Let me begin with a thought experiment. Imagine …

You have been given the sacred bones of your recently deceased mother. In her bequest, she asked you to make something worthy of them and your memory of her. For a moment, set aside the cultural taboos and strangeness and take the request seriously. Imagine what would it be like to do this? What would pose the greatest challenge: recalling and feeling the memories permeating the task, imagining what to make, designing it, handling and working with the material, or deciding what to do with the finished piece? 

My hands would tremble with every mark I made. Every moment would be full of meaning, and I would strive to do my absolute best to integrate design and craftsmanship into this gift that I have both been given and aspire to give. I cannot imagine a more formidable, meaningful and significant commission.

I work with the bones of trees.

Who was this Tree?

The wood I work in a project has come from a tree that has had a unique life. Did it grow up among its mother and siblings in a forest or was it an orphan living alone to fend for itself in some human’s backyard? How many years did it live? What was thrilling about that tree’s life; what did it witness; what suffering did it endure; and what caused its death? What meaning did it create for the people with whom it had a relationship? Sometimes, we can know a little of this history if we know the forest or the property where the tree lived. Sometimes, we may know the family that planted and/or cared for the tree for decades. Unfortunately, although some facts may be discovered, most of the tree’s history has to be inferred or imagined from the evidence that remains in the wood.

When a tree is taken down, most of its leaves and small branches are shredded and composted and the large branches are cut for firewood or ground up for composite wood products. The roots are left to rot or if it is fortunate, to re-sprout. The only part preserved for lumber is its trunk. The woodworker fashions a new life for the lumber of this tree, an enduring and visible legacy often in the form of functional objects, furniture, architecture or art.

I aspire to work for a purpose and in a way that honors the tree as a living being.  Its wood is sacred bone.

Why do I Make Art? 

I make art for myself and for imagined, and sometimes specific, viewers and users.

For me, art is treasure for the mind and heart. Fostering the emergence of a coherent and meaningful form out of the seed of an idea, a feeling or an intriguing piece of timber energizes me with opportunity, focus and work. I make sculpture and furniture/sculpture hybrids to explore character-defining moments in our lives, such as those involving aspiration, growth, conflict, love, loss, suffering and death. Some have narrative elements with diverse cultural references. I also create experimental pieces and skill-building exercises that may be employed eventually in a project with artistic meaning. It is thrilling to make an object that attains coherence within itself and with all of its external references and allusions. Seeing and feeling that coherence is, for me, the experience of beauty, one of the priceless gifts art can bestow.

For viewers, I aspire to make a piece that arrests attention and stimulates them to explore the composition as a whole and its details as well as reflect on the thoughts and feelings that arise from their interaction with it. When working on a commission, I try to make pieces that resonate with the history, values, and dreams of the people for whom I make them. I am in the middle, taking the gift of the tree and making a gift to delight and benefit the person who receives it.

Although I realize when finishing a piece that I must return to the bottom of the hill to begin a new climb, I am grateful for the moment of declaration that the piece is finished!

How Do I Make Art?

I source mostly native, regional hardwoods and often retain traces of the tree’s history in an integral way to honor its journey from seed to new life as art. Traces may include the effects of climate, insects, fungi, bacteria, viruses, and the actions of others in the harvesting process. A single piece of wounded timber is often the root of a work. A vision that includes formal, conceptual, and emotional dimensions emerges slowly. All aspects of the design are then refined before and during construction to contribute to the realization of that vision. The title of the piece serves as one gateway to engagement.

I am grateful for the inspiration and education provided by the work of many artists. In particular, I wish to acknowledge the significant influence of architect Christopher Alexander’s four-volume The Nature of Order on my design and construction process. I seek to emulate the innovation, respect for wood, organic forms and craftsmanship of artists Wharton Esherick, George Nakashima, and Sam Maloof. I am inspired by the intent and success of sculptor Constantin Brancusi in capturing the essence of an artistic subject and his drive for perfection in shape and finish.  Finally, I am humbled by the aesthetic values, eye and skill of generations of Japanese artists who enabled ‘wabi sabi’ to shine in their unsigned work.

In summary, I aspire to achieve a frame of mind informed by the thought experiment, purpose and process described above. My grasp almost always falls short of my reach, but I am grateful for the capacity to reach for the true, the good and the beautiful that is embedded in all of us. If I can make something that achieves coherence among its essence, its constituent elements and its allusions, I attain a moment of meaning and satisfaction, in Wordsworth’s words, “too deep for tears.”

Ed