austen camille

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On this fence line, thus far I have found three of the trees (Ponderosa Pines and Junipers) marked bearing tree. These trees are witnesses to the corners of the property, and I wonder what happens when the trees fall down. Will the corners become lost, if there are no more witnesses?

In Old English, the words landmearc (“boundary”) and landġemirċe (“boundary, limit, frontier”) were used to distinguish between territories. An object placed at the outermost regions of (kn)ownership. A landmark also describes an easily-recognizable feature within a landscape that can be used for navigation and orientation. A modification of the bearing tree, perhaps, and just as tenuous if given enough time.

At the boundary between a privately-owned private property and a privately-owned public property, a fence ⎼ built of barbed wire, fiberglass, steel, treated lumber ⎼ divides the ecology symbolically and actually. Over there, that is (managed) wildness, and this here, this belongs to someone. Rather, this here, this is (managed) wildness, and over there, that belongs to someone.

The Land / Marks rest on and near this boundary, asking perception to weave between the two sides of the fence. To see the continuation. The way in which everything exists in relation to everything else.

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  Separately In Proximity
  National Forest Service boundary marker, dead Ponderosa Pine limbs gathered from property   line, landscaping tie tape, Strait-Line chalk, Mt. St. Helen's ash, wood glue, raw pigment, linseed   oil, nails, screws, drop cloth.


I’ve been thinking about how touch works. How there is the smallest of gaps between two fingers pressed together. And thin lines of barbed wire splitting (/joining) air between this space and that space.

When you encounter this piece from just the right angle, this space and that space are woven together. Tenuously. The same way in which ash from the inside of a volcano (long lifespan, quick release) can exist alongside the orange chalk that makes straight lines in rapid motion.

Here, it is impossible to ignore the fact that everything is built upon the residue of volcanoes.

  Speaking the same language as a fence / somewhat see-through
  National Forest Service boundary marker, dead Ponderosa Pine limb gathered from property line,   Green Fir 2x4, biochar, basalt, graphite, screws, drop cloth.

An upright structure built of wood and metal stretches across a long distance in a relatively straight line. A demarcation that is easy to jump over or shimmy under.

The land on this side of the fence used to belong to the National Forest Service (at which point there was likely no fence). Previous owners had property elsewhere that the NFS wanted ⎼ protect the Wild and Scenic, first and foremost ⎼ and so this patch of land was traded for the other. And then the fence was built. Someone’s hands hammered those nails in, winched the barbed wire taut.

In order to build a fence, you must work on both sides of the thing.

  The thousand (or so) year-old shadow.
  National Forest Service boundary marker, Ponderosa Pine bark interior, Wolf Lichen (Letharia   Vulpina), safflower oil, contractor’s primer, wood glue, nails.

The pigment contained in Wolf Lichen (a shocking chartreuse ⎼ particularly in gray Oregon against the snow in April) is in fact not dissimilar from sunscreen. A protective pigment, derived from a chemical that is highly toxic to meat eaters. Scientists at NASA are currently conducting research on how to mimic its blue-light blocking qualities to protect equipment, astronauts, against degradation from intense UV rays.

After it rains four or five times, the symmetry will remain. Streaking downward, the pigment becomes a bright shadow of the branch above. Inverse structures, bark turned inside out, and a shadow of sunscreen. A very slow degradation.

Created while in residence at the Pine Meadow Ranch Center for Arts & Agriculture in Sisters, OR, on the traditional territory of the Wasco, Warm Springs, and Paiute people.

I am deeply grateful for the dedication of the staff at the Pine Meadow Ranch Center for Arts & Agriculture, for the support of the Roundhouse Foundation, and for the unwavering love of my co-artists-in-residence Adam Bateman and Lucy Maude Ellis / Jack Lope.