Ah, the recent past. The recent past of two weeks ago; the slightly less but still essentially recent past of a year before that; the comparatively recent past of Hurricane Irene (the beginning of a fearful awakening here in the Northeast); the less recent but still modern past of textile mills in Vermont - I could go on.
But about what?
Piehole's (annual?) retreat to Vermont. That's what. We struck the Hand Foot Fizzle Face set, haphazardly stuffed a car with sleeping bags, snacks, and witch hats, and set off for a week of reflection, research, and mysteries. As is our custom, we were light on the official "planning" side of things.
But about what?
Piehole's (annual?) retreat to Vermont. That's what. We struck the Hand Foot Fizzle Face set, haphazardly stuffed a car with sleeping bags, snacks, and witch hats, and set off for a week of reflection, research, and mysteries. As is our custom, we were light on the official "planning" side of things.
After a satisfying but ominously damp night of camping, we returned to the "Ski End" in the old Bridgewater, Vermont mill - the site of some surprisingly generative work this time last year. It became the jumping-off point for what we hope will become our next piece. It had not changed. At all. Still empty; still in shambles; maybe a little moldier. What does it mean to encounter a place that you found unexpectedly inspirational and discover that it holds no magic powers? That it's so deeply, melancholically, static? Maybe that's part of the point. We tried out some video experiments to learn more about the space:
And we worried about the curiously beautiful decomposition of last year's dead birds - what were we breathing?
This revisiting of last year's muse raised a lot of questions for us - as did the rain pouring down back at our campsite. The former we'll be exploring for the next year; the latter was solved by a generous offer from a chance encounter. Thanks to the great generosity of Gertrude, Ann, and Glen, Vermont natives and friends of the Shackletons (our hosts for the final leg of the retreat), we stayed in this wonderful witch cabin up in the hills:
Our hosts were kind enough to share bits of their lives with us, both through their work as artists and craftspeople, and also through stories and snapshots running back through the recent past, the not-so-recent past, and the past-past, all intertwined with the history of the mill and the legacies of Woodstock and Bridgewater. We went to a museum to learn more:
So expect some musings about the relationship between captains of industry, environmentalism, and certain kinds of voice-overs. In our open-hearted exhaustion different facts and threads began to oscillate in and out of meaning; every spare moment was devoted to solving puzzles and jumbling them again. That is, aside from the vast expanses of time we spent cooking and eating:
As the week bled into the weekend we entered the warm bosom of the Shackleton homestead, where we gratefully let others take over the cooking. We spent the extra time discovering different spots in the woods and fields to plop down and do a Bernadette Mayer writing exercise, or to bring up a new question about the Ski End and its history (or someone's history, at least). More trips to the Ski End ensued; more chances to walk in the woods and talk with the gathering crowd of artists/people-with-a-creative-practice/right-good-thinkers/adorable dogs.
And so, after one night in a tent, two nights in a magick cabin, and four nights in a barn with approximately 30 other people, we called it a week. A week of hard work that can't be held in anyone's hand; of fewer-than-usual injuries; of worrisome sleepiness, hot dogs, and whiskey. Oh, and the past - and, I guess, the present, of course and...well, I mean you'll see - the future. Our thanks to Wink and Charlie, to Wink's mother who stayed on this plane just long enough to bless the event and whose legacy was felt by all, to Elliot (yes, it was an inside job) and Sophie, to the people who shared their stories with us, and finally to the teens who can't help but build a makeshift skate ramp with a broken tv and a plank of wood in all the abandoned spaces of America. A toast to all. Happy belated 4th of July.
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