Words: Bryan Iguchi 2017-10-30 17:13:46
July 13, “Garage Days”
After putting the kids to bed, I find a moment of quiet solitude in my detached two-car garage in Jackson Hole, WY. Over time I’ve converted it into a primitive workshop and semi-functioning art studio. The air is finally cool and it’s a welcome feeling. The dog days of summer have slowly overcome winter, reducing it into a haze of evaporating memories.
I scan the area from my antique couch. I’ll often lay down on this small Victorian loveseat to try and relieve the pain in my back after a long session. The floor is filthy. It was once traditional light gray concrete, open and empty. Over years of use and abuse it has collected dirt, sawdust, grease and grime, sticky cottonwood seeds blown in by violent spring thunderstorms, road scum, mouse shit, spiderwebs, and the bodies and blood of a million squashed insects. This debris is barely visible under a vivid color spectrum of paint. It’s 750 square feet of blurry blobs, splashed specks, pools and puddles. Waffle-sole prints walk over each other in various sizes, a trail of expanding circles in the areas where the light is clean and concentrated.
A story unfolds. The path becomes clear in the billion dots of overspray that lay before me, a colorful spectrum as complex as the universe. This past winter was flowing with energy, physical and creative. “Human Nature 3” brought us together. It was Schoph’s vision, with support and hard work from Ashley, Josie and Scott of Asymbol Gallery, which connected us this past February in the wake of a historically destructive winter storm. A major weather event blew down 17 power lines in Teton Village the week prior, forcing government officials to declare a state of emergency. Roofs collapsed and a power outage shut down operations at Jackson Hole Mountain Resort for five days despite 30-plus inches of new snow.
Stacks of paintings are still before me: a couple of unfinished Jamie Lynn pieces, a dirty cardboard masterpiece by Forest Bailey. Schoph originals await frames and a nice clean wall to hang upon. There is a bulk of disorder within my neglected, unfinished panels. I find focus on the late-night collaboration by Schoph, Jamie and I hanging above. The detailed woven hands dissolve into ribbons of leafy vines, a silent wave about to detonate under a golden sunset, the sea cradled by cloud-shrouded mountains. Distant stars emerge. I’m back in the moment.
My garage is full of travelers who came for the show. Music is playing, honored guests are engaged in conversation over drinks, and some are painting. Clouds of smoke and spray paint fill the room and exit the cracked doors into darkness as my wife and children sleep. Head-high snowbanks dampen the noise and we continue late into the night. I feel love and inspiration—these sessions forge friendships and feed the soul. That’s human nature.
July 31, “The Trailhead”
I stop and take a deep breath, absorbing the surrounding environment. I exhale and feel a calm, familiar connection to it all. The moon casts a beam of white light across the lake. A warm summer wind blows from the south, forming a thousand tiny waves, breaking the smooth surface of darkness with a steady glittering rhythm. Upstream is a wide valley dissolving into the distant, towering peaks. It’s late Sunday night and I made a spontaneous decision to join some friends at dawn to float the emerald waters of the Snake River. I figured I’d sleep at my favorite winter trailhead in my crooked old camper.
Six months ago, we gathered in this precise location. It was a cold, dark, icy and empty parking lot. The lake was frozen and the thick snowpack blanketed all surfaces except the steepest pitches of ancient rock along the crest of the range. The caravan rolled in on the slick pullout and parked. Trucks continued to idle as exhaust hovered in a dirty, icy steam. A brief lull of inaction followed as we lingered in our vehicles, hesitating to leave the creature comforts of civilization for just a little longer.
One by one, truck doors opened. We repeatedly yanked the pull cords on our iron steeds, cursing the frozen metal pistons, pushing coagulated sludge through the block until they fired up. Jamie and Terje Haakonsen organized their gear as best they could while Mark Carter, cinematographer Dan Gibeau, photographer Andrew Miller and I talked about potential objectives in the icy grip of dawn.
The blue-to-pink gradient of the sky turned gold as we crawled up concrete sled tracks, our machines overheating every icy mile. Progress was painfully slow. Mountainsides stripped of trees served as evidence of avalanches during the storm. Massive piles of snow lay silent and stiff with dirt and broken branches ripped down from the high canyon walls. The sweet smell of sap from freshly broken pines overcame the toxic breath of the beasts we rode. A couple stubborn moose delayed our march upward until they clumsily left the trail and we were safe to pass. We climbed a side canyon shining slippery with icy rain runnels in the advancing morning sun. We gained elevation and found soft snow, powder snow.
We regrouped below a north-facing bowl with wall-to-wall features, chutes, spines, pyramidal fins—a freestyle dream. After a brief chat and an assessment of the avalanche danger, we agreed it was safe. Carter and I broke trail as high as we could with our machines then set the boot pack. We lapped the face, moving farther down the line with the shadows as the sun lit up different features, riding until every line disappeared into darkness. The short days of winter come and go in a blur of fantastic light and speed.
That night we gathered with friends at Asymbol Gallery to share our work for “Human Nature 3”—something solid, lasting and tangible. In the days that followed, old friends and new rode, then assembled at Asymbol and in my garage to paint and share stories late into the night. An abundance of energy in the air filled the clouds. A series of storms and sunshine provided good days of riding. Spring snow and powder lifted spirits across the valley. Imaginations awoke, and from them it rose individual pieces and collaborations as if some greater force was communicating via telepathy. It was a surreal alignment, serendipity in the aftermath of destruction.
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