It's been a sad week, seeing so many animals struck on the road. The intoxication of spring has perhaps made them too lively, and they forget the danger of humans. This sweet fox was warm when I went to pull her off the road. She was a young mother. I felt she needed a burial in honor of her life, and made a memorial imprint. It's not an ideal day for cyanotypes, the sun dips behind clouds and the wind blows everything everywhere, the paper, my hair, her fur, and the stream of water from the outdoor shower, everywhere. The lizards and hummingbirds and my bird crush, the Pacific flycatcher, are here to keep our spirits up. Later, Kate will come over and we'll bury the fox on the hillside with a view facing west as the sun sinks below the ridge.
ziatype from scanned Type 55 film
12”x15”
ziatype from scanned 4x5 film
12”x15”
ziatype from scanned 4x5 film
12”x15”
Kickapoo River Valley, Wisconsin
Madison, WI
En route from Chaco Canyon
Lopez Island, Washington
In the bed at the K-Shack
Two Peak, Taos Mesa, New Mexico
Bears Ears National Monument, Utah
Bears Ears National Monument, Utah
Blackhawk Island, Wisconsin River, WI
Blackhawk Island, Wisconsin River, WI
Various sizes, paper, and toning.
I was feeling increasingly irritated walking up the road. Nothing about it was peaceful. Cars passed constantly, and every five minutes a dump truck barreled by. It was garbage day. The truck would pass me, clanking and rattling, and leaving behind the stench of decay. Then I would catch up to it as it collected garbage, pass it, and then again, it would pass me. It would happen like this, a leapfrog, as the heat of the sun beat down. I was hugging the edge of the road, trying to take note of the trees, the light, and the plants around me, attempting a walking meditation, but instead, the lingering smells of garbage and diesel, the roar of engines and the squealing of brakes of massive construction trucks. I was thinking about j and his dispassionate nature towards me, and how I wished I had stepped away from him that very first night we met, under the full moon. I learned everything I needed to know then, but I was seduced by the moonlight and continued forward until it came true and I’m left with the same lesson I can’t seem to learn. Maybe that lesson is to stop moving towards, but to remain still. It was then that I saw the squirrel. Its head was crushed into the asphalt, but its body intact, a slender string of entrails fanning downhill. It was fresh, and I could smell both the blood and the shit. I pulled the bag of cyanotype paper out of my backpack. I would make my first imprint of this walk here, on the road, not of leaves or stones, but of death. A metaphor for the thoughts filling my mind. Perhaps the squirrel, too, should have remained still. But, like myself, that is against its nature. I placed a sheet under its paw. Then I placed another under its tail, where it curved elegantly along the edge. I stepped back, looking, and thinking where to place the third one. I always prefer things in threes. It was then that an enormous dump truck came towards me. As it gained speed upon descent, I stepped back another few inches. The wheels ran right over the squirrel, squeezing its guts across the paper and into the air, fluttering down the road. I stood there with my mouth open and my arms stretched wide. The rush of air and blood so close, I looked down, imagining pieces of intestines clinging to my bare thighs.
You poor thing. I could no longer make out your tail, there was no real recognizable form left of you. I stared at you for a long time, squirrel. I had meant to make your imprint in respect of your life. I dug into my backpack and pulled out my bag of snacks, emptied it, placed the two sheets of paper inside, and sealed the bag. I carefully tucked it into a dark pocket inside my backpack, put it back on, and continued my walk uphill.
I'd like to share another story. I told you about the fox, but not about the deer. It was May Day, and I was driving home over the mountains. The view was splendorous as always, mountain ridges fading into shades of melon, pink pearl, and lavender. I caught sight of a doe on the far side of the road. She was looking around, bewildered. I slowed down as one deer usually means another is near. As I rounded the bend a car was driving around something in the road. I saw the deer lying there. I turned around to pull it off the road.
As I approached the deer, he panicked and tried to stand up but stumbled, eyes wide and wild, until he collapsed again. I walked up slowly, "it's okay baby, let me come to you", I said over and over. I wrapped my arms around his chest and heaved. He was a large young buck, with fuzzy new antlers, and heavy. Finally, we got near the turnout. He struggled to get up and I saw his hind leg broken, twisting grotesquely to the side as he crumpled into a heap. I was torn, should I leave him alone? I knew my presence was agitating him.
I straightened out his broken leg and placed him in what I imagined might be a natural position to lie down. Froth and blood were starting to run out of his mouth, and his tongue hung slack. I sat on the ground and stroked his head, neck, chest. He moved his front leg and it landed on top of my left thigh. I stroked his leg, and head and touched his fuzzy antlers. The sky turned a deep blue and Venus blazed on the horizon. I imagined spring love, and that he had been with the doe around the corner. I wondered where she was now.
I watched the sky, trying to transfer its beauty into the last moment of the buck's life. Then, he kicked and kicked and heaved enormous breaths, tossed his head up, spirit rising...Was his chest still moving? Why is the moment of death so hard to mark? I said a prayer and returned to the car. I was struck by this view of “deer in the headlights”. My camera was on the passenger's seat. I set it on the dash and made this image. I am not sure it honors the buck's life, but perhaps telling the story does.
There is, of course, more to the story. I hope this image does not bother you. After holding the buck until his death, I pulled him further off the road, attempting to arrange his body into a peaceful position. I made the photograph from the dash. Then I continued home, saddened and numb. As I turned the last corner on the dirt road up to my home, an owl flew across the ridge. The islander in me paused at such an omen and I felt a chill in my bones. As the lightness of its wings disappeared into the trees, it turned into warmth for how much I admire these creatures.
I wondered, is this the same owl I heard the other night? On Sunday, on the full moon, the pink moon, the peony moon? I had been moonbathing on the deck with a glass of wine when I heard the comforting who-who, which was answered by the chirp of the pacific flycatcher, who sounds like he's saying "over here! C'mon over here!". It was a surprise to hear that call as the hour was late. His call is irresistible, and I have quite a crush on him. All this made me smile, despite the complex feelings of the day.
Last night, we buried the fox. At dawn today, I passed through the misty valley on my way to San Francisco to get on the plane-where I am now writing. I began to think about my last moments with my father, how when the time was getting near, I was sitting and looking into his eyes. When my mother and sister came to the bedside, I moved down the line to make room for them, as I am the youngest. I kept touching his arm, his leg. We kept telling him everything was okay, and that he could go, and that we loved him.
It seemed like this went on forever. This time too, like with the buck, it was uncertain where the breath ended and when the heart stopped. And then, the agonizing seizure of the body. The transference from life to death, the shell of the body dying, violently. It is a moment I can never forget, although many times I wish I could. Time passed, and later, it was peaceful, being with him. My mother said, make a picture. Here is one.
Ziatype from scanned Type 55 film.
Cyanotype memorial boats on plinth of salvaged black walnut
Cyanotype memorial boats on plinth of salvaged black walnut