumanizing others, devaluing their contributions and using them for our personal benefit. The work above, entitled thirty pieces of silver, is one in a series of visual journal entries. The series is a meditation on the value of every human life, a caution not to see other individuals as pawns in a game and to steer clear of corrupt schemes.

Some allow themselves to be guided by their immediate desires, impulses or feelings. However, author Peter Schwartz offered an alternative approach in his 1996 book entitled Art of the Long View:  Planning for the Future in an Uncertain World.  He advocated for a process that involves what he calls scenario planning. The basic idea is to develop a list of scenarios or possible futures for each critical decision that needs to be made.  No need to consider catastrophic futures such as an asteroid destroying the planet or some inconsequential future. The scenarios need to portray the probable futures that impact the decision.

After identifying these possible futures, do not focus on the preferred future but, rather, take actions that will yield a successful outcome regardless of which scenario ultimately plays out. In other words, cover all your bases. This book has changed the way I view the world and has impacted the way I have made countless decisions. I have employed this approach when designing architectural projects. Perhaps the most profound example is the building shown here, built in the shadow of the interstate near the Perkins Road Overpass in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

The site was complex and had an uncertain future. When I purchased the land, which had sat for more than 30 years, backed up to the interstate and served as the neighborhood’s dumping ground, everyone thought I had gone mad. However, using Schwartz’s method I was able to make unexpected decisions that almost insured success. The structure I designed started out as a home, hosted countless art events, launched at least three businesses and made me a healthy profit after it was flipped to commercial use and sold.

This project was built for $50/square foot, won several design awards and was featured in two issues of Dwell magazine. I have personally repeated this approach several times with similar results. Over the years I have attempted to share this strategy with various clients and have been utterly shocked at how few are interested. The inertia and hubris of creating a monument to one’s preferred future or simply doing what everyone else is doing is difficult to overcome. I have lived long enough to see many of these efforts fail after refusing to act tactically when confronted with a complex and uncertain future.

Life is difficult, which is why it should be no surprise that the lament is one of the oldest forms of expression. Passionate demonstrations of grief take many forms and cut across cultures. The first recorded lament is Sumer and Ur, a Mesopotamian dirge penned more than 4,000 years ago.  Laments also appear in Greek classics like the Iliad and the Odyssey, the Hindu Vedas and the Jewish Tanakh (Christian Old Testament). These laments often take the form of poetry or music and in addition to expressing deep sorrow can be used to convey anger or protest over life’s injustices.  In the book of Psalms, for example, the laments often take the form of an individual or communal complaint that concludes with an appeal for divine intervention. Being of Scottish decent I am particularly interested and moved by piobaireachd — instrumental laments or “art music” tied to the Scottish Highlands and played with the bagpipes.

The notion that a lament does not require words and can be so powerfully expressed with tones that emanate from a particular instrument is inexplicable. This peculiar power is no doubt why the bagpipes are often played at memorial services or funerals and rarely at weddings. Personally, I have always been deeply moved by this music. Even at a very young age, before I understood my heritage or the origins of the music played on the bagpipes, it seemed to penetrate my soul.  Perhaps it is a genetic phenomenon. The non-verbal lament was the inspiration for a series of word-paintings logged into my visual journal — one is shown here. The text that appears in this work is powerful and important. However, my intention was to develop a work that visually expressed my lament without relying on the viewer’s opinion of the cloaked and fragmented text. There is something strangely comforting in acknowledging that things are not as they should be and to express one’s earnest protest.

The Colorado River stretches more than 1,450 miles before it crosses the Mexican border and empties into the Gulf of California. It has two major dams, Hoover and Glen Canyon, that fill two of the United States’ largest man-made reservoirs, Lake Mead and Lake Powell respectively. The watershed includes more than 240,000 square miles in seven different states and reaches a maximum elevation of 14,321 feet in the Rocky Mountains. It is estimated that more than 40 million people depend on the water that flows down the Colorado. Although its flow has supported the rapid development of numerous communities and cities in the desert southwest, 80% of its water is diverted to irrigate 4 million acres of farm land, which produces over 15% of our country’s food and 13% of its livestock. So, it is poetic that the scaled model of the Colorado River, cast in silver and shown here, is suspended above the reception desk at the Aria Hotel in MGM’s CityCenter on the Las Vegas Strip.

This work was developed by Maya Lin, who is best known for her first commission — the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington, D.C. As a young Asian American architecture student at Yale, she shocked the world by winning a double-blind national design competition. In heroic fashion she managed to navigate the immense scrutiny, politics and bigotry to realize her sublime vision. Her poise and courage were remarkable, making her a (s)hero for aspiring designers and artists. She has gone on to create other memorials as well as a significant body of artwork. Her work is saturated with a thoughtful and holistic view of the world. Her gift is the ability to present important ideas and experiences that gently seep through the walls we build around our thoughts and perceptions, giving us the opportunity to see the environment and our fellow human beings in a different way.

When you are trying to understand or evaluate an object you need to examine its connections — where materials come together or change direction. Note how the object connects to the ground or supporting  surfaces. Material selection tells you little about the skill and intention of the maker — who rarely controls or determines a material’s characteristics. Makers use materials that are available, and selecting a material usually reveals more about the resources being marshaled toward a particular effort than the object’s true nature. You can make a material smooth or rough, or give it a matte or glossy surface. At best the treatment expresses or enhances some quality already inherent in the material. Selecting a material is not an unimportant matter, but it is a bit like shopping. Often a lack of intention, skill or imagination is masked by using an expensive material. It is easy to distract one’s critical gaze by bedazzling an object with lavish materials like gold or rare stones — replacing meaning with status.

A connection, however, has to be considered, fashioned and is usually the scene of the object’s eventual failure.  Where things come together real decisions must be made. This is where the object and maker are truly revealed. What tools, processes and technologies were used to assemble the object? How strong or durable is the object? How long will the object last under nature’s onslaught — will it age with dignity? Is it an object meant to last forever, or is its purpose more ephemeral and fleeting? Will it require constant maintenance or when broken resist repair? Can the object be disassembled after its useful life? Is the object meant to be used like a tool or simply experienced? Does using the object add to its beauty or diminish it? How much time, insight and care was employed when fashioning the object? Are the materials understood and acknowledged by the maker? I have always believed that a skilled, thoughtful maker can transform any material into something meaningful, noble and beautiful with their wits and skill.

Amidst this Covid crisis society is going through massive shifts — shifts in our values, focus and behavior.  On the surface it has resulted in people wearing masks, toilet paper shortages and long lines at the fast food drive thru. However, the deep structure of our human interactions and decision-making is quietly and slowly being transformed. These new ways of operating, over time, fundamentally alter the way we see the world we live in — our safety, how we relate to each other, how we spend our money, what is important. How one adapts to these challenges varies widely and largely depends on social networks and available resources. This lack of common experience and disparity in our ability to respond adds to the confusion, anxiety and stress we all feel.

Responses to any ongoing crisis solidify over time. People talk about returning to “normal,” but after two years, what is normal? While surface changes may seem insignificant, the deep structure that supports the surface is under a dramatic reconstruction.

Rather than being guided by some organized cabal, these shifts appear to be driven by millions of individuals acting in their own interests, using imperfect and often flawed information — attempting to adapt to complex, dynamic, unseen forces. No one understands or can predict the future. No one is in complete control, and the long-term impacts of this pandemic are largely unknown.

Ironically, it is during these moments that opportunity for meaningful change exists. Many of us have spent the past two years evaluating who we are, what we are doing, and why we do it. It has provided a moment of reflection and an occasion to reconstruct our lives. Some individuals and businesses are better positioned to capitalize on these unforeseen shifts. For example, during the pandemic the pizza industry saw a 21-percent increase in business — benefiting from years of investment in technology and delivery infrastructure. The work shown here uses the humble pizza box as a metaphor to explore the changes, challenges and opportunities we all face as we strive to construct a better future.

I can’t remember the last time I cried. It is not that I think crying is a bad thing or a sign of weakness, I just haven’t cried in a long time. I am not sure why, since simply watching the news gives one ample reason to break down in tears. Humans spend much of their early years crying — it is our first and most primal means of communication. Infants cry when they are hungry, need to blow off some steam or need to be burped. As we get older, we produce tears for a variety of reasons.  Sometimes we tear up due to an allergy or some eye irritation, like cutting an onion. Sometimes we tear up simply to lubricate our eyes. We also tear up for a variety of emotional reasons, such as tears of joy, laughter or sadness. I am told we cry less as we get older and women statistically cry more than men. Tears and making our emotions visible is the subject matter of artist Rose-Lynn Fisher’s latest work.

Fisher developed a number of images by taking photographs of dried tears through a standard microscope. After examining hundreds of samples, she began to notice that the patterns resembled large-scale landscapes and started interpreting the images as aerial views of emotional terrains.  She curated a series of images in a book entitled The Topography of Tears. The image above was produced from tears of “hope.” Scientists have noted that emotional tears are chemically different than the kind of tears one produces from, say, cutting an onion. Emotional tears have more stress hormones and natural pain killers in them. To take it a step further, Fisher’s photographs suggest that different emotions form visible structural differences in tears. Although her work is not intended to provide scientific proof, the proposition is certainly intriguing and powerful. I may need to pull up a heart wrenching movie on Netflix and have a good cry.

As a young faculty member I developed and ran a study abroad program in Europe with bases of operation in Paris and Florence. I spent one summer in Costa Rica completing a masterplan for a campus in the cloud forest. As a researcher I traveled to Brazil and Pakistan’s Northwest Frontier Province after working for several years in the squatter settlements of the Texas Mexico border. I have lived in Iowa, Chicago, Louisiana, Tucson, Las Vegas and Seattle. The great thing about travel is getting exposed to how other people live, their cultures and ecosystems — it is intoxicating. After experiencing so much I still have a few destinations on my bucket list, one being Iceland. Unfortunately, the Covid pandemic has put a bit of a damper on my desire to travel abroad. Who wants to spend time and treasure navigating complex protocols only to visit a country in lockdown or, worse, get stuck in quarantine? So this holiday my wife booked me a ticket for a digital travel experience.

My trip is located in an immersive IMAX-like theater on the Las Vegas Strip with haptic seating and is currently featuring a tour of Iceland.

I am excited and thankful for my gift but am a bit saddened thinking that this symbolizes a significant shift in our collective behavior. I want to experience the real thing, not a sanitized, condensed, curated spectacle that will undoubtably dull my satisfaction with our physical world. If it was just this experience I wouldn’t be so concerned. However, my last three art exhibitions — during the pandemic — have experienced a low number of physical visitations while experiencing an explosion of visitors via online virtual tours. It never occurred to me to develop a virtual tour of my exhibitions prior to Covid. My son came back from college this holiday with a VR headset and hand controllers. He is finishing up his degree in industrial design and is using the virtual reality environment/equipment to draw, create digital prototypes and models. Unless you have been living under a rock you have heard about the NFT craze as well as Facebook changing its name to META in preparation for our new digital reality.   Nike has already acquired a digital company that designs and sells virtual footwear. It seems like our society’s transition to a digital existence is accelerating, and when you work and live in a digital world, your interest, concern and investment in our physical world – the world I want to live in — undoubtedly diminishes.

There is a fundamental difference between drawing with a pencil compared to using a pen. When using a pencil you can draw very light lines to lay out a composition and darken the lines by applying more pressure after “finding the line.” If you make a mistake, you can easily erase a line drawn with a pencil.  Using a pen or ink, on the other hand, requires commitment. You can sometimes mask a mistake made with a pen, but you can’t eliminate it completely. If the error is big enough you may need to get out a fresh sheet of paper and start over. If it happens near the completion of an image that took several hours or days to complete, it can be devastating. Using a pen is like life: We all are climbing a cliff face without a rope and harness. Granted, no one usually dies from a failed composition, but success requires the same level of training and confidence. To move forward you must be willing to risk all the progress you have made in an instant.

I always draw with a pen. Each mark is binding — no do-overs. When I collage, paint, pull a print or sculpt, I operate in a similar manner. I never sketch out a concept or idea; I simply jump in and start making. I make a mark and then respond to that mark and so on. Even if I have a clear idea of where I want to take a particular composition, I remain open and adapt as it emerges and evolves. The process reflects the way we all live life. I always finish a work — even if I don’t like it, this is how I strengthen my skills and train my intuition. After the initial sting of making something that I don’t particularly like, I own it and embrace it. I will spend weeks comparing it to my more successful compositions — learning more from my mistakes than my successes. Over the years this process has given me a confidence and understanding that any misstep can be salvaged and balanced with a few additional moves. There are moments when I will purposely make a mark from which it will be hard to recover, simply to strengthen my compositional understanding and awareness.

There is a Richard Serra sculpture being installed a few blocks from my home in Las Vegas. I discovered it recently on a walk and it was like opening an early Christmas present. The piece is being placed at an entrance to the Station Casinos corporate headquarters. Frank Fertitta founded the company in 1976 and since then the family/business has amassed an enormous collection of world-class art. I suspect Las Vegas has collectively one of the world’s greatest art collections. Sadly, these works are almost entirely held in private collections, placed in high roller suites, expensive homes or private office buildings and are largely inaccessible to the general public. Unfortunately, art in Las Vegas is used primarily to differentiate one’s status and elevate experiences for the few that can afford it. Those that truly love and value art for its ability to elevate and enrich their lives understand access to masterworks should never be limited to a few affluent individuals. I hope Serra’s piece will be open to the public, but I have my doubts. While attemping to take a photograph of a sculpture on the other side of the entrance to this very building, I was stopped by security. You can tell what people think about art by how they treat it.

Unfortunately, this Richard Serra piece was placed in the middle of a parking lot drop-off area. Before your driver drops you off at the entry you will need to circumnavigate the work in your vehicle. If the work is accessible you will need to cross traffic to an island surrounded by a parking lot. One of the best views of the work is from the top level of the parking garage adjacent to the sculpture. It is from this angle that the work reveals its secrets. The location of this sculpture reinforces a notion that the work is more valuable as a status symbol than as a transformative spatial experience.  I have heard the Fertittas called “art patrons,” but I see them more as savvy investors. To be a patron you need to truly appreciate art and the processes that surround the making of art. You must actively nurture up and coming artists — not just cherry pick works from well-established masters. You don’t need to love or understand art to be an art investor. I have been told that masterworks have historically outperformed the stock market and are a better hedge against inflation than gold. I suspect, however, that the true benifits of these priceless investments are never fully realized. As for me, I will keep my fingers crossed and hope I will be allowed to experience this amazing work.

Items include a family Bible and various books from Norway dating back to the 1700s, various trinkets from past World Fairs and old newspapers containing articles about the Lincoln assassination and the end of WWI. Among these treasures is an old wooden spoon that her grandmother likely used everyday for the good part of a century. It is a beautiful object — not because its been kept in a pristine state but rather for the opposite reason. It carries the markings and stains of its use, the edges worn down from scraping against a cast iron pan. When you pick it up it is heavy, made of a dense wood. The handle is smooth and surprisingly comfortable. It feels amazing in your hand — like a perfectly broken-in leather baseball mitt.  I am not one taken by nostalgia, but it is as if you can feel the history and energy when you pick it up.

For some reason my wife kept the spoon out this year as she tucked away her remaining treasures. Surprisingly, she decided to start using it in our kitchen.  At first it seemed wrong — the spoon should be preserved and placed back in the box. However, after some thought it made perfect sense. This spoon was never intended to be a masterpiece — its lines and composition are decidedly unremarkable. What makes this spoon so potent is its longevity and use.  Rather than fixing the object in its current state, it will become more beautiful with continued use. My wife and I will make meals using some of the same recipes her grandmother used, with the same spoon. It won’t match our other utensils but will feel better in the hand and perhaps help us prepare better meals.  This type of beauty is largely lost on a society obsessed with aquiring the latest, newest gadget. How many spoons have we discarded or lost over the years? I can’t imagine any were discarded because they stopped working or wore out.

In most cases government agencies have elaborate processes that attempt to thwart corruption or favoritism. For some high-profile projects they will conduct a design competition.  Sometimes it is open to everyone, and other times it involves a small number of qualified firms invited to compete. The benefits of a competition are to reduce the politics that surround the process and ensure that the greatest ideas get implemented — often the best ideas come from suprising sources. When I worked for a design firm in Denmark all I did was submit design competitions. In socialist countries all the signifigant design commissions are determined by a design competition. In Denmark, I remember one time when a student won the design competition for the country’s new contemporary art museum and was granted the commision. Here in the United States, design competitions get a bit more complicated. I heard a story that circulated within the Las Vegas design community and involves the Clark County Administration Building. Although I can’t verify the accuracy of the story, it is so delightful I am compelled to share it with you.

The design competition was an invitational and involved some of the best designers in world. Two of those individuals were Antoine Predock and Curtis Fentress. The competition was judged by a committee using a double-blind process. The committee would not know who submitted the various propsals, and the designers were unaware of who was on the committee. However, both accomplished and established architects had unique approaches and styles that would make their entries obvious to even the untrained eye. Early in the process Fentress discovered that the committee was keen on awarding the project to Predock. He could have withdrawn from the competition in protest or filed a formal complaint. However, he quietly directed his team to prepare their submission in the style of Antoine Predock. Curtis and his team did such a brilliant job that the committee couldn’t tell which project was Predock’s. The committee ended up selecting the design that Fentress submitted and was compelled to award him the commission.  Fentress had managed to design a “Predock building” better than Antoine Predock. Now that is true greatness.

We named her Tyson, partly because we brought her home in a Tyson chicken box and partly because she wasted no time in biting my son’s ear — drawing blood. This dog is remarkable, incredibly soft and affectionate while supremely adventurous and athletic. In her prime she was, pound for pound, the fastest dog I have ever seen.  People regularly stop and watch in amazement when she fetches a ball in the park. She climbs vertical rock faces, jumps off docks at full speed to fetch a stick, and chases waves on the beach for hours. I have never had a dog that was so amazing. The best thing is her compact frame. We call her a pocket dog because she can be tucked into a sweatshirt or bag and accompany us virtually anywhere. She exhibits remarkable control of her bowels, and when the need arises the result is small and manageable. Her appetite matches her output, and she rarely begs for food. She almost always rejects doggie treats offered by strangers but suprisingly loves carrots and other vegetables. When she passes I doubt she can ever be replaced. It seems supremely unfair to get another dog that would undoubtedly be compared to Tyson. She has become a part of our lives in ways I never imagined.

The term biophillia is commonly thrown about today and refers to our innate human need to connect with nature and other living things. Connecting with the natural environment, other people and animals is linked to improved cognitive function as well as physical and mental health. It is no wonder that more than 70% of households in the United States have a pet and we collectively spent more that $100 billion caring for them last year. If these creatures are such an important part of our lives, how are they accommodated in the spaces we fashion? A fellow architect told me a story about a wealthy client that had him design a glass elevator in his home because his aging dog was unable to use the stairs and did not like to be confined in small spaces. Several months and a half a million dollars later, the dog elevator was completed and promptly rejected by his beloved pet. Granted, this particular story is extreme and perhaps absurd; however, we rarely consider how our pets experience the spaces we occupy. As these animals become more integrated into our lives and well-being, it may be wise to consider and perhaps accommodate their unique needs and tendencies. Their well-being and comfort could very well be linked to our own.

I would argue that we don’t truly understand our lives unless we become aware of the people and systems that help support it. For example, every person in the United States produces close to 5 lbs of garbage per day. That amounts to more than 600 billion pounds per year. The city I live in — Las Vegas — produces more than 5 billion pounds of waste per year, which makes it the home to the largest landfill in North America. The Apex Landfill runs 24 hours a day, 365 days a year and accomodates 250 trucks per day, carring an average of 30 tons per load. Apex is literally a trash mountain, currently more than 500 ft in height, and covers more than 1,900 acres. Suprisingly, it is estimated that this landfill can continue to operate for another 300 years before it reaches its full capacity. These facts are certainly startling; however, it is not all bad news.

Las Vegas is also home to the largest recycling facility in the country and processes 1.8 million pounds of waste per day. It uses a complex single source system that utilizes several sophisticated sorting technologies to separate various materials.

In recent years this facility has spent considerable money reconfiguring its system to accomodate an enormous influx of cardboard — industry insiders refer to this increase as the Amazon Effect. The majority of food waste produced on the Strip does not end up in the landfill or the recycling facility. It is delivered to the Las Vegas Livestock Farm to feed pigs. The farm sits conveniently on Apex property but is privately owned and operated. The farm processes more than 40,000 pounds of the casinos’ food waste per day and converts it into feed. Landfills also create approximately 20% of human-caused methane emissions, which contributes signifigantly to global warming. Many landfills capture and burn it as a safety measure; however, Apex has been using the methane to produce electricity. More than 160 wells have been drilled in the pyramid of trash, diverting the gas to a power plant that provides energy for an estimated 11,000 homes. We need to do a better job of understanding and increasing the transparency of the systems that support our way of life.

Life is difficult, which is why it should be no surprise that the lament is one of the oldest forms of expression. Passionate demonstrations of grief take many forms and cut across cultures. The first recorded lament is Sumer and Ur, a Mesopotamian dirge penned more than 4,000 years ago.  Laments also appear in Greek classics like the Iliad and the Odyssey, the Hindu Vedas and the Jewish Tanakh (Christian Old Testament). These laments often take the form of poetry or music and in addition to expressing deep sorrow can be used to convey anger or protest over life’s injustices.  In the book of Psalms, for example, the laments often take the form of an individual or communal complaint that concludes with an appeal for divine intervention. Being of Scottish decent I am particularly interested and moved by piobaireachd — instrumental laments or “art music” tied to the Scottish Highlands and played with the bagpipes.

The notion that a lament does not require words and can be so powerfully expressed with tones that emanate from a particular instrument is inexplicable. This peculiar power is no doubt why the bagpipes are often played at memorial services or funerals and rarely at weddings. Personally, I have always been deeply moved by this music. Even at a very young age, before I understood my heritage or the origins of the music played on the bagpipes, it seemed to penetrate my soul.  Perhaps it is a genetic phenomenon. The non-verbal lament was the inspiration for a series of word-paintings logged into my visual journal — one is shown here. The text that appears in this work is powerful and important. However, my intention was to create a work that visually expressed my lament without relying on the viewer’s opinion of the cloaked and fragmented text. There is something strangely comforting in acknowledging that things are not as they should be and to express one’s earnest protest.

Anyone who has earnestly attempted to monetize their artistic endeavors should be amused by this installation in the Cosmopolitan Hotel and Casino on the Las Vegas Strip. It is a retrofitted cigarette vending machine that dispenses original works of art. The self-contained miniature gallery features the work of at least a dozen artists, and for a few bucks and a pull of a handle you can walk away with a piece of art that fits in your pocket. There are five other similar machines located in the Cosmopolitan and more than 90 machines located throughout the world. These art dispensing machines feature the work of approximately 200 artists. An official website has a map of all the Art-o-mat locations, a store to purchase Art-o-mat swag, and a portal where artists can submit an application to sell their art.

This innovative project was developed by artist Clark Whittington, who started repurposing cigarette vending machines after they were banned in the United States in 2010. In addition to being clever and witty, this work is quite serious and full of meaning. Rather than inviting people into an “art space,” these miniature galleries place art in the path of unsuspecting patrons. The colorful machines intended to attract one’s attention no longer sell an addictive, unhealthy product but rather offer enrichment and inspiration.  Although I am quite confident that the machines produced more ROI when they sold tobacco, this idea challenges the experience and expectations that surround art, the artist and the art world.

Theaster Gates is a Chicago-based artist, urban planner and self-proclaimed preacher — he redeems spaces, artifacts and materials that have been forgotten and overlooked. Trained in urban planning and preservation, Gates reimagines these elements in order to build community and propel social progress.  In addition to his art work, Gates has a non-profit called the Rebuild Foundation that manages numerous revitalization projects on Chicago’s South Side. He was greatly influenced by the music of Black churches, and this spiritual sensibility permeates his work. Although his art addresses the injustices people of color experience in America, his work never seems to accuse or demean. Rather, he repositions objects and spaces, which challenge and gradually transform our perceptions — revealing possibilities and the “life within things.”

The work shown here, Hose for Fire and Other Tragic Encounters, is one piece in a series entitled Civil Tapestries, fashioned from decommissioned fire hoses. The work conjures images of civil rights activists being injured by the blasts of water from fire hoses, tools that ironically are intended to save and protect life. It alludes to the numerous church burnings and the 1963 church bombing of the 16^thStreet Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. The work transforms these overlooked tools, which bear witness to these events, into a compelling, beautiful, non-violent, modern abstract composition. Here is an excerpt of a hymn entitled “A New Song” that accompanied this work, written by Gates himself: “Where the heat is … to give whatever I can: a hymn of protest, a candy bar, a quiet listening, an altar, an offering. When there are no more protests needed, that day, I’ll sing a new song.”

Thousands of bright yellow blossoms strewn across a dark wood floor form a powerful art installation at the Menil Collection in Houston. What adds to the installation’s intrigue is its vulnerability. It sits on the floor at the end of a hallway. There are no visible barriers — you can walk right up to the work. It appears as though someone left a door open and the wind deposited a yellow carpet at the end of the hallway. It is very difficult to tell, but the blooms are artificial, made from recycled polyvinyl chloride. The blossoms are modeled after the flowers on the Roble Amarillo Tree found in the Caribbean — one of the 36 regions in the world identified as a biodiversity hotspot. There were seven different models made of the flower, each in a different stage of decay.  Each flower was hand painted, which adds to the realistic nature of this striking installation.

The Puerto Rico-based artistic duo, Jennifer Allora and Cuban-born Guillermo Calzadilla, are focusing our attention on a fragile ecological predicament. They see the legacy of colonial rule in the Caribbean as the systematic degradation of the region’s bio diversity. When combined with climate change, it forms a destructive cocktail that is threatening the region’s precious flora and fauna. The duo’s unvarnished observations are cutting and demand introspection. They use the term “acedia” to describe the ideas behind the work. The term refers to the “deadly sin” of apathy — a lack of interest or caring with overtones of laziness. “This affliction in many ways seems to summarize the contemporary moment in which one finds oneself feeling supremely awake, animated, immersed in very strong sensations and feelings, but not alive.  Acedia make the present intolerable and the future impossible to imagine.”  The installation is haunting, something that at first glance appears so vibrant, hopeful and real, but with all the life sucked out of it. The stillness of this work renders it “unreal.”

I am a sucker for a good infographic. In the same way a work of art can illuminate your thoughts, a great drawing or graphic can literally change the way you see the world. Great infographics are quite difficult to produce. They make some banal bit of data visible and accessible, they tell a story, and in some cases they are quite beautiful. The image here shows a portion of a graphic produced by Chris Harrison and Christoph Romhild, which shows more than 63,700 cross references in the Bible. Along the bottom are the various chapters in the Bible starting with Genesis 1 on the far left. The length of each line represents the number of verses there are in that particular chapter. The colored arcs connect the two verses that refer to one another. The colors correspond to the distance between the two chapters that are linked.

What makes this graphic so fascinating is the fact that this text contains 66 distinct books totaling more than 1,200 pages, written by more than 35 individuals, in a handful of languages, over a period of 1,600 years. During this period the text was often read out loud and parts committed to memory. Any copies of the text were hand written — meticulously produced by scribes. Most modern readers are aware of significant references and important connections between various verses; however, the scope and depth of these connections remained invisible to me until this graphic was produced. This graphic does not provide any definitive answers to life’s deep questions but rather amplifies my curiosity, illuminating the complexity, mystery and wonder of this ancient text.  I don’t know if this work should be considered ART, but it feels very similar to the experience I have when looking at a master work.

If you ever travelled to Japan, you noticed that the people approach every activity, regardless of how mundane, with thoughtful intention. Whether it is constructing a temporary table or preparing a snack purchased from a vending machine, the careful consideration to processes and details is inspiring. Ikebana is the Japanese art of flower arranging. Don’t confuse this with a bouquet of flowers you commonly see here in the United States. This is an ancient tradition that dates back to 800 AD and is considered one of the three classical arts of refinement, along with incense burning and the well-known tea ceremony. It is a disciplined art form that seeks to brings nature and humanity together. It is creative within specific compositional guidelines that emphasize shape, form and line.  Compositions are minimalist and based on three points of interest. Ikebana is often practiced in silence and is thought to teach patience and tolerance.

This tradition is what inspired the work shown here, entitled The Dance, by artist Linda Ridgeway.  Trained as a printmaker, Ridgeway has spent the majority of her career attempting to make bronze a delicate, ethereal medium — drawing fine lines with bronze. In this composition she uses the concrete slab on the ground and wall to define the limits of her work — just like a print or drawing is confined within the bounds of a sheet of paper. She often considers the shadows in her work more important that the object she forms with the bronze. As the sun crosses the sky the shadows add to the fleeting, ephemeral quality of her work. In keeping with classic Ikebana traditions, the entire plant is celebrated, and the composition expresses emotional meaning without the use of words.

After a career-ending knee injury he travelled to Madrid to study architecture. Although he never completed his degree, he referred to himself as an “architect of inner space.” Chillida is best known for his monumental public sculptures. His works are described by most as “abstract,” although he rejects that label, preferring to be considered a “realist.” Although his massive geometric works of steel and granite are virtually immoveable, they seem to suggest tension and movement. He considers himself as an explorer of space, yet sees “clearly that space and time are brothers.”

Believing that the mind was an artist’s most important tool, it is not surprising he incorporated philosophical ideas to inform his work. Chillida was greatly influenced by the philosopher Martin Heidegger and shared his interest in exploring humanity’s connection to space. Chillida once stated, “My whole work is a journey of discovery in space.” He believed everything was space; matter and air are both space, just with different speeds — the air being quick and matter simply slowing space down.

While many artists focus on the experience they provide an observer, Chillida preferred to focus on perception. He felt perception acted upon the present with one foot in the future while one’s experience was grounded in the past. He felt focusing on perception allowed for growth and progress.

The sculpture shown here, entitled Song of Strength, is comprised of 42 tons of granite and was completed by Chillida in 1966. It sat outside the Watkins Building of the Museum of Fine Arts in Houston  for decades until it was recently moved to the L-shaped courtyard of the Glassell School building, designed by Steven Holl. Chillida’s sculpture was specifically selected along with a 30-foot-tall polished stainless steel monolith entitled Cloud Column by Anish Kapoor. Holl’s building has a sloped roof that is an extension of the plaza, forming an ampitheater at the base and extending to the top of the structure where there is a public restaurant and outlook. The landscape, designed by Deborah Nevins, along with the building and artwork form a symbiotic relationship — a magical space filled with possibilities.

I recently learned more about Lawrence Krause, a theoretical physicist, and his startling discovery concerning the nature of empty space. What he discovered was that empty space is where most of the universe’s energy resides. This observation is so startling because we all tend to focus on and study physical objects, not the space between those objects. Up to this point it was thought that energy resided in matter — the physical particles that form people, plants, animals, planets, and stars. Surprisingly, Krause demonstrated that when you remove all the particles from a space, it can still contain “energy”; empty space has weight. In fact, according to his calculations, the universe is dominated by the energy that resides in the empty spaces. Interestingly, the energy contained in physical matter behaves differently than the energy found in empty space. Energy in matter is positively charged and attracts other matter, which is why we experience gravity. Conversely, the energy found in empty space has a negative charge and repels.

I can’t help but draw analogies between these scientific observations and the study of composition. Most people focus on the object and fail to consider the empty space that surrounds it. When teaching students, I often place two pencils side by side on a table and slowly separate them. I ask them when do the pencils become separate and distinct elements rather than a grouping of pencils. This is a simple way to introduce people to the importance of empty space. In my recent work I have been manipulating pizza boxes. I use wood stick structures to support and hold the painted surfaces in place. As the series progressed, I began cutting the boxes into distinct pieces and hanging those pieces on the wall. An image of one of the works is shown here. I quickly became aware that the empty space I was forming between and around the objects contained more energy than the objects themselves.

In 1968, after leaving New York City for the desert, Michal Heizer made nine sculptures in the dry lake beds of Nevada by removing earth from the desert floor. The works are referred to as the Nine Nevada Depressions. The ninth work in this series was a 12-inch wide trench, approximately 12 inches in depth and 120 feet long. The trench had a single loop in the center that measured 12 feet in diameter. The trench was dug in Massacre Dry Lake bed near Vya — a small ghost town in northwest Nevada. The piece required the removal of more than six tons of dirt; however, there are no traces of this piece today other than a few black and white photographs. However, this important work was the precursor to Heizer’s better known monumental work, entitled Double Negative, near Overton, Nevada. Double Negative is two opposing trenches that are 30 feet wide and 50 feet deep that are separated by a 1,200 foot long chasm on top of Mormon Mesa.

The work shown here, entitled Isolated Mass / Circumflex (#2), is a recreation of one of the Nine Nevada Depressions. The “negative” sculpture, formed by removing material rather than adding it, cuts through the lawn in front of the Menil Collection in Houston. It was installed by Heizer in 1987 and incorporates two weathered steel plates, which form a trench lined with a red quarter minus base. He positioned the work so the entry sidewalk bisected the trench, forcing visitors to walk through the sculpture. Three other recreations of the Nine Nevada Depressions were acquired by the Menils — Isolation, Dissipation and Rift. In 2018 Rift and Dissipate were relocated to a gravel courtyard designed by Heizer near the Menil Drawing Center. It was unexpected and unreal to travel halfway across the country and see recreations of works that were birthed in my back yard — work conceived in the parched desert, cutting though a lush carpet of green grass.

I have always been intrigued by billboards. They were the subject of my master’s thesis at the University of Arizona. I also did some visioning work for Lamar (the outdoor advertising company) after moving to Baton Rouge to teach architecture at Louisiana State University. Billboards are largely disliked — they are at best tolerated. They are like a visual robocall designed to thrust advertisements into your view, demanding your involuntary attention. Many feel they amount to visual litter. Several “beautification” movements in our recent history have attempted to ban them, and some communities have. However, these structures speak to the tension between our need to propel commerce and our personal freedoms.  When does a revenue-producing structure placed on private property outweigh the public or individual’s right to curate their environment? What is beautiful? Regardless, I contend the billboard is overlooked as a significant cultural artifact. It can and perhaps should be considered beautiful.

A billboard has a strength and clarity rarely seen in buildings. Its single purpose is to place an advertisement in the most optimal position possible. Most are placed next to roads. The size and orientation of the structure is determined by the speed, direction of the oncoming traffic and physics.  Billboards essentially have two components: a permanent and stable structure, and a surface that is fleeting and ever-changing. This relationship between structure and surfaces has been an endless inspiration for my work and thoughts. Dutch theorist John Habraken wrote about the relationship between the relatively permanent and temporal elements within our built environment. The more permanent or deep structure is what determines possibilities and, once established, is quite hard to change or modify.  While most fixate and obsess about what is happening on the surface, the real work is being done behind the scenes — designing and controlling our possible futures.

Most people don’t consider white or black a color, but that is where a great deal of the interesting research and innovation is taking place. As many of you already know, sunlight contains all the colors we see today in waves of energy. If you have ever played with a prism it can separate those waves into various spectrums, creating a kind of rainbow. When we look at a red rose, for example, the rose pedals are absorbing all the wavelengths of light except for red. Those red wavelengths are reflected back to our eyes, which gives the rose a red appearance. White, of course, reflects the full spectrum of colors, and black absorbs most of the color contained in the light that hits it.

Researchers at Purdue University recently developed a white paint that remains 18 degrees Fahrenheit cooler than the surrounding temperature — turning the object you paint with it into a refrigerator. The paint reflects almost all the energy that hits its surface. It is said that the reflected heat energy will not contribute to global warming but rather sends the energy into deep space at the speed of light. The scientists say the paint removes heat from the earth and dumps it into the universe — an infinite heat sink.

The paint could significantly reduce global warming if it were applied to roads, car and buildings. Currently heat-rejecting coatings reflect about 80% of the energy that hits their surface compared to 96% with this recent innovation. The development of this paint was difficult; it took more than six years to discover the ideal formula.

A while back I wrote about Vantablack, developed by the British company Surrey Nano Systems for the aerospace industry, which is said to absorb 99.965% of the light that hits it. It is the darkest substance on earth. In a controversial move, artist Anish Kapoor obtained an exclusive license to use this paint as an artist. Other artists are forbidden from obtaining or using this paint. As you can imagine this created quite a controversy within the art world. In response Stuart Semple teamed up with paint manufacturers to develop an alternative paint called Black 3.0 that is now commercially available to everyone but Anish Kapoor. Black 3.0 absorbs 99% of the visual light spectrum, and unlike Vantablack, Semple’s paint is water soluble and non-toxic.  When you purchase a bottle of this paint you must state you have no affiliation with Anish Kapoor and that the paint you receive will never make its way into his hands. I am supposed to receive my first bottle in a week

When Columbian constructivist sculptor Eduardo Ramirez Villamizar visited Machu Picchu he stayed for three days and three nights — studying and experiencing the structures in different lighting conditions. He was 60 years old when he made the trip and regretted not travelling there sooner —the encounter was life changing. While there, he did not take any notes or make sketches. Rather, he simply soaked in the beauty of the site. Five months after his trip he spontaneously started creating works that reminded him of the places he encountered in the ancient city.  “I began to imagine that one of my sculptures appeared … integrating itself into the old architecture … I felt that the pre-Columbian gods accepted it.” The work shown here is one of those sculptures, entitled Memory of Machu Picchu 3.

Villamizar studied architecture in Bogota for four years before changing his focus to painting and eventually gravitating toward sculpture. The work inspired by Machu Picchu is clearly reminiscent of the polygonal ashlars in Inca architecture. Interestingly, this piece has a clear front, similar to buildings, which often have a dominant or front façade.  Villamizar uses forceful geometries that he sees reflected in nature. The idea that “geometry is nature” is a foundational concept in all his work.  He considers himself a constructivist who is fundamentally optimistic, perhaps utopian. He therefore does not want to merely imitate the past but invent new worlds. To develop new mysteries that even surprise himself. The creative process for Villamizar ends when words are no longer helpful and what remains is the viewer’s sensibilities and silence. 

German-born Bernd and Hilla Becher began their artistic collaboration in 1959 and married two years later. What makes their work so compelling is the visual rigor they use to attack a particular subject. The work above is part of a series of images that focus on water towers. Like a biologist cataloging butterflies, the couple creates a compelling field of observation that one can endlessly use to compare and contrast the chosen subject matter. The thrill is initially in realizing how many variations of the “water tower species” exist. Then, as you delve into each image you notice the subtle differences in both context and design. The water tower series was their first work, and ever since they have never strayed from photographing architectural or industrial structures. Their body of work is extensive and at times, by its very nature, overwhelming.

Interestingly, their work received a “sculpture” award at the 1990 Venice Biennale — the award was granted because their photographs capture the sculptural properties of architecture. The Bechers referred to the subjects of their work as “anonymous sculptures” in a book published in 1970. The term reinforces the couple’s idea that these industrial structures are “found objects” — a nod to Marcel Duchamp’s readymades. The work speaks powerfully to the impact of industry on our economy and environment. It is also a celebration of overlooked beauty found in forms innocently made to serve a specific function. There is an honesty of expression when you consider that fashioning a sculpture was never the intent of each unknown designer. These types of water towers can occasionally be found today; however, it is not hard to imagine a day when this series of photographs is a visual record of an extinct structure. 

The couple was inspired after traveling to France, visiting Le Corbusier’s Chapel of Ronchamp, and seeing the work of Henry Matisse and Fernand Leger in various churches. The couple was taken by the transformative potential of art when artists were given free reign and became deeply involved in the global ecumenical movement to bring modern art and architecture into places of worship. Their vision for the chapel was to provide a safe place for dialogue, prayer and worship while maintaining a permanent collection of spiritual texts.

The Rothko Chapel, completed in 1971, perhaps has already realized the Menils’ vision. The chapel reportedly attracts more than 100,000 visitors each year from around the world. It has been a center for international colloquiums and meetings to foster truth, justice and freedom. For the chapel’s twentieth anniversary it partnered with former President Jimmy Carter and his Human Rights Foundation to give out a joint Rothko Chapel award. Nelson Mandela was the keynote speaker at the event. In September 2000 the chapel was placed on the National Register of Historic Places. The Menil art patronage extends beyond the Rothko Chapel and includes the acclaimed Menil Collection and Cy Twombly Gallery — all located within walking distance of the chapel.

After two years of exploration in his NYC studio, Rothko completed the 14 black tonal paintings that hang in the chapel. The commission appeared to weigh heavy on the artist. The following is a portion of the letter Rothko penned to the Menils, sent the same year he completed the work: “The magnitude, on every level of experience and meaning, of the task in which you have involved me, exceeds all of my preconceptions. And it is teaching me to extend myself beyond what I thought was possible for me.”  Rothko had substantial control over the design of the chapel and clashed with Philip Johnson, the first of three architects hired to work on the project. Sadly, Rothko committed suicide in 1970, one year before his work was installed in the chapel.

I admire Rothko’s work a great deal. However, knowing the tragic back story and experiencing the works that inspired the Menils pursuit, I find the space disheartening. It is essentially a requiem for a tortured artist, struggling with his mental health. I have visited the chapel on numerous occasions but can only stay in the space for short periods of time — a missed opportunity.

Grafton also has the distinction of being featured in several western movies, including Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Currently the town has four restored structures and a cemetery, originally constructed by Mormon settlers. In the 1850s Brigham Young, a leader of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, began enlisting volunteers to secure land and resources in southern Utah. His goal was to create a self-sustaining faith community, and he believed the area along the Virgin River had the necessary attributes to grow cotton. Young was correct, and the region’s success growing cotton is why southwest Utah, to this day, is referred to as Dixie.

During the conflict Young relocated the residents of Grafton to the larger town of Rockville. Some residents continued to visit the Grafton area to tend to their crops.The conflict ended in 1867, but not all the residents returned.  By the mid 1870s the local Southern Paiute tribe had abandoned their efforts to live off the land, and due to continual flooding and difficulties farming the land the Mormon population dwindled until 1944 when the last resident left Grafton.

A recent study out of London links better cognitive development, emotional health and reduced behavioral problems with daily exposure to the woodlands. Researchers were quick to point out that the study did not provide proof of a causal link. The four-year study looked at children ages 9-15 across England and their exposure to spaces that are green (woods, meadows and parks) and blue (rivers, lakes and oceans). Interestingly, the increased benefits for exposure to “green spaces” were not seen in “blue spaces.” Despite the limitations of this study, it adds to the growing list of research that suggests contact with the wilderness has beneficial mental and physical effects. What I found most curious about this study was the startling difference between “green” and “blue” spaces.

I have travelled all over the world, visited and lived in a variety of ecosystems, and I prefer the United States’ desert southwest. I am not sure why. It is not that I don’t enjoy and appreciate other eco-systems, I just prefer “brown” space.” (I realize the desert is more colorful than “brown” suggests — I am just trying to work within the framework of the study.) For me environments like Bryce Canyon, shown here, are more compelling and beautiful than any alternative. My wife enjoys the desert but prefers the northwest United States — especially in the summer. This research got me wondering how others experience the desert and if there are the same mental and physical benefits found in exposure to “green” spaces. As for me, I am convinced there are. I will warn anyone interested in pursuing this research topic that based on my observation the desert seems to attract a unique assortment of personalities.

Recent statistics reveal a disturbing but not surprising increase in homelessness over the past four years. As many have seen their wealth balloon, our nation’s homeless population grew by about 2 percent per year. The government estimates that more than 106,000 children are among the homeless, and 11,000 of those children live outside or on the streets. African Americans make up a disproportionate 30 percent of the homeless population, and Latinos make up 23 percent. Homelessness is a complicated, multi-faceted issue. Those who have never interacted with them often form wildly inaccurate ideas about their character and value to society.

One of my first interactions involved offering a sandwich to a homeless man in the park, which resulted in an enlightening conversation. He was reading a Greek classic by Homer, which he had checked out from the local public library. He was intelligent and articulate. He explained he had a disability that made it very difficult for him to hold down a typical job and preferred to be called a hobo. He traveled regularly between several states by hopping on trains, picking up assistance checks, and tracking favorable weather. He had a dignity and sophistication that surprised me. I was glad to help him, but I did not pity him. In fact there was a part of me that envied his freedom.

Since this encounter I have had numerous similar experiences. I have seen cardboard street shelters that are cleaner and better organized than my children’s bedrooms. My closest friend on Bainbridge Island—an affluent community across the water from Seattle—was a homeless gentleman living in his van, which he parked across the street from our home. Without trading in carbon offsets, the average homeless person has a negative carbon footprint— living off the waste and excess of our insatiable consumer economy.

Based on these experiences, I no longer see the absence of a typical “home” as a problem. Rather, what is so disturbing, and should disturb everyone, is the indignity these fellow human beings are forced to endure. Many of these individuals can’t take care of themselves due to drug addiction or mental illness, they don’t have families or friends who can intervene, and they need our collective and sustained assistance. Others need a place to get basic health services and facilities to clean and care for their bodies. Some need a warm meal, a smile, some encouragement, an opportunity and, like all of us, occasionally need to be confronted and held accountable. However, to muster the will to resolve this disturbing situation, we must first recognize these human beings as valuable members of our community.

Unfortunately, most of our schools and institutions are still training “factory workers”—embracing STEM fields that churn out thousands of graduates focused on quantified, analytical/systematic problem solving. In the near term these graduates will fuel the automation revolution but yield decreasing benefit as progress is made.

The nature of creative work is fundamentally different. Creative fields tend to be high-risk high-reward endeavors and tend to scare off individuals with a more conservative mindset. However, it has been demonstrated that the creative thinkers—high in openness—are the individuals responsible for developing the new ideas that propel society and drive our economy. This is why companies are very interested in how to increase the creative production of their employees. Their interest has driven a great deal of recent research on the subject. Interestingly (and great news for profiteers), increasing pay or financial incentives do not make people more creative—this tactic works well for traditional repetitive work but actually has a negative impact on tasks that require creative thinking.

It is not surprising that our environment plays a large role in creative output. One study showed that unplugging, in combination with a prolonged exposure to nature, can increase creative output by more than 50 percent.

Our most creative production occurs not when we are focused in on a particular task but when we are relaxed. When we are stressed out it is difficult for our minds to access our creative tool kit. That is why some of our best ideas occur when we are taking a shower, mowing the lawn, playing ping-pong, walking,  or during a serendipitous encounter. Researchers describe this state of mind as “alpha wave mode.” This is why Google, Apple and other successful companies have playful, interactive work spaces immersed in nature. Great ideas rarely if ever occur at your desk or during a strategic planning session. So next time you step away from your computer, go on vacation, ponder a work of art, or have a cup of coffee in your backyard, don’t feel guilty. You may be doing your best work!

For more than a decade I have been hiking a trail called Muffin Ridge, which overlooks Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area to the west and the Las Vegas Valley to the east. The hike is rigorous for someone like myself who spends most of his day behind a desk. It requires a certain amount of mental preparation, so I only attempt the climb a few times a year. The hike involves a relatively steep climb which lasts more than an hour, and usually I anticipate some soreness and mild cramping the following day. At the top of the ridge sits a rock outcropping that is shaped like a large muffin with an overflowing top. The outcropping looks like it was formed out of a natural concrete—small stones held together with compressed sand. Interestingly, as you get close to the outcropping the composition of the stone resembles a course bran muffin loaded with nuts and seeds. Geologists call this sedimentary rock. The remarkable thing is, over the 10-year period I have hiked this trail, the muffin has been breaking apart.  The muffin top is much smaller than it was when I first started hiking this trail.

I have never personally witnessed a piece breaking off, but the evidence is clear. Large pieces are scattered at the base and match the part missing from the original form. Sometimes you will see scaring on the earth below where a larger piece evidently achieved escape velocity and managed to roll off the ridge. In the Mojave Desert, changes to the natural environment tend to occur very slowly. You don’t experience the dramatic seasonal transformations like leaves turning in autumn, the ecosystem hibernating through the winter or coming back to life in the spring. Desert plants take decades to mature, and rocks are sculpted by wind and water over thousands of years. This stability and slowness is part of what makes the desert so calming and strangely comforting. However, in this particular case, I feel like I am witnessing a sped up time-lapse of a geological transformation. Every hike I see a noticeable deterioration of the muffin—as if Father Time is hungry and nibbling at edges of the muffin. 

This sculpture, by master sculptor Henry Moore, sits in the middle of an intimate courtyard between the Crystals Mall, designed by Daniel Libeskind, and the Aria Hotel, designed by Cesar Pelli. The sloped glass wall to the north and the sun hitting the southern side of the work produces a captivating reflection—allowing the viewer to experience both sides of the work at a glance. This work, entitled Reclining Connected Forms, was carved from travertine and measures 10’ x 17’ x 8’.  Throughout his career, Moore focused on the composition of form and space as it relates to the human experience, specifically the human figure. Many of his pieces, including the one shown here, feature a reclining mother with child. This particular work is said to depict “a baby wrapped in its mother’s embrace.”  Others have suggested that the outer shell is the form of a pregnant mother protecting the new life growing within. Moore had an amazing career and is one of the most celebrated artists in the 20^th century—winning the International Prize for Sculpture at the 1948 Venice Biennale when he was 50 years old. 

Moore’s obsession with the reclining figure, which accounts for approximately 2/3 of his artistic output, was said to have started in 1924. He contended there were only three positions the human form could take: standing, sitting or lying down. He also believed that the reclining position gave him the most freedom to explore form and space. In addition, the subject matter allowed Moore to develop and explore the relationship between small, perhaps vulnerable, forms with larger more dominant ones. Exploring the powerful relationship between mother and child through form and space imbued his abstract compositions with meaning, speaking to our deepest emotions. He was obsessed with the expressive potential of composition—the relationship between form and space, interior and exterior surfaces. However, his genius was exploring the maternal bond—the first and most important human experience.  Study after study has shown this relationship develops the foundation for our mental and emotional health.

but I never had a stable base of operations. Perhaps the best example of my situation is an ongoing art project I call the visual journal. I began the project one summer while travelling and teaching in Europe. I need to make art; it is a discipline I use to navigate life. That particular summer posed a dilemma: How would I maintain this discipline while constantly traveling? So, I devised a system that took up a small space in my backpack.  It included a gallon sized zip-lock that held my paint, brushes, pencils and glue. I also had an industrial clipboard that was used as a work surface, a place to mix paint and to store enough paper to get me through the summer. I endeavored to paint three small paintings every day for the entire trip. I painted on small desks in hostels, at cafés and in a park. The process was so intoxicating that I have maintained this practice for the past 25+ years.

As a result, when it comes to making art, I have always worked with what I had and the space that was available.

I never allowed my lack of resources to get in the way of art making. There was one point when I salvaged all my art materials from dumpsters—as my grandma used to say, “Where there is a will, there is a way.” I have never embedded myself so deeply into a space or situation that it would keep me from exiting swiftly if needed. I usually have several places where I do my work. At the moment my main work area is located in a corner of my garage. When I do larger works, I find a well-equipped shop/studio and temporary work space. I use my home to store and display work between exhibitions. My family has grown accustomed to work appearing and disappearing from the walls and rooms. I enjoy the time I get to spend with the work I produce. Contemplating and living with the work is a vital and delightful part of my process. After an exhibition my home does not have a bare wall or empty space. One friend once remarked that our family lived in a museum. I don’t believe the comment was intended as a compliment, although I took it as one.

When most people conjure up an image of a beach, they usually think about a tropical paradise with white sand beaches, aqua blue waters and perhaps a drink in hand. Interestingly, my favorite is Ruby Beach on the Pacific coast in western Washington. No one really swims at the beach—the water is too cold. It is not a great beach to play volleyball, have a party or sunbathe. However, the beauty and significance of this beach is unmatched. Perhaps the most dramatic and notable feature is the sea stacks that dot the beach and shore. These dramatic rock formations, when large enough, support large trees and protect various creatures from predators. You can walk out to many of the stacks and explore them when the tide permits. The stacks, some with holes or arches, create the most dramatic sunsets I have ever seen and are equally powerful when the fog rolls in. This beach is amazing regardless of the season or weather condition. The beach is fairly remote, over a two-hour drive from Seattle, which keeps the beach from being overrun.

This would be enough to satisfy most visitors but there is so much more. A small freshwater stream cuts through the beach on its way to the ocean. When the tide is low it mixes with the seawater to create brackish tide pools that form what some refer to as a starfish nursery. There are other tide pools, some at the base of the stacks, which contain an array of colorful sea anemones as well as long neck barnacles, snails, crabs, sea cucumbers, nudibranchs, sculpins (a small fish) and an occasional octopus—a literal treasure trove of life. Additional features include spectacular shells, pieces of driftwood and ruby-like crystals in the sand that give this beach its name. The beach is a part of Olympic National Park. It’s protected, so visitors are forbidden from removing anything from the beach. The image shown here is a bizarre sand formation that appeared after a light rain. This beach is full of surprises and never offers up the exact same experience. You may not get served a cocktail in a coconut, but this dynamic ecosystem never disappoints.

This is one of the largest cemeteries in the country and is currently controlled by the NYC Department of Corrections. During the past 150 years more than 1 million souls have been buried on the island. Up until recently, access to the 131-acre island was highly restricted, requiring one to register six months in advance for an infrequent ferry. Visitors had to surrender their phone and camera to guards before making the trip—shrouding the mass grave site in secrecy.

The image shown here is a rare historical photo showing burial trenches that typically hold up to 1,000 simple pine coffins.

The burials are still carried out by volunteer prisoners from Rikers Island at a rate of 25 souls a week. Tragically during the pandemic, officials reported that burials increased to about 24 souls per day. The island is often referred to as the “Potter’s Field”—a Biblical reference to a piece of land used to bury foreigners that previously had been owned by a potter. Religious leaders bought the land with the 30 pieces of silver paid to Judas and returned after he betrayed Jesus. Learning about this island and its complicated history, I am haunted by the well-known quote, “The greatness of a nation can be judged by how it treats its weakest member.”

It has been described as a bouquet of boats with more than 200 canoes, kayaks, rowboats, sailboats and surfboards weighing between 60-125 pounds each. Remarkably, the California artist Nancy Rubin arranged this bouquet, entitled “Big Edge,” without a set of plans, sketches or three dimensional model.  “You have to put it together in your brain,” she says. “It’s hard to grasp it all at once. But it comes quickly for me.” The sculpture was tested for earthquakes, wind loads, snow, sandstorms and flash floods before it was installed in the traffic circle at Las Vegas’ CityCenter resort complex. The piece is hard to approach because it is surrounded by swirling roads filled with swiftly moving vehicles. Perhaps the best place to study the piece is from the lower-level hotel rooms that surround it. The work is stunning. It is packed full of energy and seems to defy gravity. When you get close you can see the cables that hold the boats in place and small holes drilled in the hulls so they don’t collect water.

Rubin describes her work as “honest,” hiding nothing, but she refrains from commenting on the irony of placing a boat bouquet in the middle of the Mojave Desert. She does not attach a specific meaning to the work. Rather, she allows the visitors to conjure their own thoughts and interpretations. However, she does speak about the work’s connection to the human body and human activity. Rubin explains: “They’re vehicles for humans. They all refer to us …. They have an essence of the life they’ve led. There’s this odd scarring.” Utilizing common everyday objects, she has created other works from water heaters, mattresses and recreational vehicles. Interestingly, 10 years before this work was completed, the San Diego Convention Center Authority chose not to move forward with a similar boat sculpture because they felt it was “too controversial.” Leave it to Las Vegas to roll the dice and come out a big winner.

As a young architecture student at the University of Illinois, I remember regularly walking by the Christian Science Student Center on the corner of 4^th Street and Gregory. The building, designed by Paul Rudolph, was striking, rendered in what some call the brutalist style. Although it had a distinct appearance it always seem very humane to me. Rudolph was a master of composition. The exterior forms where varied and, as intended, created a “scaleless” effect. Most of the windows were placed high up in vertical shafts, which directed light into the interior spaces by day and acted as a series of beacons at night. It was like the building formed its own urban skyline.

The interior spaces were shocking and compelling. The way the ceilings were used to define space was remarkable, and the colors he used were unapologetically energetic. The proportions and sequencing of spaces and the unfolding experiences were exquisite. For an impressionable young student, it was like experiencing a modern version of the Sistine Chapel. I knew the building upset many people who would have preferred a building with a more common appearance, but for me it was a welcome island amidst a vast ocean of banality. As the congregation declined in number the building was eventually put up for sale. It was purchased by a developer and tragically torn down in March of 1986. I was one of the last to tour this compositional masterpiece, and this is my witness.

Art is fundamentally about ideas and a search for truth. What confuses many is that most art today speaks to the modern assault on the existence of truth and the erosion of meaning—a vacuous endeavor.  Visual art is a way of understanding and probing meaning, purpose and experiences without the constraints of language. In fact, many great works of art express things that transcend language. Master works are not decorative or beautiful but rather embody important ideas. This is why we go to great lengths to preserve master works for future generations. Great art reveals truths about who we are. It changes the way we perceive and experience the world. It often has a transformative effect—making us better versions of ourselves. This is the ultimate value of art. How people leverage or manipulate that value for status, financial gain or power is clearly another complex matter.

Searching for meaning and purpose in this age is a treacherous endeavor. Those convinced truth exists and remain steadfast in their elusive quest, and those who claim they have been unburdened, both cling to ideas and values that are rooted in the Bible.

The ideas and aspirations embodied in this ancient narrative text have permeated practically every aspect of civil society—ideas such as the importance of human life, the stewardship of nature, equality, mercy, truth, justice and our obligation to care for the vulnerable. Regardless of your thoughts and opinions about the Bible, its durability and lasting impact can’t be disputed.

I was raised in a household that cherished the text, sought to understand its intent and use its ideas as a plumbline to reliably gauge one’s thoughts and actions. I have been keeping a visual journal for more than two decades, and these ancient stories naturally find their way into my thoughts and work. I paint three small paintings every day, and most days the entries result from an intuitive, spontaneous process.  After I finish, I pin them up on the wall and ponder their meaning. The latest series of entries, one shown here, constitutes a lament. A deep sadness regarding the way the text is regularly contorted, cut, reassembled, manipulated and used for unintended and malicious purposes. It is like watching a child playing with scissors, unconcerned with the tool’s true purpose, oblivious to its capacity to inflict harm and ignorant to the responsibilities surrounding its use.

My family lived on an island in the Puget Sound, and our home sat adjacent to a waterfront park with a public dock. Our daily ritual involved running our dog at the park and afterward strolling to the end of the dock to inspect the boats and catch a glimpse of the Seattle skyline. The dock and rocky beach were full of colorful starfish. In some areas of the Pacific Northwest starfish reproduce so rapidly they are considered an invasive species. One day we noticed that all the starfish had disappeared. It was startling and disturbing.

We later learned this was caused by bacteria that spread due to warming waters. The bacteria cause wasting disease – starfish literally fall apart and disintegrate. Unfortunately, it is not only the starfish that die: Their absence damages the bio-diversity they nurture. What we experienced was a part of a massive die-off that stretched from Mexico to Alaska. Most of the damage was not visible from our dock and reached to depths of 1,000 feet below the surface.

This personal experience makes the work of artist Ted Chapin so powerful. Trained as an architect—he holds a Master of Architecture degree from the University of Pennsylvania—Chapin made the work shown here in 2013, entitled Starfish Interrogation 1, in commemoration of the historic die-off. The work highlights the struggle and awkward, tortured relationship we have with the natural environment and the wilderness that lies hidden beneath the surface of the ocean.

Measuring units have always been tied to the human body. The ancient Cubit is said to be the length of a human forearm. A Stremma is the amount of land a person could plow in a day. A League is the distance a human could walk in one hour. Koku is the amount of rice needed to feed one person for an entire year.  A Fathom is the length of a person’s outstretched arms, fingertip to fingertip. Digit is the length of a human finger. A Span is the width of a human hand from the tip of the thumb to the end of the pinky. An Inch is the length of a thumb and the Foot is … well … the length of a human foot.  However, human bodies are not consistent, so over time these measures were standardized. The ways we measure are imbedded in the ways we think and have an enormous impact on the things we make. Today it can seem like the world is getting more impersonal and dehumanizing. There is something comforting when you realize at a fundamental level that the deep structure of our understandings is still rooted in the human experience.

Take a look at the palm of your hand. You may be looking at the world’s first calculator. Almost all of us learned how to count using our fingers. Unless you had an unfortunate accident, you have 10 digits. It makes perfect sense that the number 10 has had a great influence on the development of math and how we count and calculate today. However, what about the number 12? Why do we divide the year into 12 months, the clock into 12 segments, a foot into 12 inches and count items in dozens? I recently heard a theory that was fascinating and seemed to “add up.” Take a look at your hand again and bend your fingers slightly. You will notice that each finger has three distinct sections. Utilizing your thumb as a pointer you can use these sections in your four fingers to count up to 12. Consider that the two primary ways we count and make calculations today, the decimal and English system, may have been developed using the same instrument in two completely different ways.

Full disclosure: This particular post may constitute nepotism. This is a photo I took of one of my wife’s recent works of art. Her medium is her morning coffee. In her early years she had a brief stint as an espresso pilot at a Seattle coffee company. She is now a professional counselor and educational consultant but has maintained her passionate love affair with coffee. Comparatively my sensibilities are simple and perhaps vulgar—I am perfectly content with a black cup of instant coffee. For my wife, preparing the morning brew can be a spiritual experience. This is not just about drinking a good cup of coffee. It is the entire experience, which starts with selecting her cup and culminates with the decision of where to enjoy her warm beverage. She has been practicing this art for decades.

The highlight of this process, however, is when she pours in the cream and other secret additives. The patterns are exquisitely dynamic—small, temporal, fleeting worlds of bubbles and swirling clouds. The difficulty documenting her art is likely why she is still an undiscovered talent. For decades I have been asked to examine her coffee before she consumes it. I confess there are days I rebuff her joyful attempt to share. This particular morning was different. I saw and immediately took a photograph with my phone. It is remarkable to me the depth of visual interest one can make in a cup of coffee. It makes me wonder how many other miracles we ignore every day.

The relationship between these two entities is largely cooperative because they understand their fates are forever linked—leases, for example, almost always get renewed. Recent studies have shown no evidence the land leasing arrangement has had any impact on property values, and even the City of Palm Springs leased land to build their new convention center. However, uncertainty still lingers for many who occupy leased land.

Technically, after the lease expires anything built on the land becomes the property of the landowners. For this reason, to get a loan to purchase a property on leased land, most banks require the lease to run at least five years beyond the payback period. To make matters more complex the Supreme Court upheld the right for Agua Caliente to determine their own development standards. In addition, both entities share the same infrastructure, so current legal disputes include water rights/distribution as well as Riverside County’s authority to tax land owned by Agua Caliente.

This situation makes the monumental work, shown here, by indigenous Alaskan artist Nicholas Galanin, so potent.

The work sits behind the visitor’s center at the gateway into Palm Springs—the historic playground of the Hollywood stars.  Galanin’s piece was one of the installations in the Desert X Festival, which placed art along a 40-mile stretch in the Coachella Valley. The heroic event was one of the few art festivals that managed to move forward during the Covid-19 crisis. Galanin’s piece, entitled “Never Forget,” is similar in material and scale to the original “Hollywoodland” sign—a sign erected in Los Angeles to advertise a “whites only” subdivision. The words “INDIAN LAND” is Galanin’s way to remind visitors of the role Hollywood played in “whitewashing” US culture and misrepresentation of indigenous people.

The facility can also be seen from the Mojave National Preserve, the Mesquite Wilderness and the Stateline Wilderness, as well as the resort town of Primm. The plant generates more than 390 megawatts of electricity per year by using mirrors to reflect the sun’s rays onto three boilers that sit 460 feet off the ground. Water is heated to over 1,000 degrees Fahrenheit and used to operate steam turbine generators. When the facility opened in 2014 it was the largest solar thermal power station in the world with a cost of $2.2 billion. It won several awards in 2014 and was published extensively with great fanfare.

However, the story is not entirely sunny. The plant burns natural gas every morning when it begins operation, consuming 328 million cubic feet of natural gas annually. Early reports indicated that the plant failed to meet its 976 GWH/year contracted output, producing less than half its estimate. In 2016 two of the towers were shut down due to mirror misalignment. In 2017, after technical improvements and a renegotiation, the plant reportedly began meeting its contractual obligations—I assume at lower levels of production.

The facility also destroyed 3,500 acres of mature desert habitat. The land was scraped and leveled to place the mirrors, and a fence was erected around the perimeter to keep wildlife and unwanted visitors at a distance. Thankfully, the original plan for the facility was scaled back 500 acres to help protect the habitat of the endangered desert tortoise. Airplane pilots can be visually impaired by the towers, and birds risk getting roasted in the solar flux as the light intensifies around the boilers. Biologists charged with monitoring the facility estimate the rays kill between 3,500-6,000 birds and bats every year.

I have always viewed the facility as a symbol of hope for a better, smarter future and after probing a bit deeper it still is—though its luster has diminished. Lowering our carbon footprint and “saving the planet” is a complicated endeavor and like most efforts requires tradeoffs and produces unintended consequences. Most look at the desert as a useless wasteland—an ideal location for such facilities.  However, those of us who cherish this harsh, mystifying environment understand the price that was paid for this facility, and it is far more than its expensive price tag.

Amidst this Covid crisis society is going through massive shifts—shifts in our values, focus and behavior.  On the surface it has resulted in people wearing masks, toilet paper shortages and long lines at the fast food drive-thru. However, the deep structure of our human interactions and decision-making is quietly and slowly being transformed. These new ways of operating, over time, fundamentally alter the way we see the world we live in—our safety, how we relate to each other, how we spend our money, what is important. How individuals are adapting to these challenges largely depend on their social network and available resources. Growing inequality continues to fragment and deepen divisions in our common understandings and experiences. This lack of common experience and ability to respond adds to the uncertainty, anxiety and distress we all feel.

Our responses to this crisis solidify over time. People talk about returning to “normal” but what is “normal”?  While surface changes may seem insignificant, the deep structure that supports the surface is under a dramatic reconstruction.

Rather than being guided by some organized technological cabal, these shifts appear to be driven by millions of individuals acting in their own interests, using imperfect and often flawed information—attempting to adapt to complex situations and dynamic, unseen forces. No one understands or can predict where this will all lead. No one is in complete control, and the outcomes are largely unknown. Ironically, it is during these moments that opportunity for meaningful change exists.  Many of us have spent the past year evaluating who we are, what we are doing, and why we do it. It has provided a moment of reflection and an occasion to reconstruct our lives.

Some individuals and businesses were better positioned to capitalize on these unforeseen shifts. During the pandemic the pizza industry saw a 21 percent increase in business—benefiting from years of investment in technology and delivery infrastructure. The work shown here uses the humble pizza box as a metaphor to explore the changes, challenges and opportunities we all face as we strive to construct a better future.

I never mix my peas and carrots, I don’t like fruit in my ice cream, and I generally feel the same way about mixing various forms of art. The reason I feel so strongly about this remains unclear. I never blame the artists who are decidedly talented—it’s not them … it’s me. For example, I don’t like musicals even though they combine two things I truly enjoy. I remember as a young man watching a Sunday afternoon drama on our black and white TV and getting sucked into the storyline. However, as soon as the actors broke into song my heart sank, and I felt compelled to change the channel. I am embarrassed to admit I had these same feelings about Louise Bourgeois’ sculpture-fountain entitled Father and Son.  I walked by it countless times and would only give it a glance out of the corner of my eye—I was strangely repelled. It wasn’t until recently that I forced myself to overcome my discomfort and examine the work more closely. 

The work contains two life-sized figures, one adult and one child with their arms stretched out toward each other.

Each sculpture has jets that thrust a ring of water that seems to imprison each figure.  The height of each ring slowly changes: At some moments the water is low and you are able to see both figures clearly; sometimes both are covered up completely; and at moments one figure is enveloped while the other is in full view. The tension in the work is palatable as the water constantly changes the relationship between the subjects. Regardless, there is always an insurmountable divide that is never overcome. Being a parent and father of two sons, the piece hit me hard.  No matter how good your relationship is with your children there are always moments when you can’t reach them, protect them … comfort them. The relative age of the child made it particularly powerful —it is around the time a child starts to realize that their parents are not omnipotent and start naturally identifying our cracks, flaws and failings. I am glad I pushed through my discomfort. On the other side was a profound, meaningful encounter. Who knows? Maybe someday I will go to a Broadway show!

Approaching the work shown here by Berlin-based sculptor Nairy Baghramian was a compelling, unfolding experience. The work is comprised of three large string-like forms that sit on a pristinely manicured hillside. A grove of trees provides a backdrop and frames the work in a surreal natural environment. Although the strings are kept a considerable distance apart, they are immediately recognized as a single gesture. The way the strings are positioned compresses the space between the forms and holds them within the same visual frame—never close but always relating to one another. There are no paths or trails that lead you up the hillside, so every curious, adventurous visitor is forced to blaze their own way up and through the open field—making everyone’s path and experience unique and personal. 

This sculpture outside the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis is entitled Privileged Points and speaks to the high ground and remarkable space she was given to present her work. It is in keeping with Baghramian’s thoughtful explorations of architecture, everyday objects and the human body. Her simple forms, always grouped or related to one another, masterfully integrate composition with content. Each sculpture is transformed though shifts in scale, material and thoughtful spatial relationships. The forms in Privileged Points appear to be soft and mailable but surprisingly were cast in bronze then painted. This allows the observer to touch and interact with the forms, which is encouraged. She certainly has minimalist tendencies, but the hand-made quality of her work and the quirky forms like the bumps that appear at the base of this sculpture throw you off. At times I felt like I was walking between the probing tentacles of a land-based kraken.

Richard Serra is best known for his large sculptures made of Cor-ten steel plates. Serra is not sculpting an object alone but places a great deal of focus on spaces or voids that emerge from these planes and objects. He is very interested in the experience, how these spaces relate to the body and how these stationary, immovable sculptures facilitate movement around and through them. His earlier works are process-based investigations that involved hurling molten lead into the gaps between walls and cracks in floors. He would keep a list of “verbs” like hurl or roll that would describe the processes he would use to form the material. Even at this early stage he was fixated on the space that existed between objects and movement or action. By the late 1970s his work was transitioning into manipulating monumental steel plates. 

I am a big fan of Richard Serra’s work, so it pains me to say that I found the work shown here, Five Plates, Two Poles (1984) very disappointing. The largest plate in this sculpture stands no more than seven feet tall and appeared to me like a small-scaled model of the sculpture I wish I were standing in front of. The spaces between the plates were not large enough to walk through. The experience was limited to walking around its edges. I am trained as an architect and am accustomed to projecting myself into small-scale models that represent the spaces one might occupy, but the way this work withheld the actual experience was deeply unsatisfying and seemed cruel. Perhaps someone cut Serra’s commission, so he delivered a half-size version. I don’t want to be too critical—perhaps I am missing something—but I left the work quickly with a deep sense of spatial frustration.

Each place was unique and had some quality that differentiated it from the neighboring houses. My parents weren’t artistically minded, but they didn’t like the idea of living in a “cookie cutter” home. I am quite confident that my wife and I passed that sensibility on to my two sons. In addition to living in unique places, we have always used the spaces in our modest homes in unconventional ways. I started a business in one of our homes, which meant my employees regularly came into our kitchen for their morning cup of coffee while my children and wife were still in their pajamas.

In one home all our furniture, including our closets, were all on wheels. We would regularly roll all the furniture down the hall and have art exhibitions or “art parties.” More than 300 visitors would show up on opening night. The next day the furniture got rolled back, and we would live amidst the art. In a rental home our youngest son insisted on living in the coat closet under the staircase like Harry Potter.

On another occasion after watching the movie Tron our oldest son decided to move into the garage rather than share a room with his brother—he stayed there until graduating from high school.  My wife, who has a counseling degree, often jokes that we should divert funds from our children’s education fund into a therapy fund for our sons to access when they are ready to process their childhood.

I may have just disclosed too much personal information, but it explains why I was so delighted when I visited Bob Dylan’s childhood home in Hibbing, Minnesota. At the time he was a homely young Jewish boy named Robert Zimmerman. The home stood out in the neighborhood—it appeared to be the only home with a flat roof and with Art Deco styling. In my mind it made perfect sense that one of the greatest American singer-songwriters, winner of the 2016 Nobel Prize in Literature, grew up in a home that did not look like every other home on the block. So often we scorn being different, when it is the very soil that yields life’s greatest treasures.

New-York based artist Sol LeWitt helped establish minimalism and conceptual art in the United States. At the foundation of his work are ideas that manifest themselves in a set of detailed instructions that are used by others to make a physical art object. Like an architect, all the planning and decisions that define the work are made beforehand, reducing its fabrication to a mechanical activity. His objective is laid out in the essay Paragraphs on Conceptual Art where he describes his goal to make “a machine that makes the art.” The work shown here, entitled X with Columns, is made with banal cinder blocks and concrete.

LeWitt’s earlier sculptural work was based on the cube, exploring its positive and negative spaces.  He was also very deliberate about how these forms would be experienced and specifically how they related to the human body.

In his later sculptural work, he departed from the cube and started conceptualizing towers and more complex forms. It is important to note that this particular work was conceived during this transition. The “X” is demonstrating a distinct vertical emphasis yet still fits perfectly within an implied cube.

A vast array of hideous, visually oppressive objects and spaces have been fashioned out of cinder blocks. If you close your eyes and imagine any unpleasant space you recently visited, there is a good chance it was made with cinder blocks. We shouldn’t blame or judge a material for how people choose to use it. It is hard to ignore that LeWitt took this banal block, and by merely imposing an elevated idea upon it and the space it occupies, imbued this humble building material with a strength and dignity rarely experienced.

Most of the work produced by artist Aaron Spangler involves ancient techniques of wood carving.  His earlier work involved three-dimensional bas-relief panels carved out of basswood planks using basic chisels and hand tools. The works are generally finished with black gesso and graphite. The work shown here, entitled Bog Walker, is Spangler’s first bronze. He used this traditional process to create a wood sculpture, which was used to create a plaster mold, which was then filled with the molten metal. The work is mysterious and sensual, appearing like a dark, headless amalgamation of human body parts, fused then tattooed with a series of cryptic markings and symbols. The thoughtful positioning of the piece adds to its power. It sits at the convergence of three pathways where the stark 2005 Herzog and de Meuron addition to the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis meets the original monolithic brick building designed by Edward Larrabee Barnes.

Spangler’s work is inspired by American culture, the Midwestern landscape, natural phenomena and his encounters with the wilderness. The title, Bog Walker, speaks to the geological history of the land the work sits on — a marsh along the once unpredictable banks of the Mississippi. The surreal figure and its markings exude strife, the aftermath of a battle. This is a reoccurring theme in his work, using combat as metaphor for what he considers the devastating phycological conflict, emerging anarchy and new forms of imperialism in rural America. Through his work Spangler envisions a “fascinating and frightening revolution against the passive consumerism of the people, by the people … pitting the rural wilderness against modern urbanism.” Appearances can be deceiving: The rural Midwest is one of the most industrialized, ordered and controlled environments in the world. As we succeed in mastering and bending the natural environment to our will, we find that the most dangerous, untamed wilderness lies within.

It sent ripples through our country and indeed the world—ripples that are still reverberating.  During a trip to Minnesota, I had the opportunity and privilege to visit the neighborhood and site of the dreadful event. With all of the political turmoil and tension surrounding Floyd’s death I was not sure what to expect. However, what I found was a dignified, solemn space of mourning.

It appeared to me to be an informal, collaborative, authentic expression by family and community members. An open-sided tent was placed over the crime scene. An artistic chalk rendering of Floyd’s body was placed on the sidewalk where his body was pinned down by police. The outline of the figure was surrounded by candles brought by visitors. Mounds of flowers, messages and trinkets surrounded the figure.

As visitors approached the tent conversations stopped and heads bowed.  Beyond the tent there were numerous murals and impressive works of art memorializing Floyd.  During my visit there was a local musician playing a soulful dirge that filled the air.

I mentioned in previous posts that one of my favorite places to visit is the Olympic Sculpture Garden in Seattle. I have walked through the garden on numerous occasions and until recently did not identify the work shown here as an art installation. A grouping of ubiquitous objects that seemed to be left unattended by someone that stepped away for a moment or perhaps was using the restroom.  These common objects are situated under a tree overlooking Elliot Bay and the Olympic Mountains in the distance—an ideal place to sit and enjoy the view. The objects are a small concrete bench, a plastic lawn chair cast in bronze and a cardboard file box made of metal and coated in porcelain enamel. It is an untitled work by Seattle-based artist, designer, furniture maker and architect Roy McMakin. It is interesting to note the well-worn path between the three objects—the shadow of human curiosity.

Many of McMakin’s sculptures are inspired by American vernacular furniture, and with a hint of humor he bridges the gap between space, art and design. Meticulously crafted, he changes the scale and materials of common items to uncover the point when the item is no longer useful. At that moment our relationship and understanding of the particular object shifts. McMakin poses a compelling question: “If it’s built like a table and looks like a table but doesn’t exactly work like a table, can it still be a table?” His approach has been described as having “termite art tendencies”—gnawing at the margins of a subject over time.  His body of work methodically explores the relationship between function, objects and language. Rather than placing everyday vernacular objects onto a pedestal, like most pop artists, he pulls fine art into the everyday.

They are part of a complex infrastructure network that supports our society’s most cherished transportation technology. A technology that has transformed our landscape and the way we live our lives. Today there are more than 168,000 gas stations in the US. It is interesting to note that the number has declined over the past few decades due to market consolidation, stricter environmental controls and shrinking profit margins.  Regardless, every year Americans spend more than $1,500 per person at the pump.

The golden years of the American service stations were the 1950s and ‘60s.  This was an era when petroleum companies were determined to maximize their retail potential and thrust themselves into the place-product-architecture game. The game’s goal is to develop spaces filled with sound, smell and feeling and to associate that experience with a product while solidifying brand loyalty. An immersive experience that preyed on people’s intense desire to care for their beloved automobile.

This was an era when a team of uniformed attendants would emerge from a station, like a pitstop crew at a racetrack, to check your oil, wash windows, measure tire pressure and pump the gas.

Today it may seem odd for a world-renowned architect to design a gas station, but that is exactly what happened in 1958 in upstate Minnesota. Frank Lloyd Wright was commissioned to design his first and only filing station by the Lindholm family. The family had recently hired Wright to design their home in the pines just outside the small town of Cloquet. Wright’s original idea was to have overhead pumps to eliminate the need for surface islands, but he couldn’t get that past the local building officials. The design that was built, shown here, features a 60-foot-tall illuminated roof-top pylon, an elevated observation lounge (reminiscent of an airport control tower), a cantilevered copper canopy, ceramic tile walls, skylit service bays and decorative planters throughout. The Lindholm Service Station is on the National Register of Historic Places.

Claes Oldenburg is one of the most recognized and decorated public artists in the world.  His iconic work typically features large-scale replicas of everyday objects. One of his best known and most photographed works is the Spoon Bridge and Cherry located at the Walker Art Center’s sculpture garden in Minneapolis. The work was conceived in collaboration with his wife, Coosje van Bruggen, who was credited with placing the cherry on the end of the 50-foot-long spoon. Oldenburg’s career has gone through many stages, but in 1981, five years after their marriage, he began signing all his work with both Bruggen’s and his signature. Bruggen passed away in 2009. Bruggen was not Oldenburg’s first wife nor his only intimate collaborator.

His first wife, Patty Mucha, was an artist in her own right. She became one of Oldenburg’s nude models, reportedly helped fabricate many of his “soft sculptures” and performed in many of his art “happenings.” Later Oldenburg had a relationship with feminist artist, sculptor and photographer Hannah Wilke, who died in 1993. Creative collaborations are tricky and delicate affairs … without intertwining them with an intimate relationship. Most of Oldenburg’s awards and accolades do not acknowledge these collaborations, which highlight how the art world viewed these women and their contributions.  Although it appears Oldenburg was working to correct some of these biases, Bruggen is sadly still not on equal footing with her male co-author and collaborator.

Very few consider the costs and processes needed to maintain and preserve master works for future generations. I was fortunate enough to witness preparations for the latest paint job of Alexander Calder’s sculpture entitled Eagle. The sculpture cost $10 million, was gifted to Seattle’s Museum of Art and moved to its current location in 2006. The sculpture is the visual centerpiece of the Olympic Sculpture Park. This captivating, six ton, 38-foot-tall, sweeping, abstract, bright red form is framed by Puget Sound and the Olympic mountain range in the distance. This work stands in contrast to the light, gracefully floating mobiles that made Calder famous. The conservation work shown in this image was funded by the Bank of America’s art conservation program, started in 2010. This program has provided funds to restore more than 170 works of art in more than 33 counties.

The Eagle has been repainted several times; however, being exposed to the harsh marine air turns the work to a chalky pink color in a matter of years. Ironically, lesser birds frequently empty their bowels on the flightless Eagle, and gardeners are now required to use hand scissors to cut the grass at its base. This latest conservation effort will use recently developed paint and coating technology to restore the work to Calder’s signature red color. Apart from being produced by toxic elements like vermillion and cadmium, red pigment tends to fade quicker than other colors. Red paint reflects red light and absorbs light with shorter wavelengths such as green and blue. These waves contain more energy and therefore have a greater bleaching effect. I wonder if Calder, trained first as a mechanical engineer, knew what trouble he would cause art conservationists before he painted this sculpture with his signature red.

An additional 9 percent of Nevada’s land area is owned and managed by the state government. That leaves roughly 10 percent of the state in the hands of private citizens and various companies.

A small portion of the vast federal land holdings in Nevada include Area 51, a mysterious US Air Force base located 84 miles north of Las Vegas. The USAF acquired the site in 1955 for testing aircraft, but throughout the years it has been used as a nuclear test site and for various military exercises. The operations at this facility are highly classified and not shared with the public. The 6 x 10-mile base sits in the middle of a 23 x 25-mile rectangle of restricted air space referred to as the “Groom Box,” named after Groom Lake, the dry salt flat that sits north of the base’s airstrip. The intense secrecy surrounding the base has given rise to numerous speculations and conspiracy theories—including weather control, time travel, a one-world government linked by underground trains as well as extraterrestrial contacts and alien technology transfer.

Area 51 is secured with a sophisticated surveillance system and a network of underground motion sensors. The perimeter is marked with orange posts and patrolled by individuals in fatigues driving unmarked white pickups. In June 2019 a Facebook post called for the public to storm the facility in order to see “them aliens.” Shockingly more than 2 million people responded saying they would show up on the specified date and another 1.5 million indicated they were interested. The Air Force was forced to put out a statement discouraging anyone from attempting to enter the facility and reminding the public that they stood ready to protect US government property. Approximately 3,000 people showed up, and 150 people trekked several miles over rough terrain to the gate. The crowd was quickly dispersed and five individuals were arrested.

An additional 9 percent of Nevada’s land area is owned and managed by the state government. That leaves roughly 10 percent of the state in the hands of private citizens and various companies. 

A small portion of the vast federal land holdings in Nevada include Area 51, a mysterious US Air Force base located 84 miles north of Las Vegas. The USAF acquired the site in 1955 for testing aircraft, but throughout the years it has been used as a nuclear test site and for various military exercises. The operations at this facility are highly classified and not shared with the public. The 6 x 10-mile base sits in the middle of a 23 x 25-mile rectangle of restricted air space referred to as the “Groom Box,” named after Groom Lake, the dry salt flat that sits north of the base’s airstrip. The intense secrecy surrounding the base has given rise to numerous speculations and conspiracy theories—including weather control, time travel, a one-world government linked by underground trains as well as extraterrestrial contacts and alien technology transfer.

Area 51 is secured with a sophisticated surveillance system and a network of underground motion sensors. The perimeter is marked with orange posts and patrolled by individuals in fatigues driving unmarked white pickups. In June 2019 a Facebook post called for the public to storm the facility in order to see “them aliens.” Shockingly more than 2 million people responded saying they would show up on the specified date and another 1.5 million indicated they were interested. The Air Force was forced to put out a statement discouraging anyone from attempting to enter the facility and reminding the public that they stood ready to protect US government property. Approximately 3,000 people showed up, and 150 people trekked several miles over rough terrain to the gate. The crowd was quickly dispersed and five individuals were arrested.

Restricting access and lack of transparency is a formidable psychological force that shapes our perceptions and ideas regarding the built environment.

New York-based artist Jim Hodges is not well known for large outdoor sculptures but rather for his use and exploration of domestic materials and craft techniques traditionally considered feminine, such as embroidery and the use of artificial flowers. His work is considered conceptual, exploring life’s temporal and fragile nature as well as life and death. As a gay artist during the height of the AIDS crisis, he experienced firsthand the devastating impact the disease had on his community.  “People are dropping like flies and I am thinking, I am going to be next,” Hodges said. His struggle to make sense of loss, and how to proceed with life after loss, permeates his work. Hodges avoids discussing the subject of his work, which makes his art, as one critic described it, “quiet, personal and vague.”

The untitled piece shown here, completed in 2011, incorporates four granite boulders each standing more than 6 feet tall and weighing between 8–13 tons. A path carves its way between the monoliths.  The inner faces of the rocks have been coated with polished stainless steel and a colorful lacquer finish. The experience walking through this installation is dynamic, intimate and monumental. The molded stainless surfaces simultaneously reflect the sky, the sunlight, the earth and the movement of people, including colorful, tortured and fleeting glimpses of yourself. The contrast between the permanence of the granite and the temporal colorful reflections is poetic. The experience is eerily similar to leaving flowers on a gravestone—a momentary act of somber mourning that simultaneously reflects the beauty and fragility of life. It is strangely comforting.

He calls the art he makes mirrors—a modest technology he points out has profoundly changed our world but gets very little attention. He has even managed to make interactive mirrors out of wood using little squares that are shifted with servo motors. The dynamic work responds to the movement and objects in front of it. Small wood squares are controlled by concealed cameras and his homemade software. By shifting the angle of each individual square he controls their value, turning the array into a pixilated screen of sorts. The angle of each wood square determines it value—when pointed upward the wood paddle reflects more light and turns lighter, and when turned downward gets darker. The work is beautifully crafted, sophisticated and compelling.

A two-dimensional image does not adequately capture the experience. The onlooker is immediately drawn in.

No need for an instruction manual or set of directions; the viewer becomes enthralled with their own image. Rozin explains that the content of the art is the observer themselves—the mirror changing and responding to their presence and movements. One characteristic of great art is its ability to reflect the culture and time in which it was made. In this respect Rozin’s work is absolutely masterful—captivating and intriguing a society filled with individuals who are self-absorbed and self-focused. A society focused not on understanding what lies in front of them but rather on how to bend external reality to meet their own personal needs. I am not convinced that the poetic nature of his work is at the forefront of Rozin’s thought process—a fact that would make the work even more authentic and powerful. While experiencing one of Rozin’s amazing mirrors, I wonder how many individuals posted selfies of themselves situated in front of themselves.

In the Northwest a hike in the forest usually means entering a heavy canopy of vegetation, only catching an occasional glimpse of the sky—perhaps an opening offered by a fallen tree. It is not uncommon to hike expectantly for hours to an outlook only to have the view shrouded by fog or clouds. Hiking in the Southwest is the opposite—it is big clear sky, usually with a constant 360-degree view. In the desert you are constantly exposed to the relentless rays of the sun unless you seek shelter in a narrow canyon. When you are up high you are overwhelmed by the vastness of the horizon and at times feel as though you can see the curvature of the earth. Every ecosystem has a different experiential frequency. It is always a delight to travel to a different part of our amazing country and explore the conditions that make particular area unique. 

I recently visited the Iron Range in northern Minnesota and got the opportunity to spend time in the forest—a diverse ecosystem containing a spectacular mixture of conifer and deciduous trees. It was reminiscent of the forests I inhabited as a youngster in northeastern Iowa. I spent a good portion of my childhood in the woods building forts, damming up creeks, and running ziplines across ravines with my pals. I have not returned to Iowa for decades. Like most of my high school classmates, armed with an exceptional public education, I crossed the country in search of opportunity. I suspect I have at least one high school classmate in every state in the union. That trip to the Iron Range brought back a flood of memories. Memories of what it felt like to experience the woods intimately, to sense its subtle rhythms, feel its density, hear its unique vibrations and smell its distinct organic bouquet.

The 20-foot-tall dark brick cylinder made of reclaimed brick frames a sculpture of Saint Laurence. The figure was salvaged from a church in Chicago where Gates has his studio. Gates describes the work as a secular sacred sanctuary—a place for gathering and reflection. One of his works’ distinctive features involves utilizing discarded materials, transforming humble everyday items into new forms, while drawing connections between fine art and social progress. Many of his works utilize collections that evoke African American identity, a struggle for civil rights and what he describes as black space. Interestingly, Saint Laurence’s attempts to protect the written records of the early Church led to his identification as the patron saint of archivists and librarians.

Laurence was appointed a deacon of the Church in Rome by Pope Sixtus II in the year 257 and was given the responsibility of overseeing the treasury and distributing alms to the indigent.

During the Roman persecution of the Church, and a mere year after his appointment, authorities executed the Pope, then turned their attention to the young deacon, demanding he turn over the Church’s riches.  Laurence asked for three days to gather the treasure during which time he swiftly distributed it to the poor. When he was brought before the Roman authorities to deliver the treasures, he presented the poor, crippled and suffering people and declared them the true treasures of the Church, proclaiming: “The Church is far richer than your emperor.” As a result Saint Laurence was promptly decapitated along with six other deacons.

“I spend a lot of time looking for the personality of people…” Gates says. “And then maybe even trying to tease out… why those things are important.”

The quest to understand and utilize these patterns has unfolded over time. Early Greek philosophers described natural patterns like mathematical harmonies in music. Plato believed in the existence of natural universals and searched for ideal forms in nature. Leonardo di Vinci studied spiral leaf patterns and tree rings. Johannes Kepler found the Fibonacci sequence in the pentagonal shape of certain flowers. Adolf Zeising discovered that the branching veins and nerves in animals followed the golden ratio. In 1885, Wilson Bentley was the first to take micrographs of snowflakes. Biologist Aristid Lindenmayer in 1968 developed the “L-system” that modeled plant growth and led to the mathematics of fractals. Whether it is the study of symmetry, spirals, chaos, flow, waves, soap bubbles, tessellations, stripes, spots or cracks, the list continues to grow.

The image here shows cracks that formed in a lake bed as the water dried up and the mud on the bottom contracted. These cracks are linear openings that form in the mud to relieve stress. Mud is  elastic, so it stretches or shrinks in a relatively uniform manner. When it reaches its breaking point and fails suddenly, it fails in all directions simultaneously. This creates cracks with roughly 120- degree joints. Conversely, when a material that is inelastic fails, the stress cracks are straight like a stress fracture in a stone or the branch of a tree.  The crack pattern indicates whether the material is elastic or not. Not all cracks are created equal. Given the right conditions the cracks in elastic materials will heal—the cracks in inelastic materials will not. With all the emphasis being placed on resiliency these days, it is important to discern if we are building our future upon elastic or inelastic systems.

Ellsworth Kelly is perhaps best known for his colorful, hard-edged minimal paintings. However, he was very interested in the overlap between painting and sculpture. Over his lifetime he produced 140 minimal sculptures inspired by prolonged observations of nature. He would distill these observations and sensations to simple lines, planes and forms. Kelly developed his pieces by exploring a series of ideas using various media. He would often start with a drawing that would lead to a print and end up as a sculpture. His sculptures are intended to be taken in at a single glance—the smooth flat surfaces make it difficult to differentiate the foreground from the background.

In the 1980s when Curve XXIV, the piece shown here, was made, Kelly was devoting as much time to his sculptures as he was to his painting. During this period he produced over 60% of his sculptures. This wall-mounted relief is a simple fan shape of weathered steel measuring approximately 6’ x 19’, which some suggest mimics a gingko leak in autumn. The work is on display near the entrance of the Olympic Sculpture Park in Seattle. A quote from Kelly on the title plate simply reads, “I am not interested in the texture of the rock, but in its shadow.” An intriguing and unintended aspect of this work is the rust stain right below it, which developed due to its geometry—a shadow of a shadow.

We may identify so strongly with a particular figure that we imagine ourselves as that individual—living out their experiences in our imaginations. In fact, good writers know that, today, connecting with a character is an essential ingredient for a successful story. It is interesting to note that in a culture drowning in self-focus, we almost always imagine ourselves as the main character or central figure—usually the hero … if there is one. This is no different when people today read the stories in the Bible, even though I am quite sure this was not the intent of the text. The tendency to put ourselves at the center of everything is what makes the work by Puerto Rican artist Gabriel Ortiz, shown here, so potent.

The free-standing painting, entitled Imitators of Christ, is based on a well-known verse in I Corinthians 11:1 written by the Apostle Paul. The verse states, “Imitate me as I also imitate Christ.” During the Reformation, Martin Luther preferred to use the term “conform” rather than “imitate.” Regardless, like an attraction at a carnival, the piece allows the viewer to put their face amidst a golden halo and for a moment become the hero—the savior of the world. Of course, without the discomfort of being falsely accused, abandoned by your closest friends, flogged, crowned with thorns and having one’s extremities pierced with spikes. You can even document the moment with a photograph and share it with friends on your social media account.

The algae utilizes photosynthesis to produce food for the fungus which in turn provides water and protects the algae. This elaborate interdependence creates a structure that is more durable than either organism in isolation. Interestingly, fungus is thought to control the relationship, which is why some describe lichen as a “fungi that discovered agriculture.”

There are over 14,000 species of lichen that exist globally and, along with bacteria, they are considered to be among the oldest forms of life on the planet. Lichen thrives in wet environments; however, it is found throughout the desert southwest and can continue to produce food at any temperature above freezing.

Lichen absorbs water directly into its cells from the air—the moisture does not have to pass through roots or stems like most plants. By gathering all it needs from the atmosphere, scientists use lichen as a reliable indicator of clean air.

In the desert, lichen seeks out shade and produces much needed nitrogen for surrounding plants—creating productive microclimates. While most species are green, the colors produced by lichen are astonishing. The pigments in these organisms vary due to light exposure, genetics and age. Colors range from grey, blue and green to bright yellow, orange and red. The explosive displays of color, form and texture are surprising and inspiring—rivaling any trip to a museum.

Rather than establishing composition as a critical body of knowledge and developing our credentials as compositional experts, we have retreated into modes of “rational thinking.” This retreat renders our intuition, feelings and personal experiences invalid when composing the built environment or evaluating design decisions.

The composition above shows multiple angles of the same sculpture entitled reaping the whirlwind. Given ample time to study this sculpture, it is impossible to reconstruct the entire sculpture accurately in one’s mind.

I know this because I made it and even I am unable to do it. Interestingly, you do retain a clear feeling or sense of the work. This is a powerful example of how our brains experience the world. The rational mind can’t fully comprehend what we experience at any given moment—it is far too complex. Our feelings and intuition are the cognitive tools we use to navigate situations that exceed the capacity of our quantitative reasoning. I would never suggest we abandon or reduce the importance of rational, quantitative thinking, but rather we must elevate and recognize the value of rigorously training our compositional skills—our feelings and intuitions.

Interestingly, modern advancements in environmental control systems have empowered the fashion industry to disregard the more functional aspects of clothing and focus on the ephemeral—signifying wealth, taste and status. This transformation is what gives the art work shown here its intrigue and authority.

Sung Jae Lee’s series, entitled Her Real Secret, are deconstructions of women is lingerie. The process of painstakingly disassembling and hanging layers of this cloth transform what initially appears to be a two-dimensional composition into a dynamic spatial experience. Lee discusses the time consuming and exhausting process of removing tiny threads and tying knots that open up spaces in the sensual fabrics. Lingerie is not like everyday undergarments intended to keep you warm, protect your body and perhaps provide a sense of modesty.

Lingerie is supposed to be beautiful, feel luxurious against your skin, attract, arouse and ultimately alter the mindset regarding our bodies and sex.

Lee observed people shopping for lingerie in malls who he describes as “seeking spiritual peace, just like those who confess their sins in a church.” He traces the roots of our habitual consumption to a twisted Puritan influence. The following prayer appears in one of his works: “I sin. Grant that I may never cease grieving because of it, never be content with myself … ” He is suggesting that this relentless guilt and shame drives our desire to purchase items that temporarily reframe the perceptions we have of ourselves. Lee also suggests that this constructed mindset intentionally builds systemic pipelines that power capitalism, and ultimately assault our basic human dignity.

The first space, called the Hot Shop, is an auditorium where you can watch teams of talented artists blow glass. It is like watching a finely tuned improv performance. Artists gather around sketches, rush about with hot molten glass on the end of long metal tubes, and thrust glass in and out of blistering hot ovens. The process is so mesmerizing it is always difficult for me to leave this space. The second component is an exhibition space that displays the finished work of master glass artists—it is always inspiring. The final space is an education studio where children are allowed to make. It is a natural progression—when people get inspired they almost always want to participate.

This desire to participate is part of the reason video games are so popular. As of 2018 over 164 million adults in the US regularly played video games. The $45 billion industry has become our leading form of entertainment and has woven its way into the fabric of American culture. The average gamer plays over seven hours each week, and this is not an activity exclusively for the youth. Statistics show that gaming is distributed relatively evenly among various age groups, ethnicities and gender.

Over 60% of gamers play with other people. When compared to other forms of entertainment, gaming is quite social and allows individuals to actively participate. Gaming is not a passive form of entertainment like watching TV, going to a movie or attending a live performance.

The image shown here is a scene captured at the Seven Magic Mountains, located just outside Las Vegas. The foreground shows a makeshift sculpture garden that was developed by visitors who were compelled to spontaneously stack some rocks before leaving. I wonder who first started the effort—who cracked the egg? Regardless, they opened up a flood gate. Last time I visited this homegrown sculpture patch had acquired over 100 new works. This happening is not just a testament to the Seven Magic Mountains’ ability to inspire but to our insatiable desire to move beyond observation and participate in making. Although no individual work in the DIY sculpture garden rises to a level worth recognizing, the collective effort remains quite impressive.

In the desert first impressions are almost always deceiving, which contributes to a general lack of appreciation and understanding. Before moving to the Mojave Desert, I lived in Tucson, which is located in the Sonoran Desert. One morning I was shocked to see the Catalina Mountains, normally rendered in shades of brown, brightly colored, as if a yellow blanket had been placed around its feet. I later discovered that this phenomenon only occurs every ten years or so when a small desert plant emerges from the rocks and blooms. Botanists call these plants “ephemeral” because they are short-lived—waiting out periods of unfavorable conditions in the form of seeds and then bursting forth when the conditions allow. After a week or two the mountain side returned to its normal color; however, this powerful experience remains a vivid memory and continues to occupy my thoughts.

There are approximately 250 ephemeral plants in the Mojave Desert, and over one third are considered “endemic,” meaning they are found in only one location on the planet. I was also shocked to learn that the plentiful and homely creosote bushes, which are regularly scraped from the desert floor to make way for development, can live to be over 12,000 years old.  Biologist Frank Vasek at the University of California, Riverside, recently dated a creosote bush at 11,700 years old.  Imagine a scraggly looking, waist high bush beginning its life when mammoths roamed the lands. The blackbrush also thrives throughout the Mojave Desert at elevations between 2,000 and 5,000 feet and can live for up to 15,000 years. The image here shows an isolated hedgehog cactus wedged in the gap of a fractured rock—it only takes a crack for life to take hold. The unassuming Mojave Desert will continue to surprise if you are willing to slow down and wait for her to reveal her secrets.

Wagner Education Center (WEC) is the newest addition to The Center for Wooden Boats campus situated on South Lake Union in Seattle. The campus is seamlessly integrated into the Lake Union Park, offering visitors a way to get on the water and participate in the region’s rich maritime history. The center promotes northwest maritime heritage through education, interpretation and hands-on experiences that include the restoration and use of historic small craft. For example, when the WEC opened its doors, Säädüüts Robert Peele, the artist-in-residence and member of the Haida tribe, demonstrated the traditional art of canoe carving.

The $6.6 million, two-story, solar-powered WEC structure is the modern center piece for the park, campus and surrounding neighborhood. Like many historic buildings in the northwest, this structure has no air conditioning. It is passively cooled with movable exterior shades, large sliding doors/windows and operable skylights used to expel hot air and induce natural ventilation.

Like a sail boat, the staff must work with natural forces and make adjustments to optimize the building’s performance. The building provides a connection to and understanding of our physical environment that was commonplace before the advent of air conditioning.

Similarly, the center piece of the building is a large wooden boat shop where people can help maintain, restore and build wooden vessels. The shop allows the center to pass on and preserve historic ways of making. It gives visitors the opportunity to use traditional hand tools—to experience cutting a dovetail, carving a mortise, pounding nails or using a plane. As our culture continues to evolve and become more digitized, traditional ways of making are too easily forgotten. It also becomes easier to ignore the limitations and wonders of our physical world.  Places like the WEC provide important connections to our history as well as preserving traditional skills and knowledge for future generations. The history of making is unfortunately not always given the attention it deserves.

The protesters’ goal was to create a neighborhood without police, but after several shootings the mayor signed an order to re-establish control over the area. Although the effort seemed to lack the leadership to sustain and focus the occupation, organizers demanded defunding the police and reallocating those funds to support rent control and community health. They also demanded the release of prisoners serving time for marijuana charges or resisting arrest.

Elements of CHOP reminded me of Christiania or “Free Town” in Copenhagen, Denmark. In 1971, in the midst of a housing shortage, activists stormed and occupied an abandoned 19-acre military facility in the heart of the city. After several attempts to reestablish control of the area, the authorities allowed it to exist as an autonomous community and grand social experiment. The movement’s initial mission statement involved the creation of a self-governing society where each individual holds themselves responsible for the wellbeing of the entire community. Their society was to be economically self-sustaining.

When I visited Christiania it was a symbol of the Danish progressive, liberated lifestyle. It was the fourth largest tourist attraction in Copenhagen, boasting over a half a million visitors annually.

As a young architecture student I found the community fascinating. Several remarkable businesses and organizations that could never have existed outside the walls thrived in this community—handmade bikes, organic restaurants, handmade clothing, community theater,  yoga center and The Gay House to name a few.  Christiania currently has approximately 1,000 residents and normalized its relationship with the government in 2010. After 39 years, Danish law is now enforced inside the community. It is fascinating how people with limited power and resources occupy and define space. Constructing buildings, walls and infrastructure are typically the privilege of the rich and powerful. In places like CHOP and Christiania, activists predominantly use temporal tactics to transform and establish ownership of space—marches, events, paint, stickers, tents and yes … art. 

One of the perks of working in Las Vegas is the number of conferences and trade shows. However, you have to exercise restraint or you’ll spend your entire life attending these events.  One of the largest and most impressive annual events is the Consumer Electronics Show (CES). It is impossible to see all the products stuffed into over 2.9 million square feet of exhibition space, but there are always a few items each year that are given poll position and are difficult to miss. Last year one of those items was the Konka Smart Wall TV, measuring over 236 inches (20 feet) from corner to corner. It was designed to compete with the “The Wall” produced by Samsung. Both are modular systems that snap together like Legos allowing you to customize the size and resolution.

Standing a few feet from the screen you are unable to detect the seams or any pixelization. The Konka is slightly smaller but boasts better resolution and a sharper 8K image.  These video walls utilize the new MicroLED technology, which employs individual LEDs to create the picture, as

opposed to using them to light up a film of liquid crystals that regulate the light—an LCD layer. This allows the MicroLEDs to turn off individually, creating true black—enhancing the screen’s ability to render contrast. The screens are rated for 100,000 hours, which translates into over 11 years of uninterrupted continuous usage. Unfortunately the current $1.2 million price tag puts it out of reach for most people.

Regardless, the experience this screen provides is extraordinary and opens the door for creating dramatic, immersive digital environments without the use of those goofy headsets that tend to generate anti-social experiences. An experience on a large screen can be shared. I don’t think this technology would be needed for watching television or a movie, but it would transform an object or space with a digitally recorded landscape, work of art or virtual interactive environment. Once the screen becomes that clear, and larger than a human body, the game changes. It is a similar sensation to standing in front of an enormous Rothko and being enveloped in its fields of color.

It was reported in March of 2020 that Amazon’s Jeff Bezos was the richest person in the world with a net worth of over $140 billion. What is so disturbing is that in the last three months, during the Black Lives Matter protests, crushing pandemic and resulting economic challenges, his holdings have increased by over $20 billion. All while those at the lower end of our economy take the brunt of our society’s misfortunes.

As states prepare to make devastating cuts to services such as education and healthcare to balance their budgets, the Federal Government continues to buy its own debt, bolster markets and provide loans/grants for corporations mere weeks after the longest economic expansion in our country’s history. Eleanor Russell and Martin Parker recently published an interesting article that offered historical insight on wealth transfers that occur during devastating pandemics.

Their article focused on the 14^th century Plague or “Black Death,” which killed between a third to a half of the population throughout Europe and the Middle East. One firsthand account out of Scotland reported, “This sickness befell people everywhere, but especially the middling and lower classes, rarely the great. It generated such horror that children did not dare to visit their dying parents, nor parents their children, but fled for fear of contagion as if from leprosy or a serpent.”

The built environment cannot help but display the inequality that is tearing apart the fabric of our civil society. While the underlying conditions that give rise to inequality worsen, I fear situations like the one pictured here will only continue to increase.

There was a time, not too long ago, when well-educated people read and re-read physical books. For many individuals their personal library was something that was cherished. You could tell a great deal about someone by the books they kept on their book shelf. It was a glimpse into their mind or at least the influences that molded their thinking and defined their aspirations. You could see the traces of a well-worn book vs one that had seen little use. A book’s position on the shelf gave clues to its relative importance. To decode a library accurately you needed to have read or have a basic understanding of each book’s content. Today this type of information is fragmented and largely opaque, revealed only to marketers and technocrats skilled at shooting cryptic algorithms through our swelling digital hay stacks.

The image above is a portion of a digital print by Phil Shaw entitled Love at First Sight. Shaw’s work compels us to ponder the digital transition we are all experiencing. He does this with wit, humor and disturbing skill. Titles like Tired of Being Tired are real book titles and appear in the British Library Catalogue. The arrangement of titles creates connections and associations that in his own words question “what we believe, what we think we believe and what we are told to believe.” Shaw continues, “I have always been troubled by the possibility that things may not be what they appear to be and certainly not what they are said to be.” Shaw’s work depicts real objects arranged in an unreal manner to reveal what he believes is the unseen reality.

The work, entitled Neukom Vivarium, features a Western Hemlock that fell outside of Seattle in a protected old growth forest in 1996. The 60-foot hemlock has since become a “nurse log”—a log that decays, providing nutrients and protection for new life to emerge. This work supports a variety of bacteria, fungi, insects, lichen and plants. Visitors are provided magnifying glasses so they can examine the dynamic, lush ecosystem that Dion refers to now as an “art system.”

The installation is delightful, informative, beautiful and connects art with science. The log sits in a raised bed of specially prepared soil about 30” off the ground—positioning all the action at eye level. The structure, designed by Owen Richards Architects, features elaborate systems to maintain the appropriate temperature, air quality, moisture and soil composition.

All this is an attempt to have the natural processes continues as they would in the wilderness. The piece is described as a combination of sculpture, architecture, environmental education and horticulture.

Although the work displays an abundance of life and regeneration, it is by no means intended to be an optimistic statement. Ironically, placing this natural process within a dense urban environment requires incredibly complex, expensive life support systems.  Dion describes the piece as a “coffin” that attempts to mimic what nature does effortlessly. He continues: “So, this piece is in some way perverse. It shows that, despite all of our technology and money, when we destroy a natural system, it is virtually impossible to get it back. In a sense, we’re building a failure.”

For example, students know that they should not sit in a classroom during a course that they have not signed up for. They understand that they should not rearrange the furniture in the classroom unless directed, although slight adjustments to the chair they sit in are allowed. Even though it is not posted or included in the syllabus, students understand that they are not to occupy the space behind the podium—that is reserved for the instructor.

He suggests that the primary role of an architect is to design and negotiate these controls within space.  Whether it is a gate, wall, door, window or hallway, the architect determines the deep structure which in turn determines what is possible and expected in a given environment. It would be impossible to deliver an in-person lecture to 100 students in a broom closet. It is difficult to secure a space that does not have controlled entrances, and so on. Habracken, however, advocates for architects and designers to know when to stop designing and create opportunities for the occupants of a space to exercise their control— to possess it.

He suggests controlling or possessing space is a basic human need. In support of Habracken’s ideas, it is interesting to note that when people are denied the ability to productively express that control they often resort to destructive behavior.

Controlling space does not always require physical structures. For example, spaces can be possessed through the use of sound, smell, ideas or violence. I have a vivid memory of getting a tour of a rough neighborhood while engaged in a community project. The guide revealed the invisible lines that separate various areas controlled by rival gangs. I was shown the “safe places” to cross the streets and walk to avoid an altercation. For the residents and myself, those invisible lines became more powerful than any physical barrier I could have designed. With this new lens it is interesting to examine the various spaces that have recently been occupied by Black Lives Matter protesters and the role the police play in defining spaces within our community.

The borders of the United States extend 200 nautical miles from shore, so more than half of the country sits beneath the ocean. Approximately 40% of the world’s human population lives within 60 miles of the shore. Despite our romantic notions about living near the ocean, the coast can be a treacherous and unpredictable environment. Tsunamis, flooding, erosion, pollution and rising sea levels are among the grave concerns of coastal communities.

In the Pacific Northwest the tides are dramatic — sea levels can fluctuate up to 15 feet twice a day. Two times a year the sun and moon’s gravitational pull combine to create what some call a king tide. When combined with a storm or weather event, ocean waves can wreak havoc along the coast line. Property owners often build seawalls in an attempt to protect their property. They normally take the form of massive and unsightly concrete structures, but it does not have to be that way.

There are several communities that have been exploring alternatives that work with the natural systems. By placing boulders in the foreshore (the area between low and high tide) and planting dune grasses and pine shrubberies, the water is slowed, which encourages the depositing of sand.

The landscape shown here is a portion of a 200-foot-long landscape and seawall along the English Bay in Vancouver. The wall is a Corten steel shell filled with concrete. The form is faceted, resulting in crisp but biomorphic shapes that make a tastefully intriguing addition to the coastline. Metamorphous, the firm responsible for this design, received a well-deserved award from the American Society of Landscape Architects. Perhaps a greater honor was bestowed when the adjacent property owners approached the firm to extend the concept to protect their land as well. It is never prudent to battle the wilderness head on. It is always better to work intelligently with the natural systems to achieve your goals.

The wild success of the Vegas Golden Knights hockey club (an NHL expansion team) undoubtedly had an influence on the recent decision to move the NFL’s Oakland Raiders franchise to Las Vegas and has led people to speculate that more professional sports teams will find their way into this community. 

Having professional sport teams in your city shapes the community’s identity and serves as a symbol of success and prosperity. However, building professional sports arenas involves major financial commitments as well as potential long-term economic opportunities. In order to secure the Raiders’ move, Governor Sandoval signed two bills in 2016 that approved $750 million of taxpayer funding to help finance the $1.9 billion, 71,835-seat stadium. Recently there have been robust debates around the benefits and costs of using taxpayer money or tax breaks to attract teams and fund sports arenas.  The Seattle City Council, for example, recently rejected a proposal to build a new stadium to attract an NBA team to their city. The image here shows the construction underway on the Raiders’ stadium that is  scheduled to be complete in July of 2020.

Each NFL team currently plays a total of 16 regular season games over a 17-week period. Only eight of those games are played on the team’s home field. That is why most stadiums are designed to serve more than one purpose. The Las Vegas stadium will also be the home of the UNLV Rebels football team.  Interestingly this will require two interchangeable fields. UNLV likes to play on artificial turf while the Raiders prefer a grass field. So the artificial turf will be placed directly on the stadium’s concrete floor, and a “tray” holding the grass field is being designed so that it can roll in and out of the stadium without disrupting the turf underneath it. It is estimated that the stadium will host more than 20 other events each year, such as music concerts, Monster Jam, ultimate fighting, perhaps a Super Bowl, and could eventually be home to a Major League Soccer team.

Every major project in Las Vegas is expected to incorporate at least one thing that has never been done before. In this case the torch at one end of the stadium’s mezzanine stands more than 80 feet tall and when complete will be the largest 3D-printed object in the world. As Las Vegas doubles down on professional sports teams it will be interesting to see how these teams will transform this fast-growing, fun-loving, ever-changing metropolis.

This site specific sculpture at the Crystal Bridges Art Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas, was created by artist Gabriel Dawe in 1973. The piece, entitled Plexus #27, is made of thin colored threads woven between hooks attached to the walls, which form ethereal surfaces and forms that change depending on your location within the space. These three-dimensional forms developed through the use of straight lines or strings. From each vantage point you experience a unique set of spatial circumstances. This work illuminates the ultimate challenge when we attempt to develop a common understanding as individuals perceive the same situation differently with unique viewpoints.

Dawe was inspired by watching his grandmother hand embroider fabrics in Mexico City.  Interestingly, these skills were passed down to the female members of his family but not to him.  This work is clearly a critique of traditional gender roles and the social norms that permeate our everyday lives and trajectories. The small daily activities and routines we develop growing up have a profound impact on who we become. As a child we rarely have control over these activities, nor do we understand their long term impact on our lives. Part of becoming an adult is reflecting on those traditions and recalibrating our activities to support our aspirations

The porte cochere is like a theater for the glamorous guests to be seen publicly before they are escorted off to their private suite or back into their automobiles. The porte cochere is an active busy place with people coming and going, staff and guests rushing about — animated conversations, bags, packages, taxis and Uber drivers. With all the activity, noise and distraction it is easy to walk past the work without noticing it.

The piece was created by multi-disciplinary British artist Benedict Radcliffe, who is known widely for creating life-sized wire sculptures of vehicles. Born in 1976 and trained as an architect, Radcliffe turned his attention and skills toward his artistic pursuits. He works out of a studio in London and has completed works that include London Taxi, Mazda 323S , Ferrari F40 and Blueprint (Porsche 934) at 1:15 scale.

The work shown here is a fluorescent-orange wire-frame replica of a Lamborghini Twin Turbo Countach made of 3/8” steel rods.

That might mean something to a car enthusiast, but it means very little to me other than it is a luxury, high-performance vehicle that I will never drive. I did not grow up in a “car” family. My dad would seek out a vehicle that had been sitting on the used car lot for several years collecting dust, negotiate a rock bottom price and drive it until the wheels fell off. I have never been fully immersed in “car culture,” but that doesn’t get in the way of me appreciating this work. It is a complex form described with lines. I had a drawing teacher once challenge me to describe a complex object with as few lines as possible. It is much harder than it would seem. I admire the skill required to distill the form down to its essential line work. The color makes the work initially appear like a projection or computer animation — something other than a physical object, something unreal.

The art produced by highly trained scientific specialists has always fascinated me. The merging of science and art is nothing new, however; the work by Frederick Eversley is surprisingly minimal for a person with his training and background. Eversley was born in Brooklyn in 1941 and trained as an aerospace engineer. He designed the high-intensity acoustic and vibration test laboratories for NASA’s Apollo and Gemini missions, which laid the groundwork for the moon landings. In 1967 Eversley retired from engineering and focused his energy on making art. He has had major exhibitions at the Getty and Smithsonian. His art has been described as having a “finish fetish” and within the art community is considered a type of minimalism that is perhaps more decorative — like the highly refined surfaces found on surfboards and hot rods. 

The work shown here, entitled Big Red Lens (1985), was produced using polyester resin that was spun on a turntable to make a perfect parabolic form. A parabola creates an optical and acoustic focal point that can concentrate light energy, radio waves and sound. Eversley considers his work kinetic art that does not require mechanical movement or artificial effects. The work and the way it is displayed certainly creates an interesting and dynamic optical experience — altering the architecture and natural surroundings — changing the way we perceive the world around us. It is fascinating that a highly trained scientist would see the culmination of his life’s work as expressing the simplicity, serenity, elegance and beauty revealed through his technical understandings of the natural world. 

Drug use is on the rise in the United States. Between 2003 and 2014 US workers testing positive for drug use increased by 47%, and workers testing positive for heroin increased 146%. US teens are twice as likely to use illicit drugs as their European counterparts. But the demographic groups where drug use is increasing most dramatically are women, the affluent and baby boomers (individuals born before 1964).  The reason for this increase is unclear, but attitudes about drug use are clearly changing. According to polls, 12% of the US population was in favor of legalizing marijuana in 1969. That figure rose to 58% by 2015 and currently sits at more than 67%. 

 Many consider the entire spectrum of substances we use as a culture to alter our moods and consciousness, which include legal substances such as caffeine, nicotine, alcohol and, yes, sugar. Some argue that all these substances have benefits but cause harm when used to excess. One can make a compelling case that these legal substances are far more destructive to our health than illegal drug use.

This image shows a portion of his table that mimics the periodic table we all studied in chemistry class.  The first periodic table was published in 1869 by the Russian chemist Dmitri Mendeleev and revealed the nature of the invisible building blocks of our physical world. Today the table gives scientists invaluable insights into the nature of chemical reactions. One role of art is to speak to the time it was created, to challenge and awaken people to the changes and events that they may not notice as they go about their daily lives. Cohen’s work is a compelling piece that exposes and begs reflection on our personal and cultural relationship with these substances — making the unreal, real.

Brooklyn-based artist Leonardo Drew produces art from everyday materials. His installations relate directly to the moment and location in which they are placed — a response to events, the architecture or natural environment. He sees our bodies as complex receptors and believes our experiences shape and mold us in profound ways. Sometimes the impact goes unnoticed in simple encounters such as seeing “a boulder that is unmoved by the wind.”  He told a group of students in London, “If you allow your antennas to reach out, you’ll find what it is you need for this part of your journey.” The image shown here is a piece of a large installation entitled Number 184T commissioned by the Crystal Bridges Museum in 2017.

Drew’s powerful work has been shown throughout the world and is included in the most significant contemporary art collections. He was deeply impacted by his childhood in Tallahassee, Florida, where he would make things from discarded materials. “I remember all of it, the seagulls, the summer smells, the underground fires that could not be put out…” This seeming need to make has resulted in an unusual and productive devotion to studio life. Although many of Drew’s sculptures appear to be made of found objects, they are not. His massive installations are constructed of smaller pieces and shards that he transforms in his studio. He uses natural materials and transforms them through oxidation, burning and decay, reinforcing the natural cycle of “life, death and regeneration.”

This search was not simply for our amusement, entertainment or financial gain but to illuminate our minds, enrich our lives and advance civilization. This quest was once considered worthy of one’s dedication and life’s work.  Imagine, composition being the focus of one’s life and work.

Leonardo da Vinci’s well-known sketch of the Vitruvian Man (1480-1490) was an exploration of proportion. His drawing shows a perfectly proportioned Christ-like figure inscribed in a circle and square, which was thought to reveal or illuminate the deep connection between the human form and the structure of the universe. It is important to note that the idea was not Leonardo’s but came from an ancient Roman architect named Vitruvius who lived 1,500 years earlier.

Vitruvius’ writings suggested that the human body fit perfectly within a circle (the symbol of the divine) and a square (the symbol of the earth).  

If God, the ultimate original genius, created the wondrous universe, and humans were the pinnacle of his creation, and Christ was the incarnation of God himself in bodily form, then it followed that studying the human body could unlock the divine keys to beauty and truth. The proportions of the human body were discussed and implemented by makers to produce paintings, sculptures and buildings. In fact, a hotly debated subject in architecture for more than 300 years was determining if 1/5 was a better proportion than 1/7 — because the length of the nose was 1/5 of head and the length of your head was 1/7 of your body.

Jean Arp started to introduce chance operations into his compositions shortly after the war and continued to explore this idea for decades. He would often tear up pieces of paper and drop them on larger sheets of paper, gluing them down where ever they fell. Arp described chance operations in this way: “It is as if nature herself had formulated [her] own language of expression in the profound depths of consciousness.” Interestingly this sounds more like giving some compositional authority over to something beyond our complete understanding, something perhaps greater than the artist — in this case the forces of “nature.”

The work shown here, entitled Collage with Squares Arranged According to the Laws of Chance, is an interesting balance between control and relinquishing control. The colors are not determined by chance, nor is the size and proportion of the background sheet. Although the squares are not rationally placed, they do not overlap and are organized in vertical columns and centered on the underlying sheet of paper.  The exact placement may be random but Arp is clearly retaining some control — controlling what I would call the rules of play and deep structure of the composition. I would argue no artist has complete control over their work.

The real question is what aspect of your work do you seek to control and when and how do you let go?

Regardless, relinquished control in the process of making art challenges traditional notions of authorship.  Arp suggests artists should not seek attribution for their work and “remain anonymous, in the great workshop of nature, like the clouds, the mountains, the seas, the animals, and man himself. Yes! Man should go back to nature! Artists should work together like the artists of the Middle Ages.” It is interesting that Arp invokes the Middle Ages. This was a period dominated by Christian Art and Architecture when the church controlled almost every aspect of civil society. The individual artists remained anonymous, not due to poor record keeping but rather due to a spiritual idea about the role of the artist. The religious institutions at that time had little interest in the creation of original works. The emphasis was placed on retelling and embellishing historical narratives and honoring the Author of life itself.

Interestingly, his fascination with X-ray images began during a photo shoot of a Coke can while he was working for an advertising and design company.  His work is often not a pure X-ray and involves Photoshop work to complete the image. What makes Veasey’s work compelling is the way it taps into the human desire to know what lies beyond the visible. I liken this phenomenon to artist Alberto Giacometti’s obsession with understanding and expressing the true nature of an object, which includes our understanding of what lurks beneath the outer surface. In Veasey’s case his work employs a technology used by the medical profession and security industry to identify objects that may be harmful.

The image shown here is a portion of an X-ray entitled VW Camper Van that was produced in 2019.

The image is quite large, measuring 71” x 37”.  When you examine the work you immediately identify the seemingly innocent nature of the subject matter — a couple camping with their child and dog. However, like an overzealous TSA agent, your attention swiftly transitions to all the details in the image which fill out a complex narrative fabricated in one’s mind. You can’t help but create an elaborate profile of these people when noticing, for example, the surfboards on the top of the van, the wine bottles stashed behind the passenger’s seat or the relative size/age of the child. The image gives you the eerie sense that the people in the work are unaware of your critical, probing gaze. Veasey’s work explores the power of transparency, our insatiable need to probe using invasive tools of surveillance.

Maurizio Cattelan has been labeled by art insiders as the jokester or prankster of the art world.  Some of his well known works include a solid 24K gold toilet entitled America and a sculpture of Pope John Paul II lying on the floor in full regalia with a meteor on his legs entitled La Nona Ora or The Ninth Hour. Well, the jokester struck again at Art Basil Miami Beach last year when his work entitled Comedian — a banana duct taped to the wall — sold for $120,000. It instantly became the talk of the town, in and outside the art world. The drama was heightened when a New York-based performance artist decided to eat the banana in front of the crowd that arrived for “public day.” The event went viral on social media. Before being escorted away by security, the performer identified himself as a “hungry artist” and said “the banana was good but there was too much duct tape.”

A fascinating and less publicized response to this work was a protest that followed the glitzy art fair. The protest, later called “plananito,” was organized by the janitorial workers who serve the facilities in the area. They were protesting low wages and poor working conditions in an industry that is full of abuse and intimidation. What a better foil than a $120,000 duct taped banana to highlight the inequality that leaves the majority of our citizens struggling to make ends meet. One worker making $8.46 an hour cleaning a luxury office building cried out, “How much are we worth? A banana is worth more than us apparently…they look at us like we are nothing, but it is a job with dignity and it’s tough work. We deserve better payment.” How can you argue with that?

The dramatic veil is comprised of 2,500 unique rhomboidal panels of fiberglass-reinforced concrete. They initially intended the façade to be a porous exoskeleton, but they never realized the goal of these panels serving as the building’s primary structure. Rather than supporting the building these panels are held up by a separate 650-ton steel substructure.

Each panel is unique and was made with a mold fabricated with a computer-controlled router. The skin is not only beautiful and compelling but is smart and performs the vital function of filling the museum with natural light while protecting the art from direct sun light. UV light damages artwork, but paradoxically, natural light is the best light to have when viewing art. This is why most museums don’t have many windows and can look impenetrable.The designers here wanted to resolve this paradox with a single seamless skin that wrapped around the building — changing its geometry based on the orientation and the sun’s predictable path.

The veil is lifted at the corners to reveal the entry into the building.

After the unveiling, critics were understandably disappointed that the skin never achieved its ultimate goal. One critic described the building as “creative imagination muted, held back and otherwise reined in.”  My greatest disappointment was being unable to experience the interior space behind the belly button that arrests your attention when you approach the building. After navigating several uninspired hallways I was stopped 30 feet short of the captivating feature. I caught a glimpse of the object of my desire through a gap in the glass wall and pulled curtains before I was shushed off by the museum staff. I am torn between wanting to praise the progress that was made and my disappointment in how the effort fell short of the promise. Interestingly, this is the way I feel about most technology that surrounds us today.

Czechoslovakian artist Victor Freso fashioned the installation shown here, entitled The Birth of Niemand.  The installation is a field of 16 monumental figures with large heads and scowling faces perched upon baby-like bodies. All the figures are the same except one with his hands behind his back and head disdainfully turned away. The spaces between the figures allows visitors to weave through the formation and examine each figure up close. The work is intended to be a critique of society and culture by exploring the “darker side of our soul.” The artist intended for the work to represent all the negative emotions that people try to keep hidden — feelings of malice, inferiority and overconfidence — that spill out and impact environments we all live in. The disturbing nature of the installation is tempered by its seeming playfulness.

This disarming quality creates a powerful moment and space for reflection. Niemand translated literally means nobody or no one. The Birth of (Nobody) reflects the negative disposition of society and our need for individual significance while we simultaneously strive to conform to cultural norms. It exposes our thoughts, interactions and relationships with one another. Most importantly it reminds us that we can’t become the somebody we want to become by disdaining others. You never find meaning by conforming to others’ expectations, nor can you distinguish yourself through what or whom you reject. Individuals who dwell on the negative and attempt to tear others down to get ahead are destined to remain infants. The question is this: Are we a society of infants? To become somebody and make a society of somebodies, we ultimately need to determine what we are willing to live for.

Regardless, for those who are observant, it is obvious that people of color are treated differently in a variety of ways — every day.  Sometimes the cause is due to unconscious bias, sometimes due to outright racism. The consequences of these events can be far more serious than the emotional pain of a public slight or an inconvenience — it is a matter of life and death. Statistics show that people of color are 2.7 times more likely to be stopped by police and 2.5 times more likely to be fatally shot by those entrusted to keep the peace. Most experts say that these statistics cannot be explained by elevated minority crime rates, but rather shows a significant, systemic bias in our justice system.

A detail of the art work shown here, entitled 150 Portrait Tone, was completed by American artist Mark Bradford in 2017.  The large ominous mural displays and repeats the dialogue that was recorded during the fatal shooting of Philando Castile in Saint Paul, Minnesota, in July 2016. Castile, who worked in the cafeteria of an elementary school, was shot by police in his parked car while restrained in his seat belt. 

The haunting incident was documented by Castile’s girlfriend, Diamond Reynolds, who was a passenger in the car and managed to broadcast events live on Facebook. Bradford was moved by the multiple subjects, the dialogue and the space each person occupied. Diamond in the passenger seat saying, “Stay with me.” The officers listening outside the car: “Please, officer don’t tell me that you just did this. Lord, Please don’t tell me that he’s gone.” A witness viewing the live stream: “Please don’t tell me he just went like that.”

The title of the work refers to a color that appeared in the crayon box called “flesh.” The color was introduced by the Crayola company in 1949. The light beige and pink color was eventually renamed “peach” and ultimately discontinued and replaced on National Crayon Day in 2017. With all the serious matters facing our world today it may be hard for some to consider the importance of naming a crayon color, but think about the impact this seemingly simple act has had on our children and society over the past 60 years. This controversial color was employed throughout Bradford’s painting and serves as a sobering commentary on power, representation and the inequality that continues to exist in our society today.

Banksy is an indispensable player in the 21^st century art scene. His work is first and foremost a form of protest and cultural resistance. He attempts to bypass the galleries, museums and auction houses that serve as the art world’s primary economic and institutional infrastructure. Although art is his weapon he critiques the art establishment harshly and with a clear distain. His work is seen by many as graffiti, which Banksy describes as “one of the few tools you have if you have almost nothing.” To understand Banksy’s art you must consider its subject matter and location.  Topics include serious social issues such as war, violence, surveillance, and political or economic oppression. His pieces are located strategically in major cities throughout the world. Many of his works get removed or painted over because he does not seek permission to place his work on others’ property. As a result, and quite ironically, some of his most iconic works, such as “Girl with Balloon,” now only exist as limited addition prints.

One of the themes in Banksy’s work is exposing the demons of consumerism and consumption. He suggests that our true values are being replaced by a torrent of marketing messages that relentlessly assail us. He continues, “A lot of what surrounds us is not real at all…events, holidays, which play integral roles in our lives, are invented by marketers in order to solve certain economic problems. The capitalistic system urges us to fill the subjective feeling of inner emptiness and loneliness with buying more and more things…in the end we lose our freedom.” The work shown here appears in the upscale Mayfair neighborhood of London. It depicts a girl falling to her imminent death while clinging to her shopping cart. This work was coupled with another mural that appeared at the same time on an abandoned building near the financial district that read “Sorry! The lifestyle you ordered is currently out of stock.” Consuming stuff can certainly provide temporary comfort, but what are we giving up to get it?

art’s potential and the relationship between artists and the materials they manipulate.

However, the story’s most well-known and powerful message involves the human condition, the development of one’s character and most dramatically telling the truth. When the Magical Fairy awakens the puppet and gives him the gift of life she says that only Pinocchio has the ability to make his creator’s dream come true. To become a real boy Pinocchio would have to prove himself brave, truthful and unselfish. For those who are familiar with the story, the drama reaches a climax when after every lie Pinocchio’s nose grows. Later the Magical Fairy explains,  “A lie keeps growing and growing until it is as plain as the nose on your face.”

Collodi wrote The Adventures of Pinocchio as a series of stories that were later consolidated into a single book in 1883. Since that time the book has been translated into more than 300 languages and has been available to the public continuously and without interruption. It is the most widely translated non-religious book in history.

This canonical piece of literature has had an untold impact on world culture and in the eyes of many remains one of the greatest works of Italian literature. The work shown here is not the first art piece that has been made depicting Pinocchio. Previous works include a large sculpture placed in the Italian town of Pescia’s Parco di Pinocchio (Park of Pinocchio), constructed in 1956.

I am rarely drawn to work that intentionally lacks originality but rather appropriates the work of others to achieve its power. In this case it’s a copy of a copy — taken from the Disney adaptation of Collodi’s original story. Regardless, this piece grabbed hold of me. It was like a marker that exposed the dramatic shift society has made over my life time. This work marks a transition into what some are calling a post-truth culture. It would be naive to suggest that during one moment in history people were more truthful than another, but this piece can be used to gauge our collective aspiration to tell the truth – our quest to become real.

The canyon entrance was backed up with visitors, so we went to a lesser known location across the way called Skull Canyon. It is one of my favorite hikes. It has some of the most spectacular views of Red Rock and some unique microclimates. There is one area at the top of a ridge that is remarkable. It is not an area that collects water, so I am not sure why it is so lush. The area has the largest collection of specimen Mojave Desert plants that I have every seen.  In the harsh Mojave, it is common to see plants under stress — beautiful but imperfectly formed. In contrast every plant in this small area seems to be healthy and perfectly formed. It is for that reason I call it the garden. The barrel cactus are particularly abundant, but the area also supports healthy Joshua Trees, Yucca, Prickly Pear, Cholla and several other desert plants.

As life patterns and behaviors change during this pandemic, going on this hike made life seem normal and hopeful. As we are forced to slow down, I suggest we look for meaningful and enriching activities to fill our day. Getting away from our 24-hour news cycle and unplugging for a bit is more important than ever for our mental health. That may mean you need to read a book, write a book, paint, cook a great meal for your family, learn to play the guitar or check in on someone that may need your help. It occurs to me that this moment could help us reset our priorities and perspectives regarding what is “the good life.” We certainly should take the time to engage the wilderness and its healing properties. It is amazing that in a desert that receives less than five inches of rain per year and where temperatures can reach 120 degrees you can still find areas where life is thriving.

Robert Therrien’s installation entitled Under the Table (1994) at the Broad Museum in Los Angeles is a testimony to the power of “scale.” Scale is a term used by artists and designers to talk about the size of a particular object or element, usually in its relationship to the human body. Scale is an important factor in any composition. Therrien has taken a common everyday dining room set — table and chairs — and enlarged them approximately four times their normal size. Like a young child or small household pet, the visitor is allowed to walk beneath and around these monumental objects. The experience momentarily changes our relationship to the world. The ubiquitous nature of these common objects keeps the experience from solely being about the artist’s personal vision and rather taps into our collective memories.

Therrien lived and worked in California and passed recently at age 71 (June 2019).  He was a contemporary of Claes Oldenburg, who worked on the other coast and also supersized common everyday objects.  Oldenburg, however, appeared to be interested in those objects that would eventually lose their collective meaning and become, to the casual observer, an abstract composition. Oldenburg also focused most of his career on public art commissions, unlike Therrien’s body of work, which resides in traditional art venues such as galleries and museums. While Oldenburg’s work emphasizes the object, Therrien’s work fashions a more immersive experience. The scale of the negative spaces created by the objects — the spaces the visitor occupies — is just as important as the object itself.

He will often take a poetic phrase or idea from a historical text and use it as the starting point for a painting. Some see his layered work forming a connection between these ancient cultures and our modern world. Some suggest his markings constitute a search for meaning, exploring the instinctual impulses that lurk beneath our rational thoughts.

It is interesting to note that Twombly served in the US Army as a cryptologist, or someone who constructs and analyzes codes and information protocols used to secure communications. One can certainly see this influence in his paintings — layers of text and markings that have purposely been obscured or smudged. The corner of the modestly sized piece shown here is entitled Ilium (One Morning Ten Years Later) [Part 1]. The Ilium is the upper part of the hip bone. All mammals that have a spine also have an ilium bone except for certain species of snakes. 

The term Ilium was coined by 16^th century Flemish anatomist Andreas Vesalius, the founder of modern anatomy, who wrote De humani corporis fabrica (On the Fabric of the Human Body).

Most of Twombly’s work is quite large. Some of his most impressive paintings fill entire halls in a modestly sized gallery designed by Renzo Piano in Houston, Texas. The gallery was funded by the Menil Collection, Dia Art Foundation and the artist himself. Spaces in the gallery are flooded with soft, filtered, natural light. The geometries and finishes of the building are elegantly detailed and minimal, which allows your complete attention to be focused on the work. This gallery, which is free and open to the public, is one on the best art experiences I have ever had.  Twombly’s large-scale graffiti-like works have inspired a generation of younger artists including Jean-Michel Basquiat, and if you have an opportunity to experience his work I trust you will be inspired as well.

Roy Lichtenstein (1923–1997) is a New York artist who is considered an icon in the Pop art movement in the 1960s. It is interesting that Lichtenstein described his pop art not as American painting but rather industrial painting. Along with contemporaries like Andy Warhol and Jasper Johns, Lichtenstein defined Pop art through parody. His work was inspired by comic strips, and many of his best-known works employ techniques used in comic book art including speech bubbles. Not that the cost of a work determines its ultimate significance, but his work entitled Masterpiece was sold in 2017 for a stunning $165 million. Prophetically, this work contained a speech bubble that reads, “WHY, BRAD DARLING, THIS PAINTING IS A MASTERPIECE!  MY, SOON YOU’LL HAVE ALL OF NEW YORK CLAMORING FOR YOUR WORK!”

The work shown here is one of the few sculptures he made. The work, entitled Goldfish Bowl (1977), is a painted bronze sculpture.  It is odd that a whimsical, lighthearted sculpture, which appears it could be made out of painted plywood, is being immortalized in bronze — the material of choice of traditional master sculptors. What I find most fascinating about this piece is that the painting technique of highlighting the edges with dark lines visually flattens this three-dimensional sculpture into a two- dimensional experience. It is a hard object to visually understand. The work manipulates the observer’s visual mechanisms like a carnival fun house and leaves one wondering what is real and what is unreal.

The photograph here shows one of the largest collection of tires in the world; it resides in California. In 2009 it was estimated that we generated more than 296 million discarded tires across the United States. We rarely think about what happens to our old tires when we trade them out for a new set. These eerily beautiful images disarm us long enough for us to confront the consequences of our way of life.  Burtynsky has documented polluted waterways, mines, quarries, factories in China and our oil infrastructure.

The power and importance of his work has led to books and the award-winning documentary films, Manufactured Landscapes and Anthropocene. In the artist’s own words:

“These images are meant as metaphors to the dilemma of our modern existence; they search for a dialogue between attraction and repulsion, seduction and fear. We are drawn by desire — a chance at good living, yet we are consciously or unconsciously aware that the world is suffering for our success. Our dependence on nature to provide the materials for our consumption and our concern for the health of our planet sets us into an uneasy contradiction. For me, these images function as reflecting pools of our times.”

We now live in an era when the earth and the wilderness are being transformed not by natural, geological events but rather by human intervention.

One example of this negative impact is our understanding of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA).  ADA is a civil rights law passed in 1990 intended to ensure equal access to the built environment for those that have physical and mental disabilities. Many consider wheelchair access the main component of ADA regulation because ramps and lifts tend to be the most visible manifestations of the law. However, this law extends to those with deafness, blindness, an intellectual disability, missing limbs or mobility impairments, autism, cancer, cereal palsy, diabetes, epilepsy, HIV infection, multiple sclerosis, muscular dystrophy, major depressive disorder, bipolar disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, schizophrenia and so on. Not surprisingly, anti-social conditions such as kleptomania, pedophilia, exhibitionism and voyeurism are excluded from protection.  Interestingly, sexual orientation and identity are no longer considered a disorder and therefore no longer qualify under the definition of a disability.

These conditions and the “reasonable accommodations” needed to provide access get incredibly complicated. What adds to this complexity is that our understanding of these disabilities changes over time, as does the technology and treatments developed to mitigate various conditions. In our litigious society, you can imagine overwelmed designers desperately want to know what they need to do so they don’t get sued.

As a result groups and government agencies have developed rules and guidelines that define “best practices.” However, in order for these rules and guidelines to be effective they need to be constantly evaluated and reinterpreted and this takes an extraordinary amount of money, time and energy, so it rarely occurs. The higher the costs, the more rigidly interpreted and entrenched these rules and guidelines become. Most designers and regulators understandably treat these rules and guidelines as law. Considering a rule as an immutable law stifles despatately needed innovation and change.

We are at an unprecedented moment in history when technology and advances in our medical understanding could completely transform how we design universally accessible spaces. A wheelchair is nothing more than a prosthetic. What happens when advances in robotics transform that prosthetic into an exoskeleton that allows someone who is paralyzed to stand up right, walk up a set of stairs or bend over to drink out of a drinking fountain? How do we determine lighting levels in a room when the needs of individuals using it are contradictory? Could we utilize smart technology to customize lighting levels based on who is using the room and where they are located? In order to unleash innovations we must stop seeing these rules and regulations as laws. They are not steadfast laws but rather malleable guidelines that need to be challenged and constantly reconsidered. 

Urban Light (2008) is a collection of 202 cast iron street lamps from the 1920s — salvaged and restored.  This work, shown here, was conceived by artist Chris Burden (1946-2015). Streetlamps are an important urban artifact, and these richly detailed, fluted lamps speak to what it meant to be a sophisticated and civilized city at that time. These streetlamps were products of an industrial process that some consider a form of public art. However, these lamps were not merely made to be beautiful but also to keep people safe at night. By clustering the lamps together Burden creates a cathedral with long colonnades that visitors are allowed to meander through. Grouping so many together allows one to disregard their original purpose, and see them as a single “urban light.”

When I first saw images of the work I rather quickly determined I did not care for it. I am not nostalgic,

and I certainly don’t have romantic notions about this era of our history — one marked by inequality, corruption and flaunting excesses. However, after experiencing this work firsthand it grew on me.  Walking between and around the lamps proved to be a powerful experience. The flutes kept directing my gaze upward, where the details of the lamps were perfectly highlighted against the blue Southern California sky. I couldn’t stop thinking about where these lamps would be if they had not been gathered and repurposed for this work of art. This magical installation is part historic preservation — an ingenious streetlamp graveyard that directs your attention to the heavens. It reminds me of a saying I threw around as a young designer to salvage an ill-conceived composition: “If you make something ugly … just repeat it several times.” It always looks better.

The two-and-a-half-mile ocean front promenade attracts joggers, skateboarders, surfers, beach goers, tennis and handball players, body builders, artists, street performers, cart vendors, onlookers, drug dealers and its share of homeless. What is striking is the eclectic mix of activities and the diversity of people this space attracts. I am sure the area draws its share of tourists, but it still appears to be dominated by locals living out their lives in dynamic fashion.

When a space becomes dominated by tourists and visitors it stops driving the development of that community’s culture. Tourists generally want to observe and experience something different but rarely participate in its development. At some point economic inertia lures locals and governments to take these dynamic spaces and freeze their cultural evolution. This is the only way to pre-package a predictable experience that can be marketed to the masses. This transition is when a community stops developing its culture and seeks to preserve it — like Bourbon Street in New Orleans. At one time Bourbon Street was a hot bed for jazz music, great food and drink. But it is no longer the crucible for the city’s musical and culinary innovators.

— the creative class. Rather, Bourbon Street has become a stage set for times past — a dim representation of a culture that was once alive and full of possibilities. Are all successful, dynamic social spaces — which authentically emerge from a distinct culture and lifestyle — destined to be absorbed and sanitized by the economic machine?

When I travel I search for authentic cultural experiences. The thought of booking a cruise or a packaged group tour makes me want to stay home and upgrade my cable package. Admittedly, I am a tourist when I visit Venice Beach, but it appears to me that the place is still evolving and remains an authentic expression of California culture. The variety of activities available allows me to find a point of connection and makes me feel like a participant rather than a mere observer. Does the diversity and coarseness of Venice make it resistant to being packaged and marketed as an experiential product? Or does the grit and diversity merely disguise the fact that the carnival is being controlled and curated for the curious visitor? Regardless, the first time I see a tour bus appear will likely be the last time I visit Venice Beach.  For the time being, Venice Beach is one of my favorite places to go when I visit LA.

Interestingly, the flamingo craze began as an authentic beautification movement in working class neighborhoods. The fake birds were developed in the 1950s and did not originate in Florida but rather Massachusetts — the self-proclaimed “plastics capital of the world.”  The birds were sculpted by artist Don Featherstone from a National Geographic photo spread and mass-produced by Union Products with a revolutionary technology of the day — injection molding.  Despite its authentic roots, eventually the pink birds became an insider joke deployed by the upper class for cleverly themed charity galas — a way of establishing their good taste by exposing the “bad taste” of others.  Regardless, even the Smithsonian recognizes the cultural significance of the pink flamingo yard art phenomenon.

Embellishing our yards and gardens with objects, other than plants and water features, is a vernacular practice generated by a population that perhaps lacks formal visual education.

The public, expressive nature of these installations makes them valuable cultural artifacts that can’t be dismissed off hand. The particular installation shown here, a few blocks from my apartment, caught my attention due to its complexity, quality and consistency. It required considerable effort and consideration — perhaps it is the result of an obsessive urge to make something unique and share it with others (one possible definition of an artist). This particular installation is dominated by high-quality neon replicas of various dinosaur species. While some undoubtedly consider this installation an eyesore, I find this work strangely delightful, and every human being under the age of 12 agrees with me. If you haven’t seen much yard art, or don’t have any art in your yard, you probably live in a community with too many expectations and residents over the age of 12.

The making of paper is not only a technological feat unto itself but supported the development of ink painting, the written language and detailed record keeping. The work shown here by Zu Jinshi uses 8,000 sheets of crumpled Chinese paper as a sculptural material — a monumental symbol of Chinese history. The piece, entitled Wave of Materials (2007-2019), suspends those paper sheets to form an enormous wave that floats in mid air.

Zhu is perhaps best known for his colorful paintings that employ a heavy application of paint contrasted by much of the canvas that is kept bare. The empty space and its use in a composition is an incredibly potent concept in Asian art. In Western traditions the void or empty space in a composition is often referred to as the negative space. Many see Zhu’s early paintings as a successful merger of Western Abstract Expressionism and Chinese culture.

Born in China in 1954, Zhu moved to Germany in 1986 and began expanding his artistic explorations into performance art, video, sculpture, installations and photographic work.

After this move, Zhu’s work took a dramatic turn. The work shown here is made of simple unadorned materials: bamboo, cotton, stone and paper (desaturated and raw). What makes it so powerful is its haunting use of emptiness. Blank sheets of paper form a massive arc that stretches more than 30 feet in length and 15 feet tall — a three-dimensional void that crests above the bodies of visitors. Frozen in time and space, this work allows the observer to contemplate the moment just before the overwhelming wave collapses on them. A powerful Eastern art statement in a Western museum space.

Due to his success he is also perhaps one of the most controversial artists in history. His work started gaining notoriety in the 1980s along with other artists who were exploring the meaning and purpose of art in a media-saturated society. Labeled by art experts as a Pop artist, Koon’s work is monumental, colorful and takes the form of widely recognized mass-produced objects. The image here shows a part of a work entitled Balloon Dog, a 10-feet tall polished stainless steel sculpture that looks like a trinket one might purchase for their child at a carnival or street fair. The work is a part of a series Koons calls Celebration. Koons was exposed early on to the art of presentation and commerce in his father’s furniture store, and today he strives to produce art objects that achieve visual perfection — a flawless visual experience.

Some suggest that Koons’ work is pioneering and of major significance — celebrating consumerism, optimism, individuality and sex. Others dismiss his work as kitsch based on cynical self-merchandising.  Koons himself has stated that there are no hidden meanings in his work. I have to say that his work leaves me flat … and perhaps that is the point. Could it be that he so perfectly captured the shallowness of our commercial pursuits and the emptiness of our self–absorbed mindset that his work is simultaneously brilliant and completely meaningless? Is his commercial success further evidence that he tapped into the prevailing, underlying attitudes and aspirations of our age? I find it interesting that the most intriguing aspect of the experience is seeing your reflection repeated, rotated and stretched along the paper thin, colorful surfaces.

Larry Bell is an American painter and sculptor, born in 1939, and based on his ideas, he is often compared to contemporaries such as James Turrell. Bell’s art deals with visual perception and fashioning a dynamic visual experience. He accomplishes this by challenging traditional expectations of an art object and involving the viewer as well as the surrounding environment in the work. Bell’s early work included a series of small and intimate shadow boxes that utilize mirrors and windows. In his 1966 exhibition entitled Primary Structure he suspended these cubes on clear pedestals, allowing the viewer to examine the cube from every angle — even from underneath. As his work evolved the pieces got much larger, becoming environments that engage the human body. Surprisingly, he makes these complex visual experiences by manipulating the flat planes used to compose simple geometric forms.

The work shown here, entitled Bill and Coo at MOCA’s Nest, is a simple glass box within a box.  Both volumes are made of laminated glass with a transparent colored film placed between the glass planes.  The first box has a Cerise and Habanerocolored film and the second volume employs a Carmine and Hibiscus colored film. You can walk around the work but can’t physically enter the cubes. As you walk around the colored box, the panels reflect the surrounding environment — in this case the buildings and people in a small urban courtyard. The complex reflections and transparencies make it difficult to comprehend and process what you are perceiving. This phenomenon makes the act of seeing a more conscious, intentional effort. The experience is disquieting because as you approach the cube your reflection gets ensnared inside the inner cube.

This building is one of the largest automotive museums in the world, housing more than 100 vehicles in more than 25 distinct galleries.   Focusing on Southern California car culture, it holds many of the conceptual vehicles used in specatular Hollywood blockbusters like Back to the Future, Cars, Blade Runner and Batman Returns. This museum not only documents the evolution of the automobile but our love affair with the technology — how it has captured our affection and imagination.

The dramatic skin on this building is evocative of speed and organic forms that cover the complex, inner workings of a vehicle. The skin is supported by a simple red box building, like a car body mounted to a frame. The stainless steel ribbons that cover the building weigh more than 100 tons and are held in place by 25 struts and more than 140,000 custom stainless steel screws. During my visit I was struck by how the automobile became so embedded in our lives, culture and art. Even if you don’t own one, automobiles have dominated our experiences — both real and imaginary — for decades.

They have transformed our cities and rural landscapes. This complex piece of equipment has fused itself to our everyday lives in a way few technologies can boast. It has become a part of who we are, how we think and how we behave in the world.

We are certainly at an inflection point regarding transportation technologies, and it is interesting to speculate how our relationship with the automobile will evolve. Many purport technological advances are not strong enough to disrupt our love affair with our cars. Others say that new technologies will save lives and make owning a personal car impractical. Some think electric, driveless vehicles will merge with communication technologies to become a high velocity, personal, immersive cell phone. Some speculate personal vehicles will eventually take to the air. Regardless of the future we will need museums and these collections to remind us of days past — to help us understand our changing relationship with this potent technology.

The Sonoran Desert, home to Phoenix and Tucson, receives an additional 10 inches of rain per year. Most of the vegetation people think of as desert plants grows in the Sonoran Desert. Flora like the majestic saguaro cactus or striking ocotillo can’t grow naturally in the Mojave due to the lack of precipitation.

This lack of water has forced local municipalities to be innovative with water conservation and management. Over the past decade the population in Southern Nevada has increased approximately 50% but the per capita water usage has decreased by 38%. Today a mere 10% of the valley’s water supply comes from the ground water — the remaining 90% comes from Lake Mead. Despite being in its back yard, Nevada is not the only state that lays claim to Lake Mead’s water. Nevada receives only 326,000 gallons of water per year from the lake — or 4% of the lake’s total water allocation. Water stored in Lake Mead, fed by the Colorado River, is also shared with Arizona (37%) and California (59%).

The Clark County Wetlands Park, shown here, preserves, enhances and educates the community about this vital natural and cultural resource. The wetlands’ 12-mile flow to Lake Mead today is predominantly  fed by more than 180 million gallons of reclaimed water from the valley’s five water treatment plants.   Clark County receives additional water credits for each gallon of water fed back into Lake Mead through this system. Twenty-one constructed weirs — or low dams — retain water in various area of this park before reaching the lake. This 1,200-acre park supports a variety of plants and animals including spiny soft shell turtles, coots, beaver, coyotes and dragonflies. Trails through the park were opened to the public in 2001, and construction of a 10,000-square foot educational facility was completed in 2013.  Human remains discovered in the park have allowed archeologists to reconstruct a sequence of occupation. It reminds us who came before us and how this wilderness sustains our lives today.

In 2013 Louis Vuitton commissioned artist James Turrell to develop an installation located in a hidden space above their store in Crystals luxury shopping mall designed by starchitect Daniel Libeskind. The work, entitled Akhob, an Egyptian term meaning “pure water,” is open to the public but requires setting up an appointment often times months in advance. Groups of 4-6 are guided through a 24-minute experience by a team of trained docents. This highly choreographed process ensures visitors are prepared for the experience and the work is properly respected.

The work consists of two chambers that are flooded with colored light — light that gradually changes during your visit. The transition between floor and walls, walls and ceiling are masterfully smoothed so you don’t perceive the edges of the space. This creates the feeling of boundless space engulfed with colored light — producing a feeling of being submerged in the light itself. No photos are allowed so the image shown here is a rare photo found on an internet site promoting the installation. The experience is elegant, peaceful, mysterious and profound.

Although I am personally grateful and impressed, I will likely never purchase anything at a Louis Vuitton store, and I imagine many more visitors are in a similar situation. Luxury brands will often associate with great art and artists to advance their status. However, I can’t imagine my presence in their store while I was waiting for my appointment elevated their brand — in fact I am quite sure it was diminished.

My favorite moment was speaking to the docents about their experience. I was incredibly curious what working in the environment was like. I was allowed in the chamber for several minutes, but what would it be like to spend hours every day in these chambers? One staff member said that this job had a profoundly calming effect on his life. Going to work day after day was not a burden or something he dreaded — it was the most calming, peaceful part of his life. He commented on the stark contrast between his work environment and the mayhem we are all subject to in this world. His job improved his health, lowered his blood pressure and stress levels. How many of us can say that about our jobs? We could all use a bit more art in our lives!

is the North McCullough Wilderness. This protected wilderness contains an extraordinary number of ancient petroglyphs fashioned by native cultures, which date back to the Archaic period  (8000 BC–1000 BC).  Most of the rock art panels occur in a small area in Sloan Canyon, creating an impressive open-air rock art museum. With more than 300 panels and 1,700 individual design elements, some have called it the Sistine Chapel of Native American rock art.

It is reported that clearly identifiable representational elements, such as bighorn sheep and human figures, constitute only 11% of the various motifs. Surprisingly the majority are abstract markings with open forms. Although these marks may have had specific cultural meaning to the ancients, their purpose and meaning elude us today. The majority of petroglyphs are created by scratching off a micro layer of rock varnish (also called Rock dust and desert patina) revealing the lighter rock beneath.

The formation of rock varnish seems to be as mysterious as the petroglyphs themselves. What is known is that varnish forms on stable surfaces that are protected from excessive precipitation or wind abrasion. The varnish is composed of clay, iron, magnesium oxides and traces of organic material.

There is so much that is unclear regarding these fascinating abstract markings. What is clear to me is the human need to make our marks on nature and share our experiences and thoughts with others.   Occasionally, I ponder why I am compelled to keep a visual journal — a process and discipline I have maintained for more than two decades. There is something about seeing these ancient markings that reassured me that my urge to make abstract marks on paper is the continuation of an ancient tradition and a manifestation of a real human need. 

The tower was created in 1968 and underwent conservation efforts in 2010. The tower is a tensegrity structure made of aluminum and stainless steel and sits more than 60 ft tall. To transport the piece it had to be separated into two pieces. The nature of the construction and the need to keep the halves in proper tension during the effort added to the complexity of the move. A crew of close to a dozen workers was at hand to disassemble and place the work onto a flatbed trailer.

The Needle Tower is one of more than 60 works displayed year round in the museum’s sculpture garden. Opened in 1974, the garden is said to contain one of the most significant collections of modern/contemporary sculpture in the world. I have highlighted Nelson’s work in another post, but this is by far his tallest. The most dramatic view of the piece occurs when one stands directly underneath it and looks up. Although Nelson does not purposely utilize symbolism, from the center the six-sided Star of David is dramatically and powerfully repeated up into the heavens.

It is interesting to consider that when a museum acquires a piece, it also makes an implicit commitment to protect and preserve it for future generations.

The proper handling and conservation of masterworks requires a great deal of research and skill. Fortunately the Hirshhorn and Smithsonian are committed to the highest standards of art conservation. Due to the diversity of modern/contemporary art-making techniques, conservators must analyze each of the artist’s techniques and use of material. When possible they interview the artist so they can accurately preserve the artist’s original creative vision. No two works of art are the same, and each piece must be treated individually and with great care. The Hirshhorn emphasizes analytical research and material science to better understand and preserve these masterworks for our children’s children. The time and treasure devoted to these vital “back of house” efforts would likely shock the average museum visitor. Museum operations are far more complex than most realize.

The piece is made of wood and stands 8 foot six inches tall.   It was placed and photographed amidst the wind swept rocks of the Redrock Conservation Area – located just west of Las Vegas, Nevada.  This particular piece is a part of a body of work that explores objects described in biblical text.  The form twists and turns, changing its appearance from every vantage point.  Even after studying the piece thoroughly, it is extremely difficult to recall an accurate likeness of the sculpture in one’s mind.  Like the wind our experience of this form is fleeting and eludes our full understanding – yet there it stands, complete and immutable.

“For they sow the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.”  Hosea 8:7 

This haunting statement is laden with several divine principles – one being the principle of multiplication.  The type of seeds one plants, tends and nurtures will determine what will be multiplied and harvested at some point in the future.  The wind in this instance refers to something that is fleeting, corrupt or foolish.  The whirlwind is divine judgement or the intense consequences that, we are reminded later in the text, will not last forever.  In the midst of the whirlwind there is an exquisite plan to restore what was lost – the principle of restoration.  Reaping the whirlwind is never pleasant or comfortable, however, in the end it forces us to grow and strengthen what remains.

The flow of visitors arrives from the swelling Seattle metropolis, which is a mere 25-minute ferry ride across Puget Sound. It is reported that more tourists take the ferry to Bainbridge Island than visit the city’s iconic Space Needle. The trip is a relatively inexpensive way for a visitor to get on the water and sample the sound’s celebrated island life. The streetscape improvements were a response to this increased traffic and included wider sidewalks, parking, custom benches, elegant landscaping, and a low-impact drainage system that flows into a series of bio-swales.

The improvements were largely successful but exposed a few glaring lapses in judgement. By far, the worst decision was to save a few dollars and keep the powerlines above ground. The lines could have easily been placed underground while the sidewalks were being replaced. It is a tragedy to see visitors dodging poorly placed power poles as they pass in and out of quaint storefronts. Another lapse of judgement was to preserve several older “improvement projects.” The bench shown above may be sentimental to a few residents, but it diminishes the streetscape.

The bench planter was not designed well and has not aged gracefully — except for the bricks that are engraved with the names of the donors. It is not comfortable to sit on, and the black plastic sheet to inhibit weed growth is the most visible part of this eyesore.

When a community spends public funds to make improvements to our civic spaces, how do they decide what is worth keeping and what needs to be replaced? I can say with confidence that there isn’t a designer worth their salt that would have recommended keeping this bench. It was undoubtedly a few influential individuals who asserted themselves into the decision-making process. We all want to honor our history, important causes and the individuals that came before us, but perhaps a privately funded public bench is not the best option. If the reason this bench was built was so important, why wasn’t greater care taken in its initial design, fabrication and maintenance? To preserve an object in our public spaces that object should have broad collective meaning, importance and be able to stand the test of time.

The image here shows a detail of an enormous painting entitled Pickett’s Charge by LA artist Mark Bradford. The floor-to-ceiling work wraps around the cylindrically shaped Hirshhorn Museum. It envelops the entire inner ring of the second floor. This impressive, ominous work is a site-specific installation that was inspired by a large panoramic painting completed in 1883 by French artist Paul Dominique Phillppoteaux. That historic cyclorama (a 360-degree diorama) depicts Pickett’s Charge, which occurred on the last day of the Battle of Gettysburg in 1861.  Phillppoteaux’s work shows the event from a Union soldier’s vantage point and is on permanent display at the Gettysburg Visitor Center in Pennsylvania.

At the time, Phillppoteaux’s work was so mesmerizing, immersive and life-like that it reportedly moved veterans of the battle to tears.

For Bradford, an African American artist from South Central Los Angeles, and countless others, this seemingly distant Civil War battle and related political and social struggle remain relevant today. Bradford’s version takes reproductions of that historic work and corrupts them in a variety of ways — through layering, scratching, tearing, shredding and weaving. This beautiful, captivating, yet violent work prompts one to consider how history is written, recorded and challenged over time. Who records the historical narratives? From what perspectives are these narratives told? Who is left out of these narratives? Who keeps and protects these narratives for future generations? How do we reconstitute these narratives so they are relevant today?

Most architects would agree that this was the project that Gehry took too far. Although the MoPOP has signature Gehry forms, the colors and exuberance departs from his more sophisticated compositions such as the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain. I knew the project architect, and he left Gehry’s firm in frustration after its completion.

What is most intriguing to me about this project is the roof. The tops of buildings are not the place you expect to find elaborate, well-designed surfaces. Usually they get minimal design attention — perhaps a screen to block mechanical equipment from the street view. It is common for design efforts and money to be concentrated on areas of a building that are most visible. Infill buildings traditionally have one façade that gets design attention; a corner building gets two facades. Occasionally three or four sides of a building are visible and must be designed with the same intensity.

Understanding that this building sat next to the Space Needle and would be viewed from above by thousands every day, the design team treated the roof as the fifth façade.

More and more rooftops are being seen as opportunities rather than leftover space. More people are using their roofs as recreational/living space — perhaps to take advantage of a view.  Uber just released a new design for an affordable air taxi. With an increase in air traffic and the introduction of ideas like Uber Air, will the roof become more important than the parts of buildings visible from the street? Will the roof become the primary building statement and entrance for the affluent traveler? What happens to the ground level of our buildings when air taxis become commonplace? It is exciting to speculate about the future of the fifth façade.

I am generally unimpressed by figurative sculptures that are realistically rendered, but I will make an exception for this untitled work by London artist Ron Mueck. Mueck spent much of his professional career as a puppeteer and model maker. He used an airbrush to render this shockingly accurate rendition of human flesh. When a first-time visitor enters the room they remain startled until it registers the figure is a work of art and unreal. The sculpture sits in the corner of an otherwise empty room. The open space amplifies the impact of this work. This monumental yet unidealized human figure stands in stark contrast to Renaissance sculptures that attempt to celebrate the beauty and perfection of the human figure.

Mueck also masterfully manipulates scale — the figure shown here is oversized and sits approximately 7 feet tall. When you first see the figure in an empty room its size is not apparent. It is only when you approach the figure that you comprehend how large it is in comparison to your own body. An enormous, naked, hairless, blue-eyed, white male seemingly sent to the corner of the room — as if in timeout. You can sense the power in the figure, but its position and expression leaves it vulnerable and ineffectual. The Big Man watches the activities in the room out of the corner of his eye with a hint of disdain, as if waiting for his castigation and public embarrassment to end — forcefully unreal.

There was no grand entrance or sign marking the park. As I ventured further into the park the infrastructure appeared modest and unexceptional. However, the improvements were effective tools or devices that heightened one’s experience and connection to the natural environment. The highlight of the visit was venturing out on a quarter-mile raised walkway that hovered above the wetlands. The habitat was teeming with life, and that unassuming walkway allowed visitors to experience the wetlands in a way that otherwise would have been impossible. The image above was captured from this walkway. It was hard to leave, and my wife and I spent the next three hours driving around searching for real estate nearby. 

This experience made me ponder the importance of first-hand encounters with nature and in contrast the new powerful tools that produce dramatic depictions of earth’s wilderness.

The deep ocean submersibles in BBC’s Blue Planet series allows us to access a largely unknown ecosystem with creatures we have never seen before. Spectacular 4K drone footage provides us with unique and compelling views of landscapes, various creatures and natural phenomenon.  The footage captured with these tools are mesmerizing and spectacular, but do they draw us closer to the natural world? When we go for a hike or experience wilderness first hand, how can one even approximate these spectacular representations? Like touching up photos of already beautiful people or immersing ourselves in social media, do these images and tools provide a counterfeit relationship with nature? Do they act as a substitute, diminishing our real encounters? Are these images wilderness porn, ultimately driving us further away from the relationships and connections we truly seek?

It is a substantial stone structure on a 57-acre plot, full of well-kept gardens designed by Fredrick Law Olmsted. President Theodore Roosevelt witnessed the start of its construction in 1907 and President George H.W. Bush its completion in 1990. Although the Cathedral is an Episcopal church it is open to all people and is intended to be a spiritual home for the nation that promotes peace and unity. The church receives no financial support from the government but has served as the site for countless important functions including presidential funerals and inaugural prayer services.

In 2011 the structure was damaged by a magnitude 5.8 earthquake and sustained more than $34 million in damage. With more than $16 million yet to be raised, the extensive repairs are still underway. The cathedral contains a curious array of art, artifacts and memorials not limited to religious or spiritual themes.

One that I found particularly odd was the memorial for Larz Anderson (1866–1937) a bon vivant of the Gilded Age who married into money,

lived a privileged life, served briefly and unremarkably in the Spanish American War, and held several appointed positions. Yet, as far as I can tell, he had no substantial accomplishments or legacy other than several major donations made by the family after his passing — including an impressive collection of carriages and vintage motorcars.

I personally see no reason why Anderson should be immortalized next to Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King in the Washington National Cathedral. There is little doubt in my mind that this memorial was the result of a substantial donation. I mean no disrespect to Anderson or his family — he likely was an honorable man — but often the hubris of wealth and privilege can result in a public embarrassment. Ironically, the streams of rainbow-colored light that cover Anderson’s memorial passes through the stained glass Space Window that commemorates the Apollo 11 mission to the moon.  The window famously holds a moon rock brought back by the crew.

It is a quote from the statesman and historian, George Bancroft (1800–1891). Although Bancroft is most noted for his contributions to secondary education — he established the US Naval Academy in 1845 — he also held the post of Secretary of the Navy as well as Minister to Germany and the United Kingdom.

As I read this inscription I couldn’t help but think about an academic essay written by Francis Fukuyama in 1989 entitled The End of History. The basic premise of the paper is that history is a series of big ideas and these big ideas are manifest in a particular society or culture that for a time dominates the world. That dominance continues until that particular big idea runs its course and is replaced by a better idea — embodied in a different society. In his paper he speculated that we had reached the end of history because there was no credible challenge to liberal democratic capitalism embodied by the United States. As you can imagine his paper instigated a vigorous discussion.

One response to this essay was rather disquieting. The question was asked: If the United States were indeed the embodiment of the last great idea, what does it do better than any other countries and cultures on the planet?

Is it the best-educated country? No. Is it the healthiest country? No. Is it the happiest country? No. Is it the most moral county? No. The conclusion was that the US consumes more stuff than any other civilization in the history of the world, and every year we consume this stuff in greater and greater quantities.

With less than 5% of the world population the United States consumes more than 25% of the world’s oil and more than 23% of the earth’s coal. There are more shopping malls in the United States than high schools. The average person living in the US consumes 2.5 times more than a person in Japan, 35 times more than a person in India and a staggering 53 times more than a person in China. The United States produces over half the globe’s waste. Each of us consumes an average of 159 gallons of water a day while over half the earth’s population uses less than 25 gallons per day. It is estimated that the average child born in the United States will create 13 times more ecological damage than a child born in Brazil.

I think even Bancroft would be startled at the breadth and depth of US commercial endeavors.  Consumer activity or commerce appears to be our nation’s super power, and it has certainly invaded every zone.

During a recent trip to Washington, D.C. I visited the Hirshhorn Museum and saw a powerful installation entitled The Evidence Room. The exhibition was developed by an architectural team from the University of Waterloo and was originally commissioned for the 2016 Venice Biennale. The work compiles the architectural evidence of the Holocaust. A portion of a plaster cast, shown here, depicts the drawings used to construct the gas chambers at Auschwitz. The other 68 panels outline detailed plans for the largest facility designed for systematic mass murder in world history. Interestingly, much of this forensic evidence was used in the 2000 libel case that proved the purpose and intent of the Nazis’ regime and this horrific site.

The evidence consists of a well thought out set of construction documents for building a death factory, equipped with gas chambers and crematoria. Architects often attempt to avoid responsibility for their work by thinking of it as a benign service — simply giving form to the needs of their clients and society. However, this exhibit clearly demonstrates the responsibilities we all have when utilizing our knowledge, skills and talent. Architectural Historian Robert Jan van Pelt, one of the exhibition team members, correctly called this “the greatest crime ever committed by architects.” The Evidence Room serves as a space of contemplation — to consider the personal and professional responsibilities we all have to ensure that the horrors of the past are never repeated.

The economic analyst Ajay Kapur was advising his clients a decade ago to “bet on the rich” — advice that proved sound. In 2000 Kapur coined the term Plutonomy to describe economies that concentrate wealth at the top. Surprisingly, after more than two decades of increased global wealth disparity — the US being the most unequal among the developed economies — he is no longer dispensing that advice. He sees the political winds shifting and points out that “nobody is ready for this new world.”

This may be true among investment bankers but artists have been sounding the alarm bell for decades. Work shown here was completed by artist and architect Alfredo Jaar.  Born and educated in Chile, Jaar is currently living in New York City. Jaar’s art deals with the public’s desensitization to images of cruelty, human rights violations, epidemics and famines. His work is a witness to political/corporate corruption, military conflicts and the power held by developed nations over developing nations. His film work takes on topics such as the mass killings in Rwanda, toxic pollution in Nigeria as well as issues that arise on the US-Mexico border.

This particular piece, entitled Cries and Whispers, deals with the inequality and injustice faced by Brazilian gold miners.

In Jaar’s own words, “There’s this huge gap between reality and its possible representations. And that gap is impossible to close. So as artists, we must try different strategies for representation… (A) process of identification is fundamental to create empathy, to create solidarity, to create intellectual involvement.” 

The work here is comprised of two rectangular light boxes with colored transparencies.  The images that appear in the light boxes feature a Brazilian gold miner clutching a handful of money. A close up of the figure’s face appears in the other light box. Both images are placed at the edge of the boxes with the rest of the frame containing white space. Removing any context forces the viewer to focus on the individual’s humanity.  Placing the figure at the bottom of the frame reinforces his marginalized standing within systems of power — he remains stuck at the bottom.

I have always been fascinated with how space is composed and experienced. When you consider space you must look beyond the objects or elements that define it and study the void. This is the territory our bodies and minds occupy, and each situation offers a unique set of conditions and experiences. Move or remove a single element and the experience of a space changes. Space is easy to overlook because we are always surrounded by some spatial condition — it is like the air we breathe. As I have studied and made spaces over the years, I have always considered the least number of actions required to meaningfully transform or impact a particular space. That is why I admire and am intrigued by the work of American artist Fred Sandbacik.

Sandbacik studied under Donald Judd at Yale, and his work includes sculpture, painting and prints. In the work shown here, untitled (1990), he takes simple store bought acrylic yarn and stretches it between the floor and ceiling of the exhibition spaces.  In describing his work Sandbacik states, “It’s a consequence of wanting the volume of sculpture without the opaque mass…to make sculpture that didn’t have an inside.” Although he talks in terms of the art object, Sandback clearly sees his interventions operating in space and actively impacting the viewer’s movement and experience. His stripped-down interventions allow the viewer to consider the impact of each string, each of which has a surprisingly powerful spatial impact.

Discarded, displaced materials scavenged from Chile, New York City and the deteriorating coast of Louisiana are the components of Cecilia Vicuña’s captivating precario sculptures. Despite being made of rubbish the precario sculptures are hauntingly beautiful. This vast body of work varies in scale and has been developing for more than four decades. Many of the earlier pieces in this series no longer exist — living only in the memories of those who saw the work. The fact that they are not well documented adds to their precarious nature. This particular exhibition, About to Happen, was held at the Henry Museum at the University of Washington in 2019 and was Vicuña’s first major showing in the United States.

The image above is a portion of a small sculpture the size of your hand, suspended from the ceiling with clear filament. Vicuña believes her work speaks to the insecurity of people and the collapse of our landscapes in this time of global climate change. The Chilean-born artist has a unique vision, and her work is not restricted to a single media, expression or discipline. She has published more than 20 books; she is also a poet, visual artist, filmmaker and performs internationally. We all feel anxious when we are impacted by conditions beyond our immediate control; however, Vicuña’s work gives me hope that we can find and fashion something beautiful from what remains.

This search led him to limit his palate to the three primary colors (the colors when mixed make all other colors), black, white and grey (the three primary values) and horizontal and vertical lines. Mondrian not only impacted the course of several art movements, architecture and fashion, but Modernism itself.

Traditional compositions tend to have a center or focal point — a spot around which other elements are organized. At a time when, culturally, the notion of center seems to be losing its authority, it is interesting to consider compositions that defy this notion of center. I wrote earlier about Jackson Pollock’s splatter paintings, which created fields rather than a single focal point.

Greg Schufreider, a friend and philosopher, introduced me to the idea that Mondrian may have been searching for a centerless composition as well.

At first glance it seems that a focal point should be easily located, but pinpointing the exact location proves elusive. Consider each line, form and color’s “visual weight” — its ability to command your attention and stand out from the other compositional elements. Now point to the place where all those elements are visually balanced — but don’t burst a blood vessel – in this case it may not exist. If attempting to locate a visual center is too unsettling, maybe you should pour yourself a stiff drink or perhaps take up yoga. 

2008 when the site-specific work was acquired by the museum. The work consists of three walls that forms a central triangular space that visitors can enter. One slightly curved wall is constructed of reflective glass — intended to celebrate modern corporate architecture and Bunshaft’s design. The second wall is a wood lattice derived from traditional Japanese architecture. The third side looks like a typical commercial building entrance with a set of double glass doors.

Graham is considered a key player in the development of conceptual art. The work provides the viewer with a dynamic visual experience with multiple reflections and transparencies composed by the shape, placement and material of the three walls.  What I found most interesting was perhaps an unintended result of this work. The curved glass wall faces south and as a result focuses the sun’s energy on a small area, resulting in a dead spot in the grass fronting the sculpture.

This reminded me of the time I was contacted by the media to comment on the “death ray.”

The death ray was caused by the curved façade of the 57-floor Vdara Hotel at the City Center resort on the Las Vegas Strip. The sun was magnified and focused on a small spot in the pool area. The death ray reportedly melted cups, burned guests and raised the temperature of the pool area by 20 degrees. After some inquiry, the architects assured me that this phenomenon was a known condition and modeled prior to construction. Their solution? Place a film on the glass to reduce the effect. When I was asked what they should do, I told them to turn a negative into a positive. Use the focused heat as fuel for a solar oven that could bake bread for the growing homeless population in Las Vegas. They did not find my suggestion humorous and opted for a shade structure instead.

Flat screen technology was not commercially available until 1997, and the first videowall using multiple TV screens was not built until 1985 — when Paik began his TV series.

Paik was on the edge of technological advances. He not only utilized the technology but was an innovator in this space. As early as 1963 Paik was working with engineers to develop the video synthesizer, a key element in the work shown here, entitled Video Flag. Although immersed in the technology of the day, Paik was a devout Buddhist and never drank, smoked or drove a car. This particular piece uses 70 monitors that display rapidly moving red, white and blue images that form the stars and stripes of the American Flag. The work was intended to engage an otherwise passive viewer by embracing American pop culture and technology’s increasing role in shaping our lives.

His work was considered a part of a Neo-Dada art movement labeled Fluxus, which was greatly influenced by musician John Cage.

On a personal note, Paik’s work piggybacked on technological advances credited to one of my distant ancestors, John Logie Baird, a Scottish-born engineer.  He was credited with demonstrating the first working television in 1926. He later conducted the first successful transatlantic TV transmission and developed the first purely electronic color television picture tube. Baird’s development of broadcasting and home entertainment technology has secured his place in TV history. He was listed as one of the 100 Greatest Britons and was inducted into the Scottish Science Hall of Fame in 2015. 

This has led to a crisis of sorts where we no longer discuss or adequately teach composition in our programs.  If it can’t be measured we can’t rationally or reasonably discuss it in an academic setting — unless of course we are hooking subjects up to contraptions to measure their brain waves while they have these “feelings.”  To fill the void most makers turn to mimicry or outright copying — largely unaware and ignorant of what they are doing. In this context art and composition becomes self-referential and quickly loses its meaning and impact. This is how I feel about the new Seattle City Hall Building shown above.

The Seattle City Hall was designed by the award-winning, Pennsylvania-based architecture firm Bohlin Cywinski Jackson. Completed in 2003, it sits on a steeply sloped block near Pioneer Square. The building is skillfully detailed and was constructed with above average craft.

It is an energy efficient, LEED-certified building and has won numerous design awards and accolades. However, whenever I visit the building it falls flat. There is a part of me that desperately wants to enjoy and appreciate the building, yet I don’t. I have taken students to the building on field trips, and they appear to have a similar response. After several visits I realized that the building was conceived as an assemblage of pieces, parts and features. Each compositional move appears to be inspired by the work of other architects — a little Frank Gehry, a little Rem Koolhaas, a pinch of Renzo Piano, but no soul. It is like going to a musical concert where all the proper notes were played by technically competent musicians, but the result is unmoving and dissatisfying. It is like experiencing a copy of a copy of an idea executed by individuals who lost sight of (or perhaps never truly understood) the parts, pieces and features they were appropriating.

It can be hard for people to make this connection when the average person spends 93% of their time indoors. It is even more challenging to make connections to nature in dense urban area where the street can be as lifeless as the inside of a building. This is why Central Park is so important to the vitality of New York City; why indoor-outdoor living has become a major trend in housing; and why pet ownership in the United States has dramatically increased.

This image was taken in the lobby of a high-rise condominium building in downtown Seattle. I affectionately call this “nature in a box.” At first it seems silly to carve out a space that is so valuable to place a rock, a small tree and some ungroomed grass.  What is equally remarkable is the building must have been designed around this small patch of dirt to ensure it received enough sunlight to sustain life.

Like a Japanese rock garden this space is not to be physically inhabited but rather occupied only by one’s mind and imagination. This space is small yet extremely powerful. If this space were accessible it would undoubtedly be visited by every dog in the building.

No, this tiny, precious, sliver of nature was placed in a protective jewel box. As you enter the building off the street in an automobile you are at eye level with the tree until you dip beneath it to find your parking space. As a pedestrian you must pass by it every time you enter or exit the building. By day it filters natural light inside the heart of the building and in the evening it is lit becoming a giant glowing night-light. It sets a tone, provides a calming feeling, changes one’s frame of mind and, as a consequence, alters the energy inside the building. It is a small potent move that like a catalyst alters the very DNA of the building.

For example, a storefront window system like the one shown above is usually set up on a module so the interior space can be easily subdivided, doors can be easily inserted where needed and glass can be economically replaced if damaged. Every material that goes into a building is the product of a complex manufacturing process.

I once saw a piece of glass that was 9’ tall and over 45’ long. I was told it cost more than $100,000 just to transport it across town. It was truly impressive to stand next to it. We can make almost anything, but to keep costs at a reasonable level you need to work within the parameters set by supply chains engaged in mass production. The bigger the piece of glass the harder it is to manufacture, transport and install. Windows made 100 years ago were divided into small sections because our ability to produce glass was limited in size and expensive. I find it incredibly ironic that you will often see a large sheet of glass today with an applied grid to mimic older windows.

If the owner of those old windows saw the large sheets of glass that are common place today they would likely feel the same way I did when I stood beside that enormous sheet of glass.

What vexes me are situations like the one captured here, when the logic of a building is completely disregarded. The business that moved into this downtown storefront spent a great deal of money and effort on this renovation. However, they obviously did not take the time to understand or respect the building’s underlying logic. Please note that the interior wall could have easily been pushed back or jogged so that the end of the wall met the building at the point the exterior wall transitioned to a solid material. Instead, we are required to look into an empty unfinished cavity from a busy urban sidewalk. They didn’t even bother to put a film on the window. It is unclear if this is a product of apathy, incompetence or ignorance. All I know is that I, like hundreds of others, have to walk past this mess every day.

What is interesting about this particular machine is the way it mirrors the human body – it is about the size of a human being, has two legs and a screen that presents information at eye level. Similar to ATMs at banks and the self-checkout stations in grocery stores, human order takers have not been entirely eliminated but are currently offered as an option. The digital order taker is often seen as a convenience, time saver or perhaps the way to circumvent the messiness of interacting with a real person.

I spent some time observing how people interacted with this technology and found it interesting who chose to use the kiosk. It was usually younger adults or people in business attire that seemed to be in a hurry. I personally did not see groups or couples use the kiosk, they opted for the human being. Commerce used to ensure that people had at least some interaction with other fellow humans — no more. I fondly remember the commercial district adjacent to our home in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

All the businesses were locally owned and operated and we knew the owners and workers —  many of whom lived in the neighborhood. I recall the clerk at the drug store who regularly held our newborn son as my wife shopped.

There was a global survey taken to measure overconfidence, and students in the United States rank themselves the best in the world at math — the US ranks 36^th in math performance. Ironically, South Korean students consider themselves the worst at math and rank first in the world. Not surprisingly, people in technology rank highest in overconfidence. When administered an exam, individuals employed in the tech industry believed they got 95% of the questions correct when they averaged a mere 20%.  These are the individuals who are designing our experiences and determining how we will interact with each other moving into the future. The next time you order something on Amazon, use an ATM or go through the self-check aisle at the grocery store, consider what you might be giving up.

We can meet the needs of this group rather easily by creating institutions and facilities that care for people who are unable to care for themselves. What keeps us from meeting these needs is the high cost of providing those services.

The second population is made up of individuals who live paycheck to paycheck and due to illness or some misfortune lose their job, which results in a downward cycle. This population is largely isolated and do not have family members or a social network capable of helping them through a difficult time. This group does not have access to mainstream credit and unfortunately often rely on high interest payday loans that eventually they can’t repay. As the economic realities get harder for those who often lack education and operate on the margins of our economy, this group is growing.

The third group is hidden and would likely never admit to being homeless. Shockingly a large number of people in this situation are children.

Tragically many of these at-risk youth are exploited. Over 65% of students in Clark County School District suffer from food insecurity and participate in the free lunch program. It is estimated that approximately 10,000 of these students are currently homeless. Not meeting the needs of the most vulnerable in our communities seems unconscionable and immoral.

Instead of confronting the causes of homelessness we spend precious tax money on ridiculous projects like the one shown here.  This beautifully designed water feature between a federal building and the Historic Fifth Street School in downtown Las Vegas was recently fenced off, to keep the homeless from using it to bathe or clean their clothes.  Not only is this a symbol and monument to our communities indifference and inaction but it deprives everyone the pleasure of enjoying this amazing urban park.

Wines came to prominence in the 1970s for his bold big box retail buildings designed for the BEST stores. When I was a graduate student I remember saving $100 to buy a book of his work, which I still cherish to this day. I found his bold, sophisticated, yet playful proposals refreshing. In my opinion his work elevated the discussion around the architecture of everyday commerce. He demonstrated that architecture could be serious and whimsical at the same time.

I have always enjoyed the fact that I can walk to and get a reasonably priced meal in one of his projects. The prices and menu are standard; however, there is a sense of pride the employees have at this particular restaurant that I am convinced translates into food that is prepared and served with greater care. In addition to its playful, exuberant atmosphere this Denny’s has a full bar and wedding chapel! As usual I grabbed my own menu and silverware and bellied up to the bar, ordered my $8.95 breakfast slam and started watching a basketball game.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the staff was scurrying around more than usual and realized they were setting up for a wedding. For a mere $199 a couple can get married with a complimentary bottle of champagne, digital photos/video shot by the wait staff and a festive lollypop wedding cake.

At first glance it may seem ridiculous getting married at a Denny’s, but it is affordable and a far better option than getting married in a courthouse. In addition, if you or anyone in your wedding party gets the munchies you can order a side of piping hot pancakes. For the record the wedding service appeared dignified and to the point – it lasted about seven minutes. For the most part the other customers in the restaurant went about their business. There were many smiles and several congratulatory remarks. I was the only one running around taking pictures.  The event was much more entertaining than the game – only in Las Vegas!

When they got to a particular location they would place the pole in the ground and organize their structures and activities accordingly. It seemed to work well for them until, one day, the pole broke. I don’t know anyone today that carries around a pole but I have met several individuals that believe they are the center of the universe.

Almost every culture’s understanding of space relies on some variation of a “center.” Many of our cities going back to ancient Greece and Rome are laid out in an orthogonal grid derived from the cardinal directions (north, south, east, west). In Roman cities the forum would be placed in the center of the city — where the decumanus maximus (the main east west road) and cardo maximus (the main north south road) would intersect. Systems with five cardinal points found in China and parts of Asia pre-date the Greeks and include the center as a fifth cardinal point.

The cardinal directions are also found in Arabic, Native American, Hindu and aboriginal cultures.

I was relieved however when I recently discovered that the center of the universe resides in Tulsa, Oklahoma — yes, Tulsa. The image above is a picture of the Center of the Universe that attracts over 10,000 visitors every year.  There is an acoustic anomaly at the center and any sound you make while standing in the center is amplified in your ears but garbled for anyone standing outside the circle of concrete benches.  Those who understand acoustics are not impressed — it is like standing under a dome — the concrete benches form a focusing mechanism that reflects the sound waves back to the center. There is no evidence that the park designers intended for this to happen; regardless, from now on I will regard Tulsa as the Center of the Universe.

One example is Supreme and its link to skateboarding and the skateboarding community. These brands often collaborate with artists and other businesses to develop products that embody the community’s beliefs, values and convictions. Interestingly, psychographics linked with microtargeting was the same technique used by Cambridge Analytica in the 2016 US presidential election.

The artists that collaborate on these projects operate within popular culture and embrace consumerism as a viable medium for their work. There is little if any innovative or new products that emerge from these collaborations. Rather they appropriate, say, a hooded sweatshirt, belt or pair of shoes and decorate it with logos, images and decals. Remarkably, this simple move transforms a common piece of clothing that would regularly sell for $19.99 into a fashion statement priced at $495 or more. This business model, combined with the huge profit margins, has spawned a lucrative resale and knock-off industry. When buying this type of clothing determining its authenticity is paramount.

If you are paying hundreds of dollars for a t-shirt in order to identify with a particular social phenomenon you want the “real” thing. Interestingly, verifying authentic product is not much different from determining the authenticity of a work purchased through Christie’s auction house.

Some might argue that purchasing an original work of art is the ultimate “lifestyle” statement. In many ways it is associating yourself with a particular point of view or attitude about life — where the artist becomes a lifestyle brand and the work an expression or symbol of that lifestyle. If this is the case, my personal artistic brand is about art being much more than expressing yourself or affiliating with a particular point of view. It is about enriching your life. It is not the expressive nature of art that makes it so potent — it is art’s transformative potential. Have you ever read a book, watched a movie, heard a song on the radio, stood in front of a painting, experienced a space and realized you weren’t the same person you were before the encounter? I have. That is the intoxicating power of art.

It was a beautiful, compelling sound and gave me a feeling of hopeful melancholy – if there is such a thing. So, it was no surprise that the Scottish landscape struck me in a similar fashion. I also enjoyed sampling the scotch and even grew fond of the “peated” variety, which unfortunately smells like dirty socks. If they weren’t so expensive, I would probably be running around in a kilt today.

There are many curious things in these lands including the Neolithic stone circles. Most people are familiar with Stonehenge, perhaps the largest and most impressive stone circle, but there are several others that dot the Scottish landscape. While on the Isle of Mull my family and I were able to walk right up to one in the middle of a cow field. It was a short hike, dodging cow pies and fence lines before we arrived at the site. The experience did not involve fighting crowds spilling off tour busses, dealing with trinket vendors or screaming children. The experience was as it should be, quiet, peaceful, unrushed and authentic.

I don’t even remember taking a photograph — a sign that I was in the moment and the experience was uninterrupted and meaningful.

Another enchanting phenomenon is the natural rock formations found in and around many of the islands. In a landscape dominated by a lush blanket of green grass draped on top of dark grey volcanic stone, the rocks have a formidable presence. The contrast between these two features is dramatic and compelling. The image above is a geometric rock formation on the edge of the uninhabited Island of Staffa. The hexagonal pillars were created as molten lava cooled and contracted in a process called columnar jointing. These patterns are similar to how mud sometimes dries and cracks into segments.  Sir Joseph Banks in 1772 described his experience of this rock formation in the following way: “(I was) forced to acknowledge that this piece of architecture, formed by nature, far surpasses that of the Louvre, that of St. Peter at Rome, all that remains of Palmyra and Paestum, and all that the genius, the taste and the luxury of the Greeks were capable of inventing.”

You wouldn’t want to admit the client was your dad’s business partner or that you became “well-acquainted” with key individuals on the selection board. That is why I was so pleasantly surprised when I attended a lecture of a friend and former co-worker — Rob Paulus. Rob is an accomplished architect, developer and musician who shared his insights regarding composition. I have long believed that composition is the foundation upon which all artwork is made, yet we rarely discuss it.

We are currently experiencing a crisis of authority and in my opinion no longer adequately teach composition in our schools. This unfortunately drives most to mimic and copy other’s work largely unaware of the meaning and impact a particular composition embodies. We have lost control of the words and concepts we used to illuminate our understanding of composition. Beauty or a great composition is in the eye of the beholder, right? How can you tell someone their feelings or preferences are incorrect or untrained? However, Rob’s presentation toggled back and forth from him riffing on his bass guitar and showing his architectural projects.

He talked about how architecture is a collaborative art form that is experienced — much like music.  He explained how both art forms require thousands of hours of focused commitment to master.

Both art forms have an identifiable structure and employ similar strategies for creating interest or emphasis.  One basic strategy is layering substructures on top of the primary structure or by breaking with the structure altogether. He demonstrated how anticipation can be created by controlling the space between notes, what visual artists call the negative space. He demonstrated how different compositions profoundly impacted one’s experience and emotions.

It occurred to me during the presentation that these experiences and observations were not just discerned by individuals but were experienced and perceived collectively, perhaps universally. Everyone in the room could tell the difference between a piece of music that was sad vs energetic or angry vs soothing, and it is the same way with architecture. The presentation was a breath of fresh air; it validated the need for artists to train their intuition, emotions and feelings — the tools that guide them through a process of making complex decisions.  Rob gave us tools to understand and discuss composition in a more productive way.

Perhaps this bank of water fountains would make more sense if Lowe’s regularly hosted busloads of middle schoolers stopping by the store after soccer practice.

Allow me to get into the weeds a bit and explain how this happens. The building/plumbing code requires a certain number of drinking fountains based on the building’s use and occupancy (the maximum number of people allowed in a particular building). Rather than scattering the drinking fountains throughout the store — requiring miles of pipe — they are placed near the bathrooms where the water and sewer lines are located. The drinking fountains are staggered in height to comply with the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). It is a great thing to provide customers with clean drinking water.

It is a great thing to make that water accessible to everyone including those with disabilities, but how about a little common sense?

For those who have never purchased a water fountain, they are expensive. Drinking fountains are also costly to install and operate, not to mention the 15’ of wall and requisite square footage dedicated to providing fresh water to six customers simultaneously. I will spare you from sharing the number of hungry children that could be fed with the money spent on these fountains or the number of wells that could be dug in remote villages. However, I do think this could be transformed into a compelling performance space for six individuals willing to develop a water show that syncs up with Top 40 musical hits. It could be marketed as the “Big Box Bellagio Fountain.” The only problem is transforming this into an assembly space would likely require more drinking fountains.

Despite the inconvenience of having to exit the building through the “trash room” into the alley for a day there was a noticeable energy boost that could be felt throughout the building, an excitement in the residence and building staff. I was told that Meryl Streep was in the movie and that this would likely raise the value of the property and each of our units. For some reason people like the idea of living somewhere that is cool enough to appear in a movie. Plus, the funds obtained in the transaction — to be placed in the building reserve account — were enough for most residents not to complain.

I have long been aware of fashion and products being sold to the general population through product placement or famous people being seen using a particular product, but is this where we are going with buildings and spaces? There is a crappy strip center down the street that was used for a scene in the movie The Hangover.

Throughout history the general population has been enamored by the famous, rich and powerful. However, this is very different from the grand cathedrals that were built to protect relics — such as a piece of wood believed to come from the cross or the remains of an important saint. I wonder what the shelf life is on a Meryl Streep bump to our property value?  Would a music video with Christina Aguilera have been better? What kind of potential buyers are we trying to impress anyway? Should the building designer get a royalty, similar to a musician whose music is used in a commercial? Regardless, I will keep my eye on my Zillow valuation.

Instead of discarding these lists when he is done he saves them as a record. I am not sure why he keeps them, but the documents are compelling. I have for a long time considered them art worthy of an exhibition. The image shown here is a list that my son made. The text appears on both the front and back of the sheet. The paper is folded several times so it could fit into a custom leather pocket protector he designed for the pant leg pocket of his Carhart jeans. The list was kept with a pen, a small metal ruler and probably a few other items he did not reveal to his father. His list reminded me of my friend’s list and rekindled my fascination with how we plan out and order our lives in an attempt to get things done. The items on a to-do list are deeply personal and at first glance might seem mundane.

However, the items constitute a step-by-step plan of action to accomplish larger life goals and objectives. These lists not only reveal the way we see ourselves interacting with the world but illuminate our strategies to obtain what we hold most dear. These tend to be innocent private documents that are developed without pretense – a diary of actions taken, perhaps postponed or ignored entirely. I keep lists, but I never save them. For me the act of discarding my list is cathartic and provides a momentary but significant pleasure. My lists are often kept on my phone and items erased as they are completed. When we get an opportunity to examine these documents in physical form, we should recognize we are looking at art. Art in perhaps its most unpretentious, pragmatic and revealing form.

It is even more challenging to make connections to nature in dense urban area where the street can be as lifeless as the inside of a building. This is why Central Park is so important to the vitality of New York City; why indoor-outdoor living has become a major trend in housing; and why pet ownership in the United States has dramatically increased.

This image was taken in the lobby of a high-rise condominium building in downtown Seattle. I affectionately call this “nature in a box.” At first it seems silly to carve out a space that is so valuable to place a rock, a small tree and some ungroomed grass.  What is equally remarkable is the building must have been designed around this small patch of dirt to ensure it received enough sunlight to sustain life.

Like a Japanese rock garden this space is not to be physically inhabited but rather occupied only by one’s mind and imagination. This space is small yet extremely powerful. If this space were accessible it would undoubtedly be visited by every dog in the building.

No, this tiny, precious, sliver of nature was placed in a protective jewel box. As you enter the building off the street in an automobile you are at eye level with the tree until you dip beneath it to find your parking space. As a pedestrian you must pass by it every time you enter or exit the building. By day it filters natural light inside the heart of the building and in the evening it is lit becoming a giant glowing night-light. It sets a tone, provides a calming feeling, changes one’s frame of mind and, as a consequence, alters the energy inside the building. It is a small potent move that like a catalyst alters the very DNA of the building.

Therefore, people who devote themselves to such an activity likely lack the ambition, rigor and structure required to succeed at a “serious” endeavor. Some assume that because art gives them so much pleasure making the art must have been equally pleasurable.  These are some of the reasons why discipline is rarely a topic discussed in the art world.

It is purported that it takes a minimum of 10,000 hours to master or achieve excellence at any complex activity. This amounts to approximately five years of full-time work — not just showing up to work or punching the clock but rather 10,000 hours of focused effort driven by an earnest curiosity. In most cases excellence requires interaction with an equally driven group of individuals pursuing similar goals or the help of an experienced mentor. There is no difference in the art world.

Although it may not be evident and often is purposely hidden, all artists who consistently produce excellent work have devoted and disciplined themselves in focused pursuit.

Producing art is real work. The image above is abstract artist Sam Gilliam in his studio. Gilliam is currently in his eighties and is still producing art. Excellent art requires discipline and discipline requires real sacrifice. It requires one to choose certain activities over others and setting aside or postponing personal pleasures. It requires our treasure and our most valuable resource of all — our time and attention. Pursuing excellence requires a long-term ongoing investment. To pursue excellence in the arts, as in any other field, requires one to set aside our natural instinct to pursue short-term personal comfort.

In the United States we have seen a growing disinterest in our public spaces in favor of what some are calling quasi-public spaces. Public spaces are those spaces that we collectively own and our local, state and federal governments are supposed to manage for the common good.  These spaces are created and maintained by public tax dollars. Examples of public spaces include public parks, national forests, sidewalks/streets and libraries. Some communities have public swimming pools, recreation centers, town squares, fair grounds, museums or public transportation networks. Public spaces are environments where people’s personal rights inevitably intersect and often conflict. In a democratic society the rules and regulations that guide the use of public spaces are developed through an often laborious political process. The intent of this process is that all interests can be considered before elected officials make decisions.

Quasi-public spaces, on the other hand, have the appearance of being open to all but are in fact privately owned and curated. On private property rules can be established and strict guidelines enforced by a single individual, foundation or business. Because it is expensive to establish and maintain these spaces they usually center around some form of commerce or powerful interest. 

The most visible quasi-public spaces include outdoor shopping malls designed to look like quaint towns, parks/roads in private real estate developments and private university or corporate campuses. Because these spaces are privately owned it is easy to remove, say, a homeless individual or anyone else that may be disrupt or distract from the space’s intended purpose. Although private citizens and businesses cannot legally discriminate, they are granted great latitude in protecting and managing the experience and environment under their control.

What is the cause for people’s lack of interest in our public spaces? Is it the time and effort required to negotiate a diverse, complex, open environment? Are public spaces becoming less important as more of our public life is played out on electronic media? Are we retreating into our private spaces where we don’t need to work out our differences and have ultimate control? Is our lack of investment in public spaces and infrastructure making them unpleasant and unhealthy to occupy? Regardless, I fear we are unwittingly losing a valuable pillar of our civic life.

On Friday, January 11, 2019, Seattle officially closed the double decker viaduct that separated downtown from the waterfront and Elliot Bay. Not only was the viaduct unsightly, but the noise it generated was deafening. The closure was, in part, made possible by Bertha — a 57-foot-diameter boring machine from Japan that after six years of work completed the 1.7-mile tunnel, which rerouted Washington State SR 99 hundreds of feet beneath the city. The entire project cost an estimated $3.3 billion.  When the viaduct is dismantled it will reconnect the city to a revitalized waterfront with a $700 million price tag. That figure does not include a number of private developments that are planned and currently underway. This effort was started in part because safety concerns but the benefits of this project will be incalculable.

It is always difficult for communities to make these massive investments that disrupt and inconvenience the individuals ultimately paying for the project. The processes are always imperfect, take longer than expected and involve unforeseen problems and cost overruns. However, this is a project that will deliver dividends far into the future. The image above is a celebration that occurred on the viaduct in the winter of 2019 and allowed the community to say its goodbyes to the imposing structure. The event allowed people to walk on the roadway. Bands played music, public art was commissioned and displayed, food trucks and restrooms were moved on to the structure and everybody had fun. We said our goodbyes, but few will ever miss it!

Most art is made with the artist in complete control, and the result is a static, unchanging composition in a state of unviolated perfection. However, I have always been fascinated by works of art that allow others to participate or collaborate with the artist in the finished composition. It is even more interesting when the artist involves untrained observers. The piece above is part of a series entitled “your turn.” I wanted to create a piece of art that never stopped moving, with an uncompromising appearance that invited the observer to take part in the composition or visual appearance of the piece — to control it, to manage it, possess it.  The question at the heart of this work is this: How much control can an artist surrender and still be the author of the work?

Hundreds of lead wires protrude from stainless steel box, and then gravity takes over. The wires are in constant motion, but the movement is gradual and cannot be perceived. It may take hours or days for a compositional change to be noticed. The observer is allowed to turn the work in 90-degree increments as they wish and when they wish. The wires get tangled and untangled as they seek a resting place. In this piece I clearly control the “deep structure” and define the rules of play. I do this while granting considerable compositional authority to others. What I find satisfying is that the work can never be diminished and is surprisingly enhanced through the participation of others.

Yes, this is a photo I took of someone in a restroom. No, I am not a creeper. This is an image of the restroom in the understory of the Spheres at the Amazon headquarters in Seattle. The photograph was taken from the main public space that leads directly into a corridor that has sinks on one side and lockable toilet stalls on the other. There is no door or labyrinth of walls to keep people from seeing directly into this space. There are no women’s or men’s stalls, and everyone shares the sink area. The toilet is essentially placed in a small room, which provides more privacy and security than your standard toilet stall. These rooms also provide acoustical separation and superior ventilation to more open toilet rooms. This is a design innovation that has not yet been universally accepted but is becoming more commonplace, especially in the City of Seattle.

Although at first it requires some mental reframing, this scheme has several benefits that will eventually make it the new standard in public restroom design. First of all it saves space. Restrooms designed in this fashion take up less space and therefore cost less money. Secondly, you never experience long lines for the women’s restroom while there are stalls in the men’s room that are not being used — or vice versa. This provides more flexibility and requires fewer stalls to serve the same number of people. Lastly, this design also provides universal access, which eschews the controversy over gender identity and what restroom various people should use. This is an excellent example of how thoughtful designs can resolve complex social conflicts while saving money, improving efficiency and creating a better user experience.

The image shown here is a fragment of a poem created by Quenton Baker and funded by the 2016 James W. Ray Venture Project Award. This particular untitled poem was displayed at the Frye Art Museum in 2018. Baker is a Seattle-based poet and educator who continues to receive prestigious awards and accolades. Instead of being written, this untitled poem was remarkably produced through a process of removing text or redaction.

The underlying text is a reproduction of the US Senate document regarding the 1842 Creole Revolt. The document outlines the case surrounding a commandeered ship that resulted in the most successful slave revolt in US history. Madison Washington led a group of slaves and seized control of a ship bound for New Orleans.

They readjusted course and instead sailed to the British-controlled island of Nassau. The Brits had abolished slavery in 1833, so the island provided a safe haven and freedom for 135 souls that day.

This past year and in recent days we have been exposed to numerous redacted court documents. Speculation swirls as legal experts and news pundits scramble to decode the meaning of the cloaked text. In this instance the redactions are intended to protect secrets and privileged information from the public. What makes Baker’s work so potent is that he uses the reductive process to illuminate not to conceal. Baker’s poem starts with an historic legal document, available to the public and modifies it through a subtractive process to shed light on the troubling impact of slavery.

The blue color is said to represent the sky and heavens and serve as a reminder to live a spiritual life. It is interesting to note that there is a large Muslim population with several Mosques through city and at the same time Chefchaouen is becoming a destination for the Catholic Feast Semana Santa and Christmas celebrations. The city is said to have a relaxed, peaceful atmosphere and being located in the region of Morocco known for cannabis cultivation may contribute equally to its laid back vibe.

Regardless, the monochromatic city has a power similar to the white and blue domed roofs found in Santorini, Greece. There is something comforting about being in a community with such overwhelming visual harmony. Is this harmony simply a thoughtful response to ones’ environment? Is it a natural expression of a shared common vision or set of values? Is it a mechanism or tool to attract attention or create perceived value? How do you get everyone in a diverse community to get on board with painting their home and business blue?

Do you force compliance by making a law or regulation?

Most subdivisions in the United States mandate and control the colors you can paint your house as well as the plans and materials you are allowed to use. Subdivisions that don’t have a set of plans often have design review boards that maintain a set of visual standards and values.  Several communities go further and won’t allow homeowners to mow their own lawns, put up a clothesline in their back yard and will fine residents for leaving their car in the driveway.  These regulations are intended to create a harmonious community experience and preserve a particular outward appearance that corresponds to a certain price point. The main justification for these regulations is to control the quality of one’s experience and maintain property values. The reality is most modern subdivisions are far from harmonious and are not knitted together by a set of shared values or vision; however the appearance of harmony is a comfort to many.

It is natural for one to assume that the more elaborate the frame the more valuable the object placed in that frame.  The cost of framing a work of art can often exceed the cost of the work itself. However, the frame placed immediately around a painting is not the only frame placed around that work. Where is the work hung? How is in lit? Is it protected from direct sunlight? Is the work kept at an appropriate temperature and level of humidity? A museum or any structure designed to display and protect artwork is expensive to build and operate.

This phenomenon extends well beyond paintings. For example, when we buy an expensive car we want to keep it in a garage. We spend hours or pay someone else to clean and maintain it.  If we drive it to work we pay a monthly fee to park it in a protected lot or structure. The lot may be monitored with cameras or staffed with security guards — like a top tier museum. If the car has great value we may refrain from driving it and may build a special structure to house it and display it. When people purchase something precious they often fail to calculate the cost and effort of the frame they put around that object.

I would argue that the less practical a particular object is, or the more difficult it is to objectively determine its value the more effort is put into framing that object. A luxury car is more than transportation and art is more than something to decorate a wall, and the ultimate value is difficult to determine. The frame we place around that work is one of the only ways we can communicate that value.

The question I can’t help but ask is how often are we deceived by the power of the frame placed around an average work of art or product? The marketing/advertising industry’s greatest tool is fashioning and controlling the frame around a particular product. They employ sophisticated tools, vast resources and energy framing to mold our perceptions. What motivates the individuals and institutions placing these elaborate frames around particular objects/products? Are there valuable, significant works of art that don’t receive attention because they failed to get framed properly by the marketing machine? Thoughtful art enthusiasts train themselves to look past the frame and evaluate the work itself, and as a result they can detect great art that has been overlooked or modestly framed.

I went on to describe my frustration when clients come into a project with a “dream home” mentality.  They don’t fully understand or appreciate the limitations of their particular situation and often have unrealistic expectations about what can be achieved. They insist on packing in a list of features and design elements that can end up entrapping them with little likelihood of truly enriching their lives. However, these often-irrational desires hold great sway — representing and projecting a particular, deeply held counterfeit narrative concerning “the good life.”

In addition, their ideas often do not translate into lasting resale value. I generally work with clients of modest means and help them to determine their priorities in order to make sober calculated decisions about the biggest investment they will ever make. I once lost a commission because one partner felt that they would have to “give up too much” if they worked with me. They found another architect that designed a beautiful house that nearly doubled their initial budget.

One of the best features in any home is the ability of the family to afford it — financial sustainability. Except for perhaps the super-rich, this usually involves cutting back the wish list and making assessments about what design elements will truly add the greatest value to their lives. When couples build a home their unrealized dreams and desires often collide. Tensions can mount as the financial stress is layered on to an already taxing situation. Unfortunately many relationships don’t weather this storm. One survey found over 17% of couples considered separation as a result of a modest home renovation. When my wife and I started renovating our home, I began receiving email ads from divorce attorneys — those pesky algorithms that correlate my credit card purchases with statistically calculated future needs and behavior.

In conclusion, adding a Jacuzzi tub to your “dream home” may help you relax but it will never remove the stress of building a house you can’t afford.

I have always contended that there are two essential questions that every thoughtful maker must ask. First, how should one live on this planet? And second, how should a person live among the other people inhabiting this planet? Whether these questions are pondered consciously or unconsciously the answers are imbedded in our actions and everything we produce.  Unfortunately, the tension between our individual rights and our responsibility to one another are regularly weaponized for political gain. Regardless, this seeming tension can’t be reduced to a simple formula or zero sum game. Healthy personal and public interactions are essential to living a good and meaningful life. The balance between our public and private lives, our solitude and meaningful engagement, therefore, requires our attention.

What is so profound about the space shown here is the masterful blending of our private and public experience. The space was conceived by James Turrell, completed in 2003 and is located next to the Henry Art Gallery on the University of Washington campus. It is a translucent, oval shaped cylinder that appears to float above the ground and is accessed by a narrow bridge from the second floor of the gallery.

The form does not touch the gallery building — set apart as an autonomous volume. You must travel outside and cross the short bridge in order to enter the volume. At the base of the interior walls is a continuous wooden bench that raps the perimeter. A tall backrest made of the same wood as the bench and floor circles the space, creating a unifying backdrop for the human figures inside. The only aperture in the room, other than the entry, is an oval oculus in the ceiling that is open to the sky. The edges of the oculus are so thin that the sky appears to be painted on the ceiling.

Although deeply personal, the experience is intended to be shared with others, perhaps a friend, a group of friends or complete strangers. The intimate circular seating arrangement allows everyone to focus on the oculus — magically framing the ever-changing heavens. However the arrangement also graciously demands that the individuals in the space recognize and respect one another — the reverent acknowledgement of fellow human beings. It is difficult to make work that establishes harmony between two seemingly opposing forces. Turrell’s masterwork strikes that unique and powerful balance, melding our deep need for solitude and human connection.

I have worked hard to remember my children’s and wife’s birthdays and my wedding anniversary, but without an automated reminder, this is where my capacity hits the wall. You would think that I would make sure all these other important dates make it onto my digital calendar. However, I feel self-conscious extending a birthday greeting if I need to be prompted by a computer. It is like getting a birthday card from your insurance agent. This is not something I am proud of but over the years have come to terms with my limitations.

Dates do have meaning and significance.  The sequence and timing of personal and historical events impact their importance.  However, I have always been a bit skeptical of dates. How are they chosen?  Take for example December 25. This is the day billions of people around the world commemorate the birth of Jesus. No one knows when he was born, so when this particular date was selected in the third century it was clearly symbolic rather than an accurate marking of time. There were many days being considered including May 20, April 18, March 25, January 2, November 17, and November 20.

Isaac Newton in the 1600s suggested the 25^thof December was selected because it marked the winter solstice on the Roman calendar. Much earlier, Augustine, in one of his sermons, pointed out this was the shortest day of the year and the moment each year that light begins to increase.

Dates are not only used to mark celebrations but can be weaponized. Many suggest December 25 was selected to supplant the pagan festivals that occurred during the solstice. Today documents that are sent to a business are often stamped with the date when they are received. Letters, e-mails and surveillance videos are marked with specific dates, which allow us to reconstruct timelines. These timelines are often used later to resolve disputes and occasionally solve crimes. The work here is one piece in a series of compositional studies that use a common rubber date stamp on notebook paper to elicit an experience or feeling. The work reflects on the way we record dates, the complex ways we utilize them and the way they make us feel.  Perhaps some of the dates used in this work are significant to you. Maybe I simply needed to exorcise my demons. I am sure my brother-in-law could make sense of all these dates.

Through an exhaustive value engineering process they had settled on an expensive Italian quarry tile that over the course of 20 years would pay off due to its durability and reduced maintenance. The immediate decision was simply which color tile should they select: a classic terra cotta or an off-yellow tile suitable for a high security prison?

Knowing the color palette of the store and the logo, which appeared as if an 8th grader had designed it, the terra-cotta tile was the obvious choice. It was painful and took a great deal of self-control on my part as everyone around the table weighed in on this decision. After a quick calculation, estimating the salaries of the individuals sitting around this enormous conference table, I concluded they were burning close to $500 every minute. Certainly they could use their time more effectively; shouldn’t they leave this to the designers?

About 30minutes later, after everyone had expressed their opinion, the CEO weighed in, “If we place the terra-cotta tile in our stores it will look nice, but our customers will subconsciously think they are paying for the floor.

We will use the puke colored tile.” End of conversation, decision made. I was stunned and as the thought process sunk in I spiraled into depression. It was disheartening because all my training was focused on making spaces beautiful and pleasant. What was perhaps more disturbing was the fact I couldn’t find fault in a decision that so precisely expressed their business model.

In the passing weeks I processed this devastating revelation and considered abandoning the profession more than once. Honestly, this experience still haunts me. Smart, strategic design might actually necessitate making a space purposely hideous. This story is not an excuse for the general ugliness that we so often are surrounded with — that is clearly a product of lazy thinking, neglect and ignorance.  I like to believe that if confronted with this challenge today I could propose something so ugly that at some point it would become beautiful. The ultimate challenge — making ugly look good. 

Anarchy is a state of disorder through the rejection of authority, but what does an anarchist believe in — the absence of order and authority? I could go on with these examples, but this post is not intended to be a lesson in logic. It is easy to reject, tear down or find fault with a particular position. Conversely, it is extremely difficult and time consuming to fashion a positive idea or position.

Similarly, meaning can not be obtained through verifiable scientific experimentation, but it is at the heart of any serious artistic pursuit and every act of making. The earnest artist must engage in the real work of developing a positive position. It is easy to utter negative pronouncements in a casual conversation, but when you are making, those pronouncements lead you nowhere. How do you proceed? How do you make decisions when confronted with infinite possibilities? This is one reason why I enjoy art and making so much; makers must base their decisions and justify their actions on a real proposition — it is inescapable.

This is why makers tend to be an optimistic lot…or when unable to uncover meaning often turn to drink.

Nihilism is a philosophy that rejects all values and contends that nothing can be known or communicated. The true nihilist has no loyalties, no purpose other than perhaps an impulse to destroy. Dada is an anti-art movement that took hold after WWI and claimed to be the artistic expression of nihilism. The work shown here is entitled Portrait of Cezanne and was made in 1920 by artist Francis Picabia. The work is clearly an attack on the renowned artists of the era but defies any definitive meaning or interpretation. Although relatively short lived due to the fact it was based on a negative proposition, the Dada movement had a great influence on several artistic techniques still in use today such as collage, assemblage and the use of found objects. Interestingly, Picabia denounced Dada in 1921 and by 1925 had returned to figurative painting.