the tenacious horizon

Yesterday, at the Miró, as I was absorbing all of the paintings, so beautifully grouped, I became aware of small lines of cursive writing on the walls in each gallery.

Pete Townswend on a skateboard, photographer unknown, from Retronaut
Pete Townsend skateboarding, photographer unknown, found on Retronaut

I tend to be a wanderer in life, as I vastly prefer discoveries of wonder to scholarly forays. Of course both are useful, and I often follow the one with the other, if what I see engages me, if I have questions (I generally do) or if I don’t like other people’s answers (I generally don’t).

Anyway. When I looked up and read this nerd thought-poem (created, I presume, by Martina Millà, the genius who is curating the exhibit), in a gallery that held simply one long blue light, perfectly straight, which I decided to stare into until it consumed me, I went back and read them all, and wrote them down with nearly illegible handwriting in a too-small notebook.

…a tenacious horizon, which appears, as if by default, in the most unexpected places; even in the most laconic minimalism…

I thought, yeah, humans are, inevitably, unable to conceive of a perspective without a horizon. In every view, every thought, every concept of time, of motion, of the past, the future, the landscape, the moment, there is a horizon, tenacious, inescapable, reassuring, anchoring.

We lose the horizon only in madness, dreams, or the depth of drugs.

Kirk and Spock with a Mad Magazine
Kirk and Spock reading a Mad Magazine on location, photo found on Retronaut

I always feel like I am building my own construct from scratch, like a spider, making a new web, or like Jake Dotson (currently in residence at the Institute for Figuring) making a new geometric form with sticks and connectors, or Ruth Asawa, sitting crosslegged inside a form she is weaving with wire.

I like creating a new vessel, exploring its potential, then when it breaks or is hacked, I close or abandon it and begin a new one.

Ruth Asawa working
photo courtesy of

I generally don’t make reality sculptures out of or to contain the lives or energies of others. They are solitary creations, which may or may not involve other people.

My work  has not in the past been about other people’s work, or has it? I don’t know. Generally my moving force is dissatisfaction with the work, statements, boundaries or outlook of others. That’s certainly true. And I require love to build; what causes me to reach out and make a form is the desire to connect with a person or persons. The entire human experience is collaborative.

At the zoning hearing in Marin County, at which people stood up and expressed their views on whether or not Running Fence was useful/good/bad/damaging/stupid/setting a good precedent/setting a dangerous precedent, Christo spoke and said that it was important to know that the work was not about him; it was meant to be a collaboration with the shape of the land, and the people on it, the rocks, the ocean, the sheep, the cows, the light. He couldn’t do it with only an idea, or with force.