Almanac For Moderns: Blood, Sea Water, Salt

April First

I say that it touches a man that his blood is sea water and his tears are salt, that the seed of his loins is scarcely different from the same cells in a seaweed, and that of stuff like his bones are coral made. I say that physical and biologic law lies down with him, and wakes when a child stirs in the womb, and that the sap in a tree, uprushing in the spring, and the smell of the loam, where the bacteria bestir themselves in darkness, and the path of the sun in the heaven, these are facts of first importance to his mental conclusions, and that a man who goes in no consciousness of them is a drifter and a dreamer, without a home or any contact with reality.

More information on our Almanac For Moderns project and the work of Donald Culross Peattie can be found here. 

Jetsonorama and Wheat Paste Art On The Reservation

Folks in Grey Mountain, AZ offering their appreciation,  from Yote's flickr page 

The GOAT blog, one feature of the online version of High Country News, is another site that's really worth visiting everyday. We wished the HCN a happy 40th birthday a few days ago--and there can be no better example of how this news organization has evolved and expanded its reach than the GOAT blog. It's essential reading. 

The HCN's current editor, Jonathan Thompson, recently published a brief note on GOAT about an artist that I think will interest our readers:

During the last year or so, a new kind of "graffiti" has been showing up on abandoned buildings, old billboards and rusted out oil tanks on the Navajo Nation. A street artist who goes by the name of Jetsonorama (who sometimes works with another artist, Yote, and No Reservation Required) has been plastering these places with giant, black & white, cutout photographs and using wheat paste to fix them in place. They are somewhat ephemeral by nature, getting torn up by wind, rain and snow.

A little internet searching led me to what looks like Jetsonorama's blog, where I found a wealth of photos of his wheat pastes and his reflections on how the community receives this art. What I admire about his blog is that the emphasis is on the art, and not the person behind it--and he deeply respects the communities that he works with on these projects. 

Jetsonorama recently posted a response to a reader that worked to explain "how a 52 year old black doctor started wheat pasting water tanks on the rez."  He credits Afrika Bambaata and Zulu Nation, Keith Haring and the 80's hip hop scene in New York City as early influences that  led him to consider grafitti as an art form. A later sabbatical in Brazil expanded his sense of how street art could work. Here's how the artist frames the challenges and the rewards of his project:

consequently, the project is interesting on several levels.  i've had to ask myself what it means to present street art in a community that has no tradition or history of it? what does it mean to have that street art be documentary photographs of people from the community?  how can i present them in such a way that some people don't feel this is a form of witchcraft?

living here makes me remain responsible for the images i put up, sensitive to the people represented and their cultural mores.  if i didn't live here or know the value system, i'd put up more provocative work (like the "puppy love" series i placed in flagstaff), as opposed to straight documentary photographs.  whenever i talk with people from the community about the project and what i hope to accomplish with it, i emphasize my desire to share with them the elements of the culture i consider beautiful and/or at risk of being lost.  most people get that and are thankful for it.

so, it's totally liberating and invigorating for me to be able to express myself in this visual language.   the whole project has provided a new way for me to interact with the community, really feel like i'm giving them love in the form of this art and to question the ephemeral nature of life.  

I'm very excited to present Jetsonorama's work here, as it takes into account a number of the issues we're considering here at The Art of the Rural: urban-rural connections, how cultural traditions are re-presented in modern art forms, and how communities can transcend their own spatial and temporal boundaries to share their stories with other communities.

For more on Jetsonorama, you can visit his flickr page, the visually-striking Unurth Street Art site and his youtube channel with many time-lapse videos of the process like this:

The Carter Family Fold and Johnny Cash's Last Performance

 Photograph by William W. Robinson of Friends of the Carter Family Fold 

"He insisted on walking into the Fold that night," Hiltons resident Pat Jones told me a week after Johnny's performance. "They wanted to bring him in using a wheelchair, but he said no, he wanted to walk up to that stage himself."

Whenever I have friends that are looking to take a trip somewhere, one of the first places I recommend is The Carter Family Fold in Hiltons, Virginia. A few years back, I had the chance to attend one of their Saturday evening concerts and hear Janette Carter sing "I'm Thinking Tonight of my Blue Eyes." It's one of the songs that her father and mother, A.P. and Sara, along with aunt Maybelle, immortalized in an early Carter Family recording. Though Janette was frail, she was helped to the stage so that she could take the autoharp and begin the night's music with that selection from her family's legacy.

As she sang, I looked around. Underneath the generous tin roof, families and young couples sat and listened, children ran across the dance floor in front of the stage. It was an atmosphere and an inter-generational audience that harkened back to a time when traditional music--folk music--was actually sung and enjoyed by "folks", not cloistered behind the turn styles of cafes and concert venues. Ms. Carter and her brother Joe created the Fold in 1979 to honor her family and to give a piece of her family's heritage back to the community. When I walked in, I felt at home: large paintings of the Carters adorned the stage, homemade chili and pie beckoned from a window in the back, and a sign reminded me this was hallowed ground: no smoking, no drinking, no cursing.

A few months after Ms. Carter's song, she passed away. Here's Joe Wilson, President of the National Council for the Traditional Arts, remembering Ms. Carter and her legacy at the Fold:

Janette was not the Carter with the husky, penetrating female voice, perhaps the finest country female lead of all time. That voice belonged to her mother, Sara. She was not the lead guitarist who invented country guitar lead with its "church lick" and unrelenting emphasis of melody. That guitarist was her Aunt Maybelle. She wrote songs, but was not the greatest composer and arranger in country music history. That person was her father, A. P. Carter. She never married anyone famous, and individual fame never came to her. The Carter Family was a depression-era band that broke up after a mere 14 years, and Janette and her father returned to the Virginia mountains with considerable fame, but no cash. She worked as a cook at the elementary school, and raised her family. But she promised her father to keep his legacy, and that promise was kept in a hall she financed and her brother Joe built in the style of a burley tobacco barn. There she presented the local artists she adored and the famous who came to borrow bits of Carter magic. She kept the prices low and the quality high. She had time for the most humble, and enough love to fill this valley beside Clinch Mountain. 

The Carter Family Fold site has a lot to offer. First and foremost, you can check out their show schedule and also, if distance is an issue, purchase a ticket to the streaming video archive of dozens of recent shows. The grounds also serve as a preservation site for A.P. Carter's cabin as well as a family museum. Also worth visiting: The Friends of the Carter Family Fold has a wonderful selection of photographs and streaming music of the later generations of Carters to follow A.P., Sara and Maybelle.

One of the Fold's other rules: no electric instruments. This rule was waived for only one person: Johnny Cash, the husband of her cousin June and a frequent visitor to the Fold. On July 5, 2003, two months before his death, Mr. Cash made an unpublicized return to the stage in Hiltons for what would be his final public performance.

Here's Kimberly Burge, in Sojourners Magazine telling the story:

The Ovation began with those closest to the entrance that had been blocked off for his arrival. As the wave rippled across the audience, people took to their feet when Johnny emerged from his car, before he even stepped foot inside the Carter Fold and well before he sang a note.

Dressed head to toe, naturally, in black, he did indeed walk through the doors, slowly and propped up by two assistants. John Carter Cash, his only son, supported him from behind. The crowd parted, and he stopped and rested a few moments before attempting the three stairs that led to the small wooden stage. His body was frail, but his face still evoked the authority of an Old Testament prophet. he smiled bashfully at the thunderous reception.

Bursts of applause greeted each point of this 10-minute journey and reached a crescendo at the familiar opening notes of his first song, "Folsom Prison Blues." Although the backs of his hands appeared darkly bruised, Johnny played an acoustic guitar, as did his son. The wild greeting continued with his next number, "Sunday Morning Coming Down." Cries of "We love you, Johnny!" broke through the cheers.

Then he spoke to the crowd. "I don't really know what to say about how I feel tonight, being up here without her."

He placed only the slightest emphasis on that last word. The place fell silent for the first time that evening. Johnny sighed, his chest rising and falling slowly as he looked down at the guitar he quietly strummed. "June and I were together 40 years, and the pain is so severe, there's no describing it. You lose your mate, the one you've been with all those years, and I guarantee you it's the big one. It hurts so bad...it really hurts.

He thrummed the guitar again, two or three times. The ceiling fans clattered overhead.

"But every day the last week or so, it seems to be getting a little bit better, knowing that I was coming up to celebrate her birthday and the excitement of all that. Coming to her old homeplace here on the banks of Clinch Mountain, where we spent so much time and had so much love for each other. I just wish I could share it with you, how we felt about each other." he stared unseeingly down at the stage for a moment, then looked again toward his audience.

 Luckily, video exists of this historic evening:

 

40 Years In The West: High Country News

An informed people is a more intelligent people, and that was the whole point of High Country News. Somebody has to keep people on their toes and aware of what's going on out there in the world.

High Country News is the glue that holds a million square miles together. Of that million square mile region, 700,000 square miles of that belongs collectively to all Americans, and it has some of the most precious real estate on earth. 

Above are quotes from the founding editor of  High Country News, Tom Bell, and a subsequent editor, Tom Marston, on view in an extremely well-produced video that tells the story of the first forty years of HCN. Editors, contributors, interns, and members of the western community all get a chance to share their thoughts on this publication's presence across the west. Edited by Deborah Fryer, this video tells an inspiring story of how a few people with a vision, and with a sense of responsibility to their community of readers, can change their region, and their country, for the better. The video runs about sixteen minutes, so grab a cup of coffee and settle in:

Click here to view the High Country News: The Voice of the American West.

Also, check out their 40 Years in the West blog for more on how their readers are celebrating this milestone. 

The Tragedy in Montcoal

photograph from Coal Tattoo

I'm sure many of us have been following developments in Montcoal, West Virginia, as rescuers have worked relentlessly to find the miners trapped inside the Upper Big Branch Mine. News has come this morning that the rescue efforts are being delayed due to methane levels inside, and that twenty-five of the twenty-nine miners known to be inside at the time of the blast have died--making this the worst coal-mining disaster this country has seen in twenty-five years. For updates throughout the next few days, visit Coal Tattoo, an outstanding blog by Ken Ward Jr. of The Charleston Gazette. 

This devastating news also came during the same week that the EPA released new guidelines that would, as Mr. Ward reported, virtually eliminate mountaintop removal mining. While we rejoice at this news, our thoughts and prayers go out to the families in Montcoal. 

There's a rich artistic tradition dealing with coal-mining and all its social and political meanings. In this space we've highlighted the gorgeous music of Nimrod Workman and the groundbreaking work of Appalshop. But I'd like to offer here a bit of Lee Sexton's music, as it speaks to the sense of community and goodwill that is just as much a part of Appalachia as is coal. Mr. Sexton is a former miner himself, and he is, without argument, a national treasure. His Whoa Mule, released by the June Appal label, is essential listening.

For The Weekend: Plants, Prints, School Lunches and Gulf Coast Soul

The University of Nebraska Gardens site, edited by horticulturist Emily Levine, is also following Donald Culross Peattie's An Almanac For Moderns and regularly posting his entries online. The Gardens' site is a complete and visually stunning catalogue of everything in the Lincoln campus's Maxwell Arboretum.

The Florence Griswold Museum is currently featuring The Road Less Traveled: Thomas Nason's Rural New England. This printmaker's work is striking and austere--the perfect compliment to the work of Robert Frost. The sites features a series of videos with curator Amanda C. Burdan that explain the art and the inspirations of Mr. Nason's work. 

Along the lines of our recent "Farmville Files," here's Fed Up With Lunch: The School Lunch Project. "Mrs. Q" is a teacher with a mission to eat just what her students eat for an entire year. The site features commentary, a host of valuable links and, of course, a picture every day of what's on the menu.

Here's an article by Nancy Bless, the director of Texas Folklife, on Barbara Lynn--"The Empress of Gulf Coast Soul." It's a fantastic introduction to her work and to the cultural and musical history of the region. Here's Ms. Lynn singing her 1962 hit "You'll Lose A Good Thing."

Raising A Revelation

photograph of Donnell Brown holding a picture of Revelation by Karen Kasmauski

Earlier this week, The Rural Blog mentioned "Breeding the Perfect Bull," an article by Jeanne Marie Laskas recently published in Smithsonian Magazine. It is an extremely well-written and wide-ranging account of the story of Revelation, a bull bred by Donnell Brown and the R.A. Brown Ranch, a West Texas family-run operation that has been in the bull business for over a century. After today's earlier posts from An Almanac For Moderns, it might be interesting to consider Aristotle's idea of a sculptor's marble next to the exceptional marbling that a rancher and animal scientist such as Mr. Brown can breed into his bulls. Here's the introduction to Ms. Laskas's piece and a later portion:

There once was a bull, an astonishing bull with a handsome, wide muzzle, stunning scrotal circumference and a square frame solid as a sycamore. He was the son of Cherokee Canyon, the grandson of Make My Day—a noble pedigree. The cowboy who designed him, who chose the semen, selected the dam, prepared and inseminated the uterus, named him Revelation. “We don’t intend to present this bull as divine,” the cowboy, Donnell Brown, would write in his 2005 sale catalog, “but we do count it a blessing to have raised him.” Brown was a salesman by nature, but not given to hyperbole. He believed in his heart that Revelation, at just a year-and-a-half old, could become the most storied bull in the history of the Red Angus breed. Finally, after decades of tinkering: might this be the masterpiece?

.....

The average American at the backyard grill who cares to think about the steak sizzling before him may imagine little beyond the packinghouse, where meat is cut and shrink-wrapped, or perhaps the feedlot, where beef cattle fatten up on corn on their way to market. But those are only two stops—relatively short and highly industrialized stops—in a long process. Before they get to the feedlot, cattle live the lives their bodies were built for: grazing beside their mothers on endless pastures at ranches called “cow-calf operations.” These are independent ranches, about 750,000 of them in the United States, most of them with fewer than 50 head. The R. A. Brown Ranch, which has 2,000-odd head, belongs to a subset of these ranches that specialize in breeding: the “seed-stock providers.” They begin the beef production chain. The cowboys who run them are the inventors, the tinkerers who choose the genetics that determine the qualities of America’s tenderloin, rib eye, sirloin, filet mignon and burgers.

What follows is as much a portrait of the West Texas ranching community as it is a detailed and illuminating account of how science has modernized animal breeding.  The Smithsonian site also includes a gallery of Karen Kasmauski's photographs and this video with Ms. Kasmauski's photographs and audio of the ranchers talking about their life and work.