Welcome to the beginning of my posts out on the road investigating revolutionary localities for Red76's project, Revolutionary Spirit. Here goes:
Bright Lines and Dark Hallows:
Investigating Revolutionary Localities in America
Tour Log:
Part1
As Gary and I left Portland yesterday there were children at the bus stop outside the grocery store barking like dogs. The plan was to get straight down to Oakland. I wasn’t intending for us to look into much in-between Portland and the Bay Area. Not that there isn’t anything worthy of looking into – of course there is. It’s just that as I have worked more on the planning, the logistics of researching and organizing for the trip, I have come to a realization: America is a big place. I knew this all along, I just never thought about having to travel it on a schedule. I want to get into the interior as quickly as possible. I can travel the west coast more readily than I can Wichita, or Anniston, Alabama, or even Detroit. We drove down I-5 on a clear day of blue skies. But, with not stopping in mind, we were tempted off the highway by a sign reading, “RV Park/Art School.”
We noticed the sign just as we were passing the off-ramp. At this point we were well on our way into the trip, somewhere in Southern Oregon. We pulled off at the next exit and into a nearby gas station. I went to the restroom and then bought a bottle of water and some potato chips. Gary asked the woman at the cash register if she knew anything about the RV Park and art school down the road. She said she didn’t, but as we talked more about our surprise and interest she opened up; “I just noticed it for the first time the other day myself. He’s supposed to be this famous artist, the guy who’s running it.” She mentions his name and asks us if we’ve ever heard of him. We shrug that we haven’t. After talking about the school a little bit more with her – what they are teaching, cost of classes, etc – we say thanks and goodbye, deciding that we really should head back up the highway to check out what’s going on up at the RV park.
As we drove up signage announced the parks name, along with the Thunder Mountain School of Art. As we got out of the car a man asked if he could help us. We told him that we had seen the sign off the side of the highway for the art school and were interested in learning more. Apparently the people who run the park had invited an artist – Dave Ewert – to start an art program in the park. They provided him with space for the school; a large room with good light within a trailer, near the parks offices. A class was in progress and he invited us to sit in. We followed the man down a dirt roadway, up some stairs, and into the school.
A class of about eight people sat around a man at an easel drawing a portrait in charcoal from a picture. The picture, clipped on to his easel was off a man, mid-thirties, heavy set with glasses and a goatee. We said hello, and everyone seemed pretty welcoming. Two chairs were available up on a raiser that looked like it was reserved for models. I joked that Gary and I could model for them and a woman said that we’d make good models. I was wearing my plaid hunting jacket that I got in Minneapolis the previous winter; the jacket that Laura say’s makes me look like I’m from the North Country near the Boundary Waters in Minnesota.
I was really thrilled by what I saw around me. Everyone was rapt with attention. Eager to learn as the instructor discussed techniques, shadings, tools to use. The class consisted of a few older women, a rancher in a mesh hat, a man in his early thirties wearing a striped polo shirt. How amazing to have all this in this RV park off the highway in Southern Oregon. We talk about how American’s are disconnecting themselves from the community models that have existed for centuries in our country – bowling leagues, Odd Fellows and Elk lodges – but here was a group of people together in this room. They had all brought food for one another to share. They were all interested in finding out ways to manifest their hopes, dreams, creative meanderings into a physical form. They wanted to see and feel it. Gary flipped through a hand bound spiral notebook that the instructor had compiled. The notebook laid out advice on figure drawing; the shape, structure, and musculature of the body. The notebook was filled with photos of a male model, and diagrams were drawn over his form. This model had a huge cock. The book was pure kitsch gay porn at its very best. I say this not to make fun of the class. Finding this book made it even better; solidified my interest and respect. The photos in the book were – though pretty ridiculous – highly sexualized. Apart from everything that I already thought was so great about this art school this book, and in turn really the school itself, was allowing these people to think about the body – their body’s – and say that there was nothing to hide. The kid in the notebook certainly wasn’t hiding anything as he had his hands raised, resting behind his head, or he was doing pseudo karate poses for the camera as people sat sketching him in the background of the photograph.
Gary and I said our goodbyes and walked up the road back to the car. The whole time I kept saying, “this is great. This is totally amazing. I couldn’t have hoped for a better way to start this trip.” If I were at all cynical about what I might find on the road, what I might find in regard to the interests and desires of the people that I might encounter along the way, the Thunder Mountain Art School has filled me with possibilities.
Recent Comments