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One Year Ago Today

11/8/2011

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One year ago today I was sitting in Anna-Lena's apartment in Grebbestad, Sweden.  Having just been refused entry into the UK only 3 days prior, I was in a place of bewilderment and anxiety, trying to remain positive and pushing the fears welling up in my throat down into the depths of my belly. 

Just breathe, I told myself.  That's all you have to do.  All kinds of corny mantras were going through my head; things like One Day At A Time, repeating it as if I were sitting in the circle of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.  But in moments like these it's the cliche lines that comes so easily, because somehow they're so relevant.  So true. 

I did my best to remain calm, thinking it'll be OK.  You have a place to sleep.  You have food to eat.  You even have wine to drink.  Thank god for the angels that he sends.  I'm not religious, but I can't help but think that some sort of divine intervention sent Anna-Lena to me.  She will always be my rescuer.  Her and Ingalil.  And Erica.  And really all of my friends who were with my on that wonderful adventure in Sweden.   Not the least of whom Dave, my wonderful husband.  He was my fiance at the time and we were newly engaged and in that horrible moment we were torn away from each other I felt completely devastated.  I could see him on the other side of passport control, but I couldn't touch him.  Couldn't even walk in his direction.  I was hostage to the situation.  I had to sit in those horrible gray chairs in the Stansted Airport as if I were in front of a firing squad - the Border Control Agents shooting daggers and incorrect assumptions at me from their post; whispering to each other from their glass cube.  As I sat tired, scared, hungry.  And I had to pee.  So bad.  But all I could do was sit.  And the whole time I sat there - staring blankly at the piece of paper in my hand that told me in stark black letters that I was being detained, tryint o decipher some sort of meaning or make some sort of sense of it - I waited in hope.  Hope that they'd discover I'm a good person.  A decent human being just trying to do the right thing.  Yet, sitting in punishment.  For what?  Volunteering?  It just seemed so absurd.  

When I was in the third grade, I was put in afterschool detention.  I can't remember why.  Probably for talking to Carly during class, a girl that I was "friends" with despite not really even liking her.  And I'm sure I was meant to be there for 10 minutes.  I expected the teacher on duty to tell me when my time was up.  And the clock kept ticking.  And I got really nervous.  Because I was meant to join my Bluebird Troop for an overnight at the big mall in Minneapolis - an event of monumental proportions not just because I was nine years old and that's what trips of that stature are when you're that young, but because we were so poor that opportunities like that just didn't happen.  Not to me.  So I just sat watching the clock, watching the teacher, watching the clock, getting more and more anxious by the minute but too scared to say anything.  Ten minutes turned into 15, 16, 17...half an hour.  And then it was over.  School done.  Detention done.  The teacher had to go home.  I went home, too, hope like a dark cloud because I knew I'd missed it.  Missed my big chance.  And for what?  Talking in class?  Well, the punishment certainly felt larger than the crime.  Just like being refused entry at the UK border because I'd been volunteering without a visa - a crime I'd unwittingly committed.  The words of the Agent taunting me continuously "ignorance of the law does not make you immune to it." 

So eventually Dave flew out to see me and we spent a glorious couple of days together before I flew back to the States, where I spent the next four months.  It was a dark time.  A difficult time, dotted with bright moments.  In the end I was granted permission to return to the UK and have been here now for 8 months.  Good things do eventually happen to good people.  Sometimes it just takes awhile. 
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Chapter 7: Back in Sweden

8/3/2011

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As you can imagine, the hour and a half flight back to Sweden was full of anxiety for me.  I was sitting near the front of the plane where I had been directed to sit by the security agent who had escorted me onto the plane (imagine this scene: I'm being rushed through the inner maze of hallways that's hidden from view from the general public by a tiny but very official woman at break-neck speed while carrying a large and weighty duffel bag, taken to the front of the line of people waiting to board their RyanAir flight and am told to sit in an already occupied seat which requires me to ask the flight attendant to have the man removed so I can sit there and then answer her questions as to why because she doesn't know about the situation or why I'm there and so this poor man has to move and I take over warming the seat as everyone the near vacinity is looking on in morbig curiosity at this woman with wild, pink, puffy eyes and greasy hair who's not slept in over 24 hours and has been crying intermittently for the last 7 hours), nervous, occassionally trading off my gaze out the window to my shaky hands but never to the people around me.  I faked sleep for a little while, trying to calm myself down and feeling as if this was all a dream and that I'd wake up soon. 

Then we land.  I wasn't sure what was going to happen or what the protocol would be - all I knew was that my passport and documents for being refused entry were in the possession of the cabin crew.  All around me other passengers are getting up and pulling their items from the overhead bins.  I stand up, unsure of what to do.  It didn't take long.  I was soon called out in front of the line of passengers eagerly awaiting to disembark from the plane to enjoy their holiday or to enjoy going home to their families after being away on holiday and was told to descend the metal staircase leading to the tarmack.  Waiting for me were two police officers.  One of the flight attendants greeted the men and handed over a manilla envelope which I was sure contained my documents.  I was handed over.  There was a bit of chit-chat.  Humorless.  Humiliating.

"So, you were refused entry?"
Yes

"What did you do?" 
I was volunteering without a volunteer, which I didn't know was illegal. 

I tried to keep it light in a tone inviting some sort of chuckle or at least a compassionate eye.  Nothing.

I was led into a small room within the airport.  An official looking room.  I guess where the police-men sit all day waiting for refugees to arrive. 

"So, what do you plan to do?"
I don't know

I sit in disbelief.  They ask me what my plans are?  I thought I would be told what to do.

"Do you have any money?"
No, just a credit card.

"Do you have any friends or family here?"
No.

"Well, we'll let you in.  But you have overstayed your stay in the EU."
What, I don't understand?

"You are only allowed to stay for three months in the EU, even though you were allowed a stay of six months in the UK."
So what does that mean?  Will I be OK to leave?

"How long do you plan on staying?"
I don't know, maybe five days, a week.  Just long enough for me to make arrangements to go home.

"That will be fine." 
Is there a certain amount of time I have before I need to leave?

"You'll be fine."

I sit there.  Still stunned and unsure of what to do.

"We'll take you through to get your passport stamped."
Can I at least make a phone call?  

So they fumble around for about 10 minutes trying to figure out to make the international call to England.  Finally they figure it out and I'm connected...almost.  It's ringing anyway.  But it just keeps ringing and ringing.  No answer.  And Dave doesn't have voicemail.  I'm terrified.  I hang up.  I am led through the airport to Passport Control.  My passport is stamped.  I'm allowed in.  They say to me, "Good luck."  To which I respond, "is there a pay phone or internet access." 

"Oh yes, there are some computers you can pay to use."  
Can you show me where that is?  

They walk me to the line of three computers that constitutes their "internet cafe."  Relief.  They tell me how I can get access to the internet, smile, wish me luck again and leave.  I stand there stunned.   I could hardly believe it.  In less than 8 hours I'd flown to England from Sweden, was detained and questioned at length and then flown back to Sweden.  It was a full-circle trip.  I would have been less exhausted if I'd slept the night in the airport on a concrete floor.  What was I going to do?

Thankfully just about everyone in Sweden speaks English.  So I went to the girl running the register in the tiny box that only slightly resembled a gift shop and asked if I could buy time for the internet.  She ran my card, gave me a receipt and showed me the code allowing me access.  The first thing I did was looked for transportation out of the airport.  Fear gripped my chest when I realized all of the information I was reading was in Swedish.  Of course it was.  And the only Swedish I knew was "hi-hi" and "takk".  I'm sure there was a setting I could have changed to allow me to read the information in English, but in my panicked state, it was the last thing I would have thought to do.  So I did the only thing I knew to do - signed into Facebook.

I need to remember to send a thank you letter to that fella who created Facebook.  And to the guy who created the internet and computers and electricity.  I mean, without all of this technology, I seriously don't know how I would have contacted Dave.  After all, I didn't have a cell phone on my and no cash.  There was no cash machine and no currency exchange.  I logged onto Facebook and immediately started sending messages to anyone of relevance and sent a desperate message to Dave in the dire hopes he'd have gotten to Greavsey's house and was able to get online.  And then that wonderful little ring let me know I had an instant message.  From Dave.  Thank god!  I was able to let him know I was at the airport and in the time I'd spent in detension and flying from Britain to Scandanavia, the gang had arranged for Erica's mom to pick me up in two hours.  Sweet Jesus.  Still, I needed to speak to him so we could arrange a few more details.  There was no pay phone.  So I went to the information desk to see if there was a phone I could use.  Sure, if it was a local call.  To England?  Sorry, you'll have to ask the bored girl sitting on the till in the shoebox gift shop if you can pay to use her phone.  You'd like to use a phone?  What phone?  No, I'm sorry there's no phone here, you should try information.  Seriously?  Arrrgh!  I go back to Information.  Wait for about half an hour for a woman to show up in the window.  Can I use your phone please?  I was just refused entry to England and sent back to Sweden and I really need to call my fiancee in England.  Reluctance.  Seconds tick by like hours.  OK.  But just for a minute.  Thankfully this time he answers.  He outlined the whole scenario and what I could expect.  Erica's mom would be there to pick me up in two hours.  She would allow me to stay there until we could make other arrangements.  In the meantime, Dave was on the phone with Annie to see if she knew of an immigration lawyer we could contact to see if there was any way to get me back to the UK.  The gang was being very supportive and send their love.  OK, talk to you soon - we'll keep in touch on Facebook until Erica's mom gets here and then we'll talk once I get to her house.

Relief.  One problem.  I didn't have a watch.  No way to tell time.  I found no clock in the airport, oddly enough.  I bought a small alarm clock for a ridiculously extravagent price from the shoebox boutique.  And some toothpaste.  There was serious fur growing where my teeth used to be.  

I found the time, set the clock.  Locked myself inside the bathroom and tried to tidy myself up.  Brushing my teeth was about the best feeling in the world.  

Then I went to the airport cafe and got something to eat.  I was starving, having not eaten for quite some time.  And I just waited.  To kill time I wandered back into the main terminal and there stood my angel, with blond wavy hair holding a sign that read "ERIN".  I immediately hugged her and in her broken English Erica's mom told me not to worry - she would be my mom for a little while.  She was going to take me to her house where I could get some sleep and use the computer and phone as much as I needed.  I don't know if I've ever been so relieve in all of my life.  Or so tired. 
 
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Chapter 6: The Aftermath

14/2/2011

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 OK.  So the trip to Sweden ends.  So we head back to the Gothenburg City Airport, which is just a tiny thing of an airport.  It used to be an old military base, I think.  So it's pretty bare bones.  Our flight didn't leave until 11pm, so we were all fairly shattered and full of sadness that our wonderful trip was over.  I can't really explain it, but there was sort of this grey cloud hanging over us.  Maybe it was just me.  Maybe it was that we were sitting for hours under artificial light in a building that nearly made status of airport.  Or maybe it was that Benno and Jess had a stroke of bad luck.  Turns out that Benno booked he and Jess a flight for earlier in the day and obviously missed that flight.  It was a simple oversight.  And so they had to pay 500 some odd pounds to get new tickets issued so they could catch our flight home.  Bugger.

They managed to get it all sorted and things resumed as they normally would and as normal as you can imagine.  We sat in a dimly lit waiting area past security, queued up to board our Ryan Air flight and landed in London's Stansted Airport at about midnight.  Maybe Benno and Jess' bad luck were an omen.  I wasn't prepared for what happened next.

As you know when you get off an international flight you have to go through Passport Control.  Because I was the only American in the group, I had to stand in a separate line all on my own.  I can't quite explain it, but while I was standing there in line, I was feeling extremely nervous.  My heart was beating like mad.  But I pushed those feelings down and told myself I was just being silly.  Why was I so stressed?  Well, I was in the UK on a visitor's passport which is given to American's when they first arrive in Britain.  It's just simply the stamp they give you when you enter the Kingdom.  And it's good for six months.  The border agent who originally stamped my passport did so with a great reluctance.  The flashback to that monent is probably what prompted my nervousness.  Whatever.  There I was.  In line.  On my own.  I step up to the desk answering typical questions - why are you  here?  What are your intentions?  The questions got increasingly more intense.  I felt the blood drain from my face.  My vision started to narrow.   My throat was completely dry.  It was getting difficult to talk.  I slowly realized that this questioning was not going well. 

Now, anyone who knows me knows I'm a terrible liar.  I also wear my heart on my sleeve.  My panic must have been shining like a great, bright beacon to the woman questioning me.  I'm sure this did me no favors whatsoever.  I heard myself answering questions as if from outside of my self.

Why are you here?
To live with my fiancee.  We just got engaged during our holiday in Sweden. 
Why are you here for so long?
Because we're trying to figure out what to do - whether or not to get a finacee visa or get married. 
How can you afford this trip?
I sold my house.
What's your job?
I lost my job.
How much money have you spent while you were here?
Not much.  A few hundred dollars.
Not bad.  So what do you do?
What do you mean?
What do you do on an average day to keep busy?
I volunteer.
Where's your visa?
Visa?  I didn't realize I needed a visa to volunteer.
Ignorance of the law does not make you immune to it.  It is your responsibility to research such information before making a trip.
I did!
Where did you get your information?
The Home Office website. 
Where do you volunteer?  PAD Gallery.  How often?  About 4 hours a week.  What do you do?  General assistance.
OK.  One moment.  I'm going to speak with your partner.  I'll be back.

She walks over to Dave who has been standing about 20 feet away during most of my interrogation.  He got through his line in record time.  He has a severe look of worry on his face.  I feel like I'm underwater.  She comes back.

So your partner says you volunteer a few times a week in the mornings and afternoons - would you like to revise your statement.  Please bear in mind lying to an immigration officer is grounds for refusal to enter the country. 

No, I think we're saying the same thing!  I gave you an average of the hours I work at the Gallery - sometimes I never go in, sometimes I go in for 6 hours.  But I never go in the morning and afternoon in the same day...I think he meant that sometimes I go in the day and sometimes in the afternoon.

It went on like this for about 20 minutes.  Finally she told me that I was going to be detained for questioning to determine whether or not I was to be allowed into the country.  Dave was told he had to leave the area he was standing in and go downstairs by baggage - and to leave me with our baggage.  I had to sit.  And all I could do was sit.  No bathroom.  No moving around.  Just sit and wait. 

And I did wait.  For nearly two hours. 

Then I was taken into the inner maze that makes up the part of the airport we never see as passengers.  I was  placed in a room.  Questioned briefly.  Taken to a new room.  Fingerprinted.  Taken back to the original room.  Photographed.  Bags searched.  Body searched.  Taken to the detention room.  My bags taken from me.  I saw a file about me already compiled.  So quick!  I sat in a dark room that was full of books, tv blaring about a poker face.  There was a room with large panels of glass standing in as a substitute for plaster walls.  This was a room I could pray in if I chose.  But it was intended as a children's play area.  I was offered some food.  Nothing great.  But very welcome.  I was starving.  There were two bathrooms.  The only place to get any privacy.  With matted, oily hair and puffy eyes I went there.  And cried.  The tears just wouldn't stop.  What was I going to do?  There was nothing I could do.  I was not in control of any of my possessions except for what I wore on my back.  I had no money.  No cell phone.  And even if I did, I would have had to hand it over to the security officials.  Thankfully, it was a quiet as far as detainees were concerned and the security officials were very friendly.  And they allowed me to pull my lip balm from my bag.  I tried to focus on TV.  It was crap.  I tried to read.  Impossible.  It seemed all I could do was pee.  And pee.  And pee.  Turns out that level of anxiety is great for emptying one's bladder.

I sat in this room with a man who was being detained for travelling on a fake passport for about two hours before being called for questioning.  The immigration officer was different from the one who questioned me at passport control.  He wasn't overly nice.  But not rude.  And I guess that's a good thing.  They need to have a professional distance afterall.  I was asked 23 questions.  The answers were tediously transcribed by hand.  I was often asked to slow down or repeat what I said.  I was starting to be filled with a bit of hope.  Then I was led back to the detention room.  I sat for another half hour.  Then the immigration officer came in to ask a few more questions.  This time in the toy-filled glass paneled multi-purpose room.  God I could use a prayer now.  I cried.  Pleaded my case, but only slightly.  I didn't want to look more suspicious than I already did.  He leaves.  I go back to my seat in the main waiting area.  By this time a young boy of 16 had entered the scene.  He, too, had tried to enter on a fake passport.  I had only volunteered without a visa.  t really didn't seem just. 

The immigration officer returned.  Bad news.  I wasn't going to be allowed to enter the UK.  He handed over the official paperwork stating that I was being refused entry.  I had to sign it.  I would be placed on the next flight back to Sweden which departed in one and a half hours.  I would not be given my passport - that would be held by the pilot until I landed. 

What was I going to do?  I needed to call Dave.  I need to see Dave.  I pleaded with the security agents to see him.  Miraculously, they allowed it.  They located him and walked him through the inner maze to where I was.  We were allowed a five minute visit in a small room under the supervision of a guard.  We hugged.  And cried.  And kissed.  And cried.  We exchanged luggage.  We hugged again.  And that was it.  We were separated again.  I would contact him when I got to Sweden and we'd figure out what to do.  I was terrified.  What was I going to do? 
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Chapter 5: The Trip Comes to an End

25/1/2011

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I realize it's been a few months since my last blog.  As I wrap up what I've come to refer to as the "Swedish Saga" you'll understand why.  But instead of working my way back, I'm going to pick up from where I left off and go from there.  It'll help make more sense.

When I last left off the group had just finished an extreme paddle through pretty choppy sea.  After working so hard to keep moving through the angry water, every other paddle felt easy and the rest of the trip was spent leisurely working our way back to our starting point.  Five months have gone by since this amazing holiday and sadly, the finer details are more deeply hidden in the creases of my brain.  I do, however, recall the last island we camped on to be one of the greater highlights.  Tucked away in a hidden spot and seeming to float on water so soft and still it could easily be described as a velvet mirror.  It was still.  And quiet.  And we were all alone.  Unless you count the sheep, that is.  Who were less than impressed to suddenly be sharing their space with a bunch of humans who spread out with obvious abandon and nonchalance.  A couple of our tents blocked the skinny little path made by the sheep.  But only just.  Which wasn't a big deal - until somewhere around 4 or 5am, which is when the sheep were busy moving from one side of the island to the other.  I remember them eyeing us shortly after we landed and they let out a few "baaa's" to let us know they were there - it was almost as if to say, "woah, woah, woah...what's this?  What ya doin?  You can set up tent there.  Or there!  Oh sure, go ahead...set up your tent on our path.  Great.  This is going to put a kink in tomorrow's walk.  Oh well, best to deal with it in the morning."  They went on their way and we continued with our task of setting up camp.  Which also included some swimming, relaxing, drinking, eating and gathering wood for a fire.  But not just any wood.  Cuz there wasn't much to be had on our island.  Luckily we found a pretty sweet stash on the next island over.  Not much of a paddle - a few minutes and you were there.  And would be easy enough, except that the slime covering the rocks of the beach made it a bit of an effort to do anything.  Somehow I managed to load the front of our double kayak with wood and paddled back to the main island with what I thought to be a pretty impressive stack of wood.  And then enters Benno.  Amazingly directing a big wooden wheel across the water.  And not something like a wagon wheel.  Not at all.  You know those huge wooden spools that are used to store really heavy cable?  Yea, that's what he had.  It was ridiculous.  And amazing.  It was too impressive to burn - and far to functional.  So now we had fuel AND a table...sweet!  The night carried on as you might expect - drinking, laughter, story-telling.  And after a mini star-gazing session, Dave and I retired for the night followed shortly by the rest of the gang.  When we heard them.

I don't know what time it was - four or five in the morning, maybe - when I woke up to what sounded like a thumping on the kayaks...as if they were being rocked back and forth in the water and hitting a big rock.  Except we were beached on grass and sand.  No rocks anywhere.  So I thought an animal was out there kicking the shit out of our kayaks.  I unzipped the tent and poked my head out to find the atmosphere soaked in a heavy mist.  I did a quick visual sweep of the kayaks.  No animals.  Quiet as could be.  Then I heard it again.  And I looked toward the hill in front of us.  And there, nearly hidden by the dark color of the rockface and mist hanging in the air, was a line of black sheep.  Since we'd covered their path, they made a new one.  And as I looked at them and woke Dave up to point them out to him, they starting "baa-ing" very, VERY loudly.  And very angrily.  I think this time they were saying something like, "Yea, thanks.  See what we have to do now?  We could have walked the path we've walked everyday since we've been born...a nice, flat, well-tread path.  Instead we have to walk in these damned rocks.  And it sucks.  Thanks."  Hilarious!!!  Sorry sheep.  

The next day we paddled back to the kayak rental, dropped off our kayaks and found a place with a shower and got cleaned up.  Erica arranged for us to stay the night in a cottage in the woods.  The cottage belonged to the parents of her best friend, Anna-Lena.  It was a fabulous stay.  We had a good feed, drank some beer and wine, had a wonderful blueberry pie (courtesy of Anna-Lena), and went on a midnight moose-hunt.  Not a real hunt.  A visual one.  We didn't see any moose.  But we did have a good walk in the woods.  And at the end of the night we all turned in for a great night's sleep on a mattress, bed or couch - there was plenty of places for us all to find a comfy place to crash out.   

The next day we woke up and got a leisurely start to Gothenburg where we'd catch our plane that night.  We realized that day how lucky we'd been with the weather as it poured down all day long.  The first real rain that had fallen since we'd arrived a week earlier.  So we holed up in a British-themed pub, watched football on the big flat-screens and filled our bellies with ale and chips.  The trip was nearing its end.  And for some reason I had this little pit in the bottom of my stomach.  I can't really explain it...and it wasn't all-encompassing - more like a light case of anxiety that quietly fell over me.  Like the mist that surrounded us that night the sheep woke us up. 
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Chapter 5: When the Paddling Gets Scary

14/9/2010

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Left: Pic from inside our tent, looking onto Highland Games Island
Right: Dave and I waring our "choobs"

I was quite happy and ready to leave Highland Games Island to search out a new island.  However, I hadn't taken my motion sickness medicine and was feeling fairly average after about 15 minutes.  I tried to swallow the feeling away and get enraptured in the scenery.  It's hard to explain how a chain of islands can be so diverse, continually offering something new to see.  All of the islands have their own character - some of them are jagged and rough with large patches of grass; others offer large surfaces of smooth rock with little patches of grass.  Each location offers a new vantage point - and all of it grand when you're sitting just a few feet from the water's surface.  We paddled into an area that felt protected, yet completely exposed.  It's hard to explain.  It's the same sort of feeling I had once when I went skiing in the Rockies; I was at the peak of a mountain looking up at the distant peak of another ridge.  To my left was all of the activity of the mountain - the skiiers, the ski lift, the signs, the snow.  But to my right it felt as if the mountain just dropped off and you were standing on a cloud of nothing.  Comfort wrapped in anxiety.  It was like that during this particular paddle of the archipelagos.  There is something beautiful about a fear like that.

The group started talking about finding a place to shore up so we could relax a bit and eat our lunch before finding a new island to set up camp.  We found this quiet little cove, dotted with tiny islands.  And on one of these islands sat a lone house.  With a massive dock.  It offered the perfect landing point.  Before I knew it, we were moored and unpacking at the backdoor of some Swede's summer home.   I didn't like it at all.  I'm not a rule-breaker by nature.  I dislike confrontation and follow the rules so as to not upset the invisible scales that will lead to some sort of conflict.  Here we were basically tresspassing.  But it was clear that this was what the group was going to do.  So I just tried the best to shrink inside of myself while we ate lunch.  Besides, it didn't look like anyone was home.  Their dock was clear of any boats and most likely, the lucky bastards who owned this amazing property had gone for the summer, after only spending two weeks there.  Not that I was jealous.  We spread out on the dock and a few of the guys approached the house to see if anyone was home - it looked totally dark.  The rest of us reached into our drybags to piece together a lunch.   I tried to relax even though my chest tightened up a little every time a boat went whizzing past.  After about a half an hour had passed I think the rest of the crew was feeling it too and we agreed to move on. 

It was a sunny day and warm enough that some of us opted not to wear a rash vest or rain jacket under our life jackets.  It was nearly a perfect day.  But it was windy.  And that made the water very turbulent.  We found ourselves in very choppy water, but it happened quite subtlely - the waves getting a little stronger with each stroke.  Kind of like heating up a frog in a frying pan.  Before we knew it, we felt like we might as well be in the middle of the ocean, miles away from land.  I was too scared to be sick.  I've got to hand it to the designers of those sea kayaks, because despite the rough waters they remained pretty stable.  It was almost too scary to process at the moment - all you know is that you have to keep paddling otherwise you may end up capsized and struggling.  So we paddled.  And paddled.  Muscles burning.  Feeling like you were going nowhere.  It felt like we were stuck in some sort of vortex and would be there forever.  But the islands seemed to be moving, so I knew we were making progress, albeit slow.  Slowly I began to notice that there were people standing on top of the islands we were passing; they were gawking and pointing, talking to each other.  I felt like we were on some sort of extreme sport show.  It was pretty cool.  I remember thinking how awesome that was, to be the subject of people's awe at they must have thought was stupidity.  I've never been that sporty so this was a new feeling for me.  And kind of gave me the gas to keep going.  Finally, after what felt like hours, we found ourselves in the calm waters of a marina and paddling felt so easy and fluid.  It was a gorgeous transition.  We were back at the beach we'd visited just days before on the island of Lysekil.  It was so nice to see some familiar terriroty.  And then came one of those precious moments in life that give you a permanent grin.  As we were unpacking our boats an older couple came up and were talking to Erica in Swedish.  Turns out they'd been among the people watching us from the top of the island and they'd taken photos of us.  Wicked!  To be captured on camera by strangers while we were in the midst of our most terrifying paddle of the trip - acting the part of extreme kayakers - and photographic evidence to back it up.  They took Erica's email address and promised to send her the pics when they got back from vacation.  Mind you, I've yet to see the pics, but I know they're out there somewhere.  And that's good enough.

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Holiday in Sweden, Chapter 4 - Leaving Yoga Island

4/9/2010

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Leaving Yoga Island, as the gang came to refer to it, was difficult for me.  I easily imagined myself spending several days exploring every crevice and rock, finding new boulders to perch on while basking in the sun.  It seemed perfect.  Just below the Penthouse Suite was a tarn of fresh water – deep, cold and the color of tea.  It was like a natural spa.  I found I could lie down on my back on the rock by the tarn and by just leaning my head gently back, as you would at a salon, I could wash my hair.  The water came nearly up to my waste if I stood in it, which allowed me to take a brisk sponge bath.   I had my fiancé, food, fresh water, gorgeous scenery…I couldn’t imagine a more perfect place to soak in life and nature.  I wanted to stay.  But, as they say, the show must go on.  So it was with a slight sense of loss that I helped take down our tent and repack our gear. 


Here’s a bit of irony for the story, if you can call it that.  I suffer from motion sickness and am particularly vulnerable to sea sickness, a fact I discovered only in the past few years when I visited Florida.  I was on a small deep sea fishing charter boat (I don’t even like fishing).  I started to feel nauseous which came as no great shock as I’ve suffered the same plight while riding in a car.  Slowly the nausea grew and seemed to crawl up the back of my head and spread its horrible fingers across the top of my brain, like poisonous honey – thick and goopy, inescapable.  And then I could feel it really take hold; my mouth felt like a spit factory.  The finer details are a bit fuzzy to me now, but somehow the captain was able to provide me with a bit bucket to toss the contents of my stomach into.  It was indeed one of my finer moments.  Just to make sure this was a true affliction I engaged in the same scenario the following year.  At least the second boat had a bathroom.  I’m glad to say I’ve wised up since then and was not about to trust my stomach to the open waters during this vacation.  So I stocked up on motion sickness medicine.  On the day we left Yoga Island I knew the group would be in for a long paddle, so I took a pill – just one, the recommended dosage.  It didn’t even touch the sickness.  I felt the familiar creeping of nausea.  Dammit!  It felt like the paddle that day would never end.  It felt like the paddle would never end.  I was blind to my surroundings.  The awe and beauty was gone.  My vision was black.  And my frustration and irritation was growing.  But there was no relief and nothing to do about it – we were in the middle of water and Erica had a destination in mind so there was nothing to do but to keep going.  And then, what’s this?  We’re there?  Ahhhhh….a harbor.  Finally.  Wait a minute – what?  We have to turn around?  I remember yelling to Dave, “where the fuck are we going?”  I was mad.  But only because I was sick.  And I knew I was being a baby, so I ate my anger, pushed my irritation down to the pit of my belly to join the gastric juices and half-digested fruit and walnuts from the morning’s breakfast.  We entered a narrow strait and then we were exposed to the most open body of water we’d encountered so far.  And it was choppy.  So I reached into the depths of my being and latched on to my yoga focus, my third eye, my drishdi.  And I stopped thinking.  I placed an imaginary focus point in front of me and just paddled and paddled – my arms moving as if I were a robot, the rest of me shut down.  And after about a half an hour, maybe more, we were there.  The beach was the most boggy and littered we’d been to so far, but I didn’t care.  The smell of salt water and fish was pungent, but I tried my best to ignore it and took in a deep breath.  Annie, the dear heart she is, took note of my suffering and placed her cold hands on my forehead and neck and rubbed my back until I felt better.  It worked like a charm. 

The island we had landed on was populated with summer homes, a football pitch and an ice cream shop (there is a god!).  The beach neighbored a large lot of grass with a substantial fire pit.  After getting settled in, we took a wander along the path into “town” and stopped at the ice cream shop for some refreshing treats.  It’s funny how pre-packaged cones of slightly cold sugary plastic disguised as a dessert food can taste so good when you’ve been roughing it and eating only the food in your kit.  Which is so silly to say, because it’s not like we were starved or ever very far from civilization and a shop to re-stock on provisions.  But I think there is a psychological element to a trip like ours when you’re essentially in the middle of the sea (although never too far from land), protected from the masses of jellyfish and cold water by a relatively thin sheet of plastic.  And when you’re not a strong swimmer, like me, I think it’s a thought that never really leaves your mind.  No matter how near land and how much kit you’ve packed in your boat, you’re still exposed to the elements.  And should the weather take a quick and nasty turn, you’re vulnerable.  I never took that for granted.  So ice cream, no matter how hydrogenated, was a comforting symbol of safety. 

This island came to be known as the Island of the Highland Games.  Men never truly leave their boyhood behind and their propensity to throw rocks, I’m convinced, is never abandoned.  When you’re on an island loaded with rocks, what else is there to do but to make up some games that involve throwing rocks – tiny ones, big ones, really heavy ones.  And I have to admit there’s something really intriguing about watching a group of guys hurling rocks toward an invisible goal.  I couldn’t resist.  Neither could the rest of the girls.  So we all participated in a rock throwing and hurling contest.  The girls ended up bowing out early, but they guys kept at it for ages.  It was good fun.  After awhile, we all returned to the fire (the result of another well-ingrained characteristic of the male species).  The guys drank whiskey and told stories to make us all laugh.  The girls instituted the Massage Club and traded massages with each while being entertained by the pranks of the opposite sex.  
Picture
Left: Packing up from Yoga Island
Right: Paddling away in the open waters

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Holiday in Sweden - Chapter 3

26/8/2010

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After spending a luxuriously relaxing afternoon on the beach in Lysekil, it was time for us to move on - we needed to find a place to set up camp for the evening.  As the summer days in Sweden are long, there was no need to rush too quickly toward our destination and were able ramble through the water at a steady but relaxed pace.  The islands, though small mounds of rock, were like mountains to us in the kayaks - we were like water bugs skimming the surface of the water and from our vantage point, everything looked grand.  We paddled through a wonderful collection of islands and the water was very still.  We came across the most magnificent island, as if it were a magnet and we were pieces of metal.  There was a small beach, difficult for the one-man kayaks to navigate and impossible for the two-man's.  Matt and Jimmy went ahead, through the maze of rocks, to scope it out.  Meanwhile the rest of us paddled on to another section of the island and discovered a quite surprising place to land our boats.  The rock was worn as if it were cut specifically to fit our boats and we were able to paddle into the crevice where a smooth, dry rock was immediately available to provide with solid footing as we exited the vessels.  The remaining one-man kayak went to signal to the other two that we'd found a good landing point, who'd already moored their boats.  They started to unload their hulls and came over to help the rest of us land our kayaks and unload our gear.  We walked over bulbous, smooth rock to a soggy patch of grass that sat as a large, wide-mouthed bowl in a lush valley.  The rocks rose up at a great height of varying levels and was so smooth it felt completely natural to walk upon them in bare feet.  Although starving, it was difficult to resist the temptation to explore the island before settling in.  Dave and I went for a little walk and stood in awe looking around us - the wide open sea was just on the other side of the small island; it was the deepest, richest shade of blue and the sky was clean and clear.  Large sailboats and small yachts sailed by, in majesty and confidence.  The wind was blowing crisply and had a chill to it; and while the wind wasn't felt as strongly in the valley and was therefore warmer, Dave and I knew we had to set up our tent on the rock, facing the sea.  It was too beautiful to resist.  Jimmy and Erica had a similar though and set up their tent a few levels below us on a flat, smooth rock just a few meters from the bowl of grass the rest of the group set their tents in.  Our tent was jokingly called the penthouse, being placed so high up and far away from the others; this made me feel really proud.  I also felt so lucky that Dave and I had such a wonderful place to celebrate our engagement.  It was almost as if it were designed with the two of us in mind.   Of course the wind brought us back to reality - it made it a challenge to erect the tent and of course on a bed of rock, pegs are useless.  So we had to carry armloads of small rocks up to our site to help secure the tent, which would have been nearly impossible without the help of Matt, who provided mesh bags to place the rocks in, and Jimmy, who provided the elastic bands to secure to the rocks and rock-filled mesh bags. 

Once again it was dinner time and we prepared our meal - a mixture of dried packets of rice and pasta with some fresh veg tossed in.  Quite a gourmet meal, which I was quite fond of.  Each group carried on getting organized, setting up their site and cooking their meals.  After we'd all been fed, Jimmy pulled out his bag of blush wine, others pulled out cans of beer and we relaxed once again, this time under a sky that was still, shockingly, light.  It seemed as if the sun would never set.  As if to encourage it to set below the horizon, the gang went up past the penthouse to a ledge which provided a natural back-rest and settled in to watch the sunset.  We had a great time.  I did one of my favorite things to do when up on great heights and struck a few yoga poses on the highest rock I could find.  Dave jokingly threatened to do some tombstoning off the side of the cliff and was disappointed when I came running over to take a picture...he thought for sure I'd at least try to stop him.  Simon (aka Macca) entered into his own contest of seeing how far he could jump over a tarn of brown water and finally everyone gathered around to see who could scale a tiny little cliff above a pit of water, black with depth, without falling in.  Matt did some of his own rock scaling and busted his toe and got some use out of his first aid kit (the large one, as he was able to exchange that for the small one at the beginning of the trip when he discovered there was room for it afterall).  The sunset was pretty anticlimatic, but the sun itself gave a good show, blazing huge in a deep pink hue.  The sky opened just enough to shower us with a few cold pellets of rain and was enough to send us back to the bowl.  Sadly we had no campfire, but we had plenty of jokes and stories to keep each other entertained. 

In the morning I was one of the first to awake and decided to take advantage of our million-dollar view; I made myself a cup of hot tea and took my fruit and walnut breakfast to a ledge just past our tent and relished the beautiful morning.  Shortly, Dave joined me and we sat together, enjoying our breakfast and each other's company as we looked out on the sea in front of it.  Life is dotted with little magical moments; little hiccups in time that full of serenity, peace and well-being in which we feel totally connected to the universe.  This was one of them.  I wanted to stay there forever. 

As we finished our breakfast, we joined the rest of the gang down in the bowl.  A few in the group asked if I'd be willing to lead them in a yoga session, which I was of course happy to do.  We went over to a rock on the opposite side of the island and I led them through a series of gentle vinyasas that worked to stretch the muscles we'd worked the hardest in the last couple of days.  We ended the session with meditation in Dead Man's pose, heated by the warm sun with a gentle breeze lightly touching our faces.  It was a great way to start our third day of kayaking.
Picture
Left: Macca jumping a tarn
Right: The Penthouse Suite

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Holiday in Sweden - Chapter 2

23/8/2010

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Chapter 2

Having finished our meal and set up camp, I asked Dave if he'd like to do a little exploring of the island.  Always eager for an adventure, he said yes and we wandered over the heather, lush with purple flowers, walked over rock covered in dried moss, hopped over small crevices and did a light scramble up the rocks and found a beautiful place to rest that overlooked the sea.  From our vantage point we could see the little town of Lysekil, the ominous steeple of the church serving as a great landmark that would come in handy later when, tired of trying to read the maps, would note our location by our surroundings. 

I couldn't recall our conversation if you offered a million dollar prize.  What I do remember quite clearly, though, is Dave commanding, quite abruptly, to stand up.  I thought he was playing some sort of game and said OK.  As I stood up, he got down on one knee and nervously blurted out Erin, will you marry me?   At first I thought it was a joke and was in the process of forming a not-so-quick-witted retort, but realized that he was very serious.  Tears started streaming down my face the moment I smile and said Of course.  Of course I'll marry you!  He stood up and we hugged for a long time.  I could feel his heart beating very quickly and he had a bit of a shiver, even though it was still fairly pleasant outside.  As we were standing there, still wrapped up in a hug, the rest of the gang started making their way up the rock and passed us by to sit on a ledge a bit higher than ours to watch the sunset.  After a few more moments to ourselves, Dave suggested we join the rest of the group and tell them the big news.  We walked over to them and a bit nervously Dave said We have some news - I just asked Erin to marry me...and she said yes.  Everyone cheered and offered us a beer and we had a small toast.  I couldn't believe it.  I was engaged!  Me!  And I though how relieved my mom would be to hear the news, as I think she'd resigned herself that I would never get married and would bear her no grandchildren.  And I have to say that I had developed a healthy amount of cynisism myself.  The prospect of such a union had always made me a bit anxious and nervous in the past - the thought of it used to make me feel hot and my heart would beat a little too quickly.  But with Dave it just felt natural and right.  There was no questioning it or second guessing it - we were going to get married.  We're soul mates. 

We sat on the top of the island and waited for the sunset, which takes ages in Sweden in the summer because it stays light for so long.  We took the party back down to camp where Dave pulled out a bottle of champagne.  I was shocked!  How could he have hidden that from me when we packed our bags together?  He was clever and said he'd given it to Jimmy to put in his bag at some point the night before.  So we toasted the gang and passed the bottle around for a primitive swig and Dave and I split what remained between us, drinking out of our speckled enamel camping cups.  I don't think I ever stopped smiling that night.

After the sun finally set and we'd eaten as many crisps and drank as much beer as we could, we went to sleep and one by one, the tents rustled in succession as  their inhabitants made their way out of their sleeping bags.  The rushing sound of camp stoves permeated the air as each tent group made their breakfast or heated water for a warm brew.  The day appeared to be shaping up quite nicely and after a lazy morning, we tore down camp, packed the kayaks and took off for Lysekil which was about half an hour's paddle across the water.  We were quite the spectacle as we came ashore; families gawked at us as we slowly brought our boats in - six kayaks stuffed to the gills and overflowing with dry bags of camping gear.  A very tanned, heavy-set man came walking toward us and began saying something in Swedish.  Erica, our fearless leader, took over and translated for us that the man told us it was OK to land their, but we had to move our kayaks to a remote corner of the beach so as not to disrupt the many families sunbathing there.  You should have seen us!  Even though we tried our best to be tidy and store our boats close together, we still took up a decent amount of space.  I wonder what people thought of us as we set up for a day on the beach, pulling our provisions out of the hulls of the kayaks and laying our clothes out to dry - our hair very windswept and salty - looking quite unrefined, I'm sure.  Honestly, we didn't really care about how we looked, we were just happy to be on a sunny beach, enjoying our holiday. 

In two groups we made alternating trips into the town's center to look around pick up some fresh food and booze for the night.  Lysekil was a very friendly town and it seemed that our language deficiency was not a problem as everyone spoke English - quite well, in fact.  We tried our best to make out what certain words meant, which wasn't so hard in the supermarket; ost is cheese, rokar is shrimp, skaldjur is seafood.  Thankfully, we had Erica there to translate for us if we got really stuck - like ordering from a menu that was written strictly in Swedish...or knowing which toilets were for men and which were for women.   
Picture
Left: our campsite on the first night
Right: Dave and I after getting engaged

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My Holiday in Sweden: A Story of Adventure & Unexpected Changes - Chapter One

22/8/2010

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Oh blog.  It's been awhile.  Over a month in fact.  Time slips by so quickly (isn't that a line from a song?) - and it seems that my life has turned upside down yet again.  This is tale that is best told in chapters, so let me start from the beginning.

Chapter 1
It was the best of times, it was the worst of....oh wait, that's a different story.  But then again, it does ring true.  When I last left off I was about to embark on a wonderful adventure with Dave and seven of our friends to Sweden, for a full week of sea kayaking and wild camping.  It all started out simple enough.  Dave and I took the train to Crewe where our friend, Matt picked us up.  After stopping quickly to his work to pick up these new mosquito repellent wrist bands, we went to his house where Simon was waiting for us.  We went inside and went over what gear we'd packed and watched as Matt did a check over his pack.  He'd bought this fancy scale to weigh his bag and was a little stressed out because he'd paired everything down to the barest minimum of essentials and was still overweight.  The bag read 32 kilos on the scale, and the airline had a strict weight limit of 15 kilos or less.  Dave picked up the bag to feel how heavy it was and said No way is this bag that heavy.  If it is, Erin and I are in real trouble, because our bag weighs way more than that.  Matt are you looking at pounds or kilos?  With a big laugh (and sigh of relief) Matt realized he'd read the scale wrong, and it was actually 32 pounds and he had plenty of room left.  He could bring that extra pair of sunglasses afterall!

After about an hour or two, we headed down to stay at March Cottage which belongs to Jimmy's mom and where Jimmy and Erica are living until they get married next month.  We cracked open a few beers, ate some pizza and built a fire in the pit at the back of the garden and waited for Benno and Jess to arrive.  We stayed up late and had a good crack and Benny treated us to a little bit of guitar.  After a few hours we were up again - it was early and still dark outside.  We piled into two cars and drove to the London Stansted airport, where Annie met us.  She'd had a party to go to the night before and took the last train to the airport and slept (barely) on the cold floor, waiting for us to arrive.  We got in line, checked our bags and all was going well.  Until the woman checking us in looked at my passport and asked me for my visa, which I didn't have because I was in England as a tourist.  She wasn't sure if I was allowed to make the flight to Sweden and had to call someone.  I was pretty sure I was OK to enter Sweden, but moments like these can make you nervous.  I anxiously waited as she made her phone call to check the regulations and after a few minutes she stamped my boarding pass, giving me clearance to take the flight.  For several moments afterward, I was still a bit shaken by what had happened, even though I was cleared to go through and everything was OK.  It was just hard to shake the nervousness and anxiety.  Dave ribbed me a bit and called me a worrier, and I laughed it away and tried my best to put it behind me.  Jimmy realized we were cutting it a bit close, so we quickened our pace and rushed to our gate.  We got there with minutes to spare and hopped on the plane.  The flight was about an hour and a half long and, landing on time, Ryan Air celebrated with their infamous bugle call announcing Another On Time Flight.  Some of the passengers clapped, despite our very rough landing.  We disembarked, were stamped through passport control and moved on to collect our bags.  We were tired and hungry, but excited for the adventure ahead.  After several minutes, we had all collected our belongings and headed outside where we picked up the van we'd rented for the week.  Our first stop was a supermarket in  Udavella, where we picked up some provisions.  We drove on to the kayak company, picked up our kayaks, packed 'em up (with a skeptical eye from the owners) and were off. 

We paddled our way out of the little alcove/harbor and made our way into the shallow sea waters dotted by rocky islands.  The landscape was stunning.  We were like little bugs in the water surrounded by giant boulders - each one unique.  Some islands were made of smooth rock - made up of large and undulating forms.  Others were jagged and covered in trees.  Some were a combination of both.  Some had beaches, some didn't.  Some were tall, some short.  They jutted out of the water like the backs of giant turtles or some other ancient creature.  And the water would alternate between deep indigo or emerald green and from very smooth, like glass, to very choppy as if you were in the middle of the ocean.  We paddled for about an hour, maybe more, and stopped off at a private jetty, familiar to our friend, Erica, who's grandfather moored his boat there.  We discovered wild blueberries growing and ate some directly off the bush (they were tiny Swedish berries, quite different to the big variety I was used to seeing grow on vines in America).  Some of the gang jumped off the dock for a swim while others sunbathed.  I did a quick jump in the water, but the temperature (both air and water) were too cold for my liking and besides, the waters were full of jellyfish, so I quickly hopped out and watched with amusement as a few members of the members from our gang went Tombstoning (jumping off tall cliffs into the water).  After our fun little break, we got loaded back off and headed toward our campsite.  And Erica, being from Sweden and familiar with the area, led us to the spot. 

We paddled for another hour or so, most of the time through cold rain.  We landed on the beach, which was a bit boggy, but just beyond was some tall grass where bog gave away to soft ground, perfect for sleeping on.  Shivering, we pulled out some dry, warm clothes and began to set up camp.  We were all resigned to spending a dismal night in the rain, when the rain cleared and the sun pushed through the clouds, bringing with it welcomed warmth and was accompanied by a slight breeze.  We set up a drying line, got out our stoves and filled our bellies with warm food.  Dried packets of instant pasta never tasted so good. 
Picture
Left: getting the kayaks ready at the rental place
Right: heading out, ready for adventure

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Thoughts on David Nash

17/7/2010

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Picture
The Yorkshire Sculpture Park is located in a wonderfully bucolic setting on the outskirts of Wakefield. The design of the Park dates back 200 years - it is beautiful and vast. I visited the Park a couple of weeks ago with the Lancashire Artists' Network to see the David Nash exhibition, which is on display through February 2011. Before the visit, I wasn't greatly familiar with Nash's work. Luckily for me, the exhibition is stuffed to the gills with his work and provided me with a robust overview of his repertoire. I immediately fell in love with the works and I had to ask myself why. Several weeks ago I had posted two blogs about Picasso and Yves Klein after seeing their work during my visit to the Tate Liverpool. I have a great deal of respect and appreciation for both artists, yet my response was quite critical; so, while standing in front of David Nash's piece titled "Charred Cross Egg," I had to ask myself what it was about his work that was so pleasing? 


Nash works predominantly with wood, both living and dead. Interested in maintaining the integrity of the material, he opts to use natural methods when adding color to dead wood or shaping live wood. Organic and ominous, his forms immediately demand your attention. I think it would be difficult for anyone to face a David Nash sculpture and simply turn away; it requires contemplation. It invades your space in a way that's simultaneously confrontational and subtle. It reminded me of Richard Serra's work in the way you are required to interact with it. And maybe that's part of why I responded to it in the way I did; his sculptures are inviting. It was almost like being introduced to someone - a stranger who is somehow familiar - and having them invite you in to their house to have a conversation. I had a difficult time walking away.

I pondered the familiarity of Nash's work - intriguing given this was my first time experiencing it.  Perhaps it’s because I could clearly see in his work what I admire in other artists; his designs were often reminiscent to that of Isamu Noguchi and Henry Moore; his choice to work with and manipulate natural materials reminded me of Andy Goldsworthy. There was a section of the exhibition that focused on works he completed as a response to the tragedy of 9-11. These works were grim - bold marks in black and gray spoke to the heaviness of the event, yet the grace of the line succeeded in capturing the ironic beauty present in the face of such horrific destruction (as a side note, I recall watching a program several years after the event that talked about that very issue; during the program a woman recounted a story of how she and her nine year old son were watching the events unfold on TV; her son remarked on the beauty of the clouds rising from the towers - he couldn't look away.). This bold line-work made me think of the architect portrayed in Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead who threw down his drawings with the same air of confidence and decisiveness.   


 

Even after writing all of these contemplations, I still don't know if I could definitively pinpoint what it is about David Nash's work that I respond so strongly to – there’s just something mysterious and ethereal about it.  Almost like visiting the ruins of an ancient city.  I jotted down a number of quotes by the artist regarding his work and I think he sums it up best.  Here’s what Nash had to say in 1967 about his piece titled “Archway”: "I learned with these constructions about something developing its own logic that the viewer can enter into. It could have been an integrity and truth that one could feel. And also how a worked object developed its own scale - how it could go beyond the material, go beyond the colour, to have a sense of its own scale which the beholder entered into, which is actually different from its physical scale."

 
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