In a time of
ultra-connectivity, when we are made to suffer a daily bombardment of text
messages, emails, blog updates, tweets, and phone calls; knowing and
appreciating the art of Andy Goldsworthy is a worthy and important endeavor. His demonstrated respect for the
natural forces of the earth is refreshing and inspiring. His works encourage us to take
time to ground ourselves and urge us to come back to earth, to take time and to
mindfully witness something taking shape or falling apart, however slow a
process.
In fact, his chosen mediums of stone, wood, water, and time offer those who
experience his work the opportunity to contemplate the concept of roots, both
physical and spiritual, fleeting though the grasp on such concepts may be. Sometimes deceptively solid and
stout, other times heartbreakingly fragile, his pieces seem to adopt a
personality or a reflection of the world around them. In many ways, his work is a useful
and potentially clarifying analogue for our own modern lives, and the lessons
we receive from visionaries like Goldsworthy are surely worth considering.
Goldsworthy’s
connection to time and place is gracefully depicted in Thomas Riedelsheimer’s
2001 documentary Rivers and Tides,
especially in the last half of the film wherein Goldsworthy talks about the
town of Penpont, and his work with sheep—their wool, their urine, the mud that
is beneath their feet.
His observations on the social, political, and physical effects that sheep have
had on the landscape over the centuries, and how that applies to his artistic
efforts, is indicative of a thought process that clearly differs from most. This series of urine and excrement
soaked canvasses is not meant to be vile, shocking, or disgusting, but to
illustrate the artist’s connection with place.
Indeed, Goldsworthy’s sheep paintings are an exercise in chance and possibility. A stretched canvas, baited with
mineral feed, in a sheep pasture in the Scottish Highlands is not a likely site
for the potential creation of art, but to Goldsworthy, it is a site that is as
ripe with potential as any studio.
That potential becomes clear over the course of a few days as sheep come to
feed from the mineral ring in the late winter, leaving their footprints on the
canvas.
These works are left to chance, mostly.
Goldsworthy attempts to alter the results by considering the placement of the
canvas, the food provided, and the size of the canvas itself, and he states
that he is able to work the canvas from a distance by making these decisions. Chance appears to be the true
medium in these works, and Goldsworthy initially admitted feelings of
disappointment when he found that one of his canvasses had been trod upon by a
motorized four wheeler
It
could be argued that Andy Goldsworthy’s works are not only a physical
manifestation of his hands-on creative process, but rather a meditation. The film Rivers and Tides illustrates this concept like no coffee table book
or interview could, as we are able to witness Goldsworthy working in frigid
temperatures.
With cracked and gloveless freezing hands, the artist is aware of the wasting
light and a rising tide as he attempts to construct a rock cairn. Again and again, his sculpture
reaches a point of critical mass and collapses under its own weight. Frustrated, he suggests to the
documentarian that instead of filming, “…he could do something useful, and
gather stones (Rivers and
Tides: Andy Goldsworthy Working with Time) …” This one-sided
exchange is slightly comical, but also telling, as it speaks to Goldsworthy’s
unique perspective.
His art, specifically the stone, tide, and wasting light is the focus of his
existence at that moment in time.
An observer might suggest that he call it a day, and come back tomorrow to try
again. But to
Goldsworthy, all he has is now.
He operates in the present.
The exchange also poignantly brings to mind questions about value, perceived
and real.
What makes his sculpture more important than the documentary? Is it because the
documentary doesn’t exist without his sculpture? The question is moot. Goldsworthy values the process,
not necessarily the finished work.
The
transient nature of Goldsworthy’s work is illustrative of his philosophy and
statement.
Many of his pieces are constructed in remote and inaccessible locations,
suggesting that the journey to the site (which, according to Rivers and Tides, he doesn’t find
enjoyable) is part of the process and the piece itself. Early in his career he went so far
as to say, “I would not like to think that my work could only take place in the
spectacular remote landscape” (Hand to Earth
57) .
Further, the fates of his pieces are often left to the whims of nature, as are
we. A rock cairn
constructed in the woods during the winter will slowly be engulfed by
surrounding vegetation as the seasons change, obscuring it from view. As summer dies and fall returns,
the sculpture returns.
Such is life.
Conversely,
not all of Goldsworthy’s pieces require an overland expedition via dogsled to
reach, even when the medium is snow in the middle of summer. Goldsworthy describes his Snowballs in Summer as bringing together
qualities of time, space, movement, noise, color and texture, all in the
unpredictable context of snow
Transience
is important to Goldsworthy, and his Rain
Shadows are a playful demonstration of this.
His aptitude in exploiting chance and possibility is clear when considering his
practice of laying on the ground while it rains, creating his interpretation of
a snow angel.
It is childlike and innocent, and once again, fleeting. As soon as he stands, or the rain
stops, the piece is gone.
Of course, he documents these moments with a camera, but only as a record—not
as the work itself.
An able lensman Goldsworthy may be, but his utilization of camera and film is
more afterthought than anything else, but there seems to exist a small measure
of desperation in capturing his own work, good or bad, before it is lost to
wind and the ravages of time.
To this, it seems a shame to attempt to transplant his work, which is so rooted
in time and place, to a gallery or museum setting.
Isn’t some of the impact and initial purpose drained from the art when taken
from its natural environment? While I have not had the pleasure of seeing
Goldsworthy’s works in person, it seems that to view them in a gallery would be
like seeing a majestic wild animal in a zoo.
Caged, unhappy and unnatural.
Of
course, a mind like Goldsworthy’s will find a way to interpret his work into a gallery
setting, effectively keeping with the themes of his previous works. While Goldsworthy’s works are
constructed of what nature provides—ice, stone, wood—the most pervasive medium
(and theme) in his work must be time.
It influences all that he does.
From the simplest rain shadow, to the most intricate of stone
walls—Goldsworthy’s works are allowed to be completed, or destroyed, by the
impersonality and absolutely uncaring nature of time. His piece, Clay Wall, is grand in
scope, and required hundreds of pounds of clay to construct, but the grandeur
of the piece isn’t fully apparent once completed.
Even after Goldsworthy walks away from it, the piece continues to evolve. Time, Goldsworthy’s constant
companion, must make its mark as any competent collaborator should. Goldsworthy wrote that he needs to
make works “…that anticipate, but do not attempt to predict or control, the
future… to understand time; I must work with past, present, and future”
As
an exercise in attempting to slow down to the “being timeline”, I decided to
take my research into my own backyard.
To gain a better understanding and appreciation of Goldsworthy’s works and
philosophies, I felt that a hands-on approach would be helpful. As it turns out, I was correct in
my assumption.
Waking early, before my wife (and the dogs) would need attention be paid to
them, I dressed for warmth and set out for a morning meditation on Goldsworthy. It was refreshing to see my breath
in the cold air while I stacked a circle of stones, and drank coffee to warm
myself.
I was able to slow down, and to feel the heaviness of the stone in my hands,
and the lightness of just being… at least for a few hours. It was a rewarding experience to
work hard for no particular reason.
At one point, my neighbor came outside to smoke a cigarette, and when he asked
me what I was doing, I wasn’t sure what to tell him. I was reminded of the scene in Rivers and Tides, when Andy is
approached by the older Nova-Scotian, who asks “What will happen to it (the
piece) when the tide comes in?” Of course, Goldsworthy answers poetically that
it will go out to sea, and offers his observation that the piece is not so much
going away, as it is going somewhere else.
In a collection of his work entitled Enclosure,
Andy extends this notion of accepting the destruction of his work as his work
changing form, simply put “…that all of [his] work still exists in some form.” Such a comforting thought.
Additionally, his work soothes, the viewer and
creator both, but there also exists a subtle (at times, not so subtle) push and
pull between Goldsworthy and his chosen mediums and environments, that isn’t so
soothing.
This would not be clearly apparent by just seeing the photographs of his work,
or the actual works themselves.
Once again, the magic of film enlightens and informs. In Rivers and Tides, there are times when Goldsworthy seems so
frustrated with his process that the viewer is unsure of the artist’s intent. Much of his work is about letting
go and it seems contradictory that he becomes upset with the challenges of
working with chance.
Of course, this is all part of the process, which is, in the end, more
important than the finished work.
If Goldsworthy were able to construct a giant stone pinecone without it
collapsing in on itself a dozen times, or if he just tethered sheep near a
canvas, there would be no point.
Such an approach would remove the most interesting aspects of his works—chance
and time.
One observer notes that Goldsworthy claims that his ephemeral pieces are what
he finds the most rewarding, but suggests that this is the case only when the
artist is able to define the terms (Natural
Talent) . It is an astute criticism, if
somewhat undeserved.
The bargaining that takes place between Goldsworthy and his pieces are as
important as the rocks and ice that they are formed from, sometimes though, the
artist may feel betrayed.
Betrayal is a frustrating thing, and it is plainly a struggle for him to work
the way he does.
On the other hand, the
real joy felt while connecting with nature may be the trade-off. While it may be frustrating to
construct a spider web from thickets held together by thorns, only to see it
destroyed by the gentlest of breezes; the reward of a piece that the elements
themselves deigned worthy of completion, is that much sweeter. It is this that Andy strives for. To be nourished, to fulfill a need. It is likely that we all feel this
need, or something similar to it, but we have trained ourselves to ignore these
desires.
Perhaps when Andy Goldsworthy performs one of his “throws” (as in, throwing
sand or snow into the air, simply to watch how it falls) he is fulfilling that
need, albeit on a small scale.
A masterpiece of instant gratification.
Another interesting
aspect of Goldsworthy’s work is his childlike proclivity towards holes, and the
digging of them.
In my own childhood, I can remember digging holes in my backyard large enough
to crawl inside of.
Thinking back, many of my friends in the old neighborhood were fond of digging
holes. Was it some
sort of primal urge young boys must respond to, some feeble and desperate
attempt at returning to the womb? Goldsworthy’s views on holes may differ
slightly from my own.
The artist says:
The black of a hole is
like the flame of a fire.
The flame makes the energy of fire visible. The black is the earth’s flame—its
energy.
I used to say I will make no more holes.
Now I know I will always make them.
I am drawn to them with the same urge I have to look over a cliff edge. It is possible that the last work
I make will be a hole. (Hand to Earth
24)
It is eloquent
commentary on such a simple thing, with the added bonus of not-so-subtle
gallows humor.
Seeing beauty or interest in the absence of light or color is nothing new, but
the way Andy executes this, is once again, something to appreciate.
Unfortunately,
Goldsworthy’s work is not immune from attempts at categorization or dissection,
as we know art builds on, or reacts to, what has come before it. The influence of minimalists like
Carl Andre and his Stone Field Sculpture
is easy to see.
Even more apparent, is the impression that Michael Heizer has obviously left on
Goldsworthy.
To see a picture of the latter’s Hanging
Trees is to see a faithful homage to Heizer’s Displaced-Replaced Mass.
More apparent still, is the profound impact that Robert Smithson’s work has had
on Goldsworthy, even as it relates to their philosophies. Before Smithson’s death in a plane
crash in 1973, he had begun work reclaiming abandoned industrial sites for use
as parks, which suggests a return to the earth and making it whole again (Fineberg 316) . From a certain perspective, this
philosophy is not much different from Goldsworthy’s, except that Andy has a
much more gentle touch and eye.
Previous efforts in landscape or environmental art, felt cold, and perhaps
exceedingly monumental in scale.
Goldsworthy, who is no stranger to large scale works, seems to make a bigger
statement when his works are smaller and more personal. This attenuation with the smaller
stories going on around the artist may be what provides him with his unique
vision.
Thus, the fundamental
difference and defining attribute of Andy Goldsworthy and his art is the gentle
language that they speak.
He communicates on a different level with the world around him, and understands
what the rocks, rivers, and trees say to him.
Though they are whispering, the leaves carry a message loud and clear to those
that are willing to slow down to their pace.
That message is open to interpretation, to be sure, but an artist on the “being
timeline” seems to hear it as: be still, create, and let go. Andy Goldsworthy, for his part,
seems happy to oblige.
Works Cited
Fineberg,
Jonathan. Art Since 1940: Strategies of being. Columbus: Pearson, 2011.
Goldsworthy,
Andy. Enclosure. New York: Abrams, 2007.
Goldsworthy,
Andy. Hand to Earth. New York, NY: Abrams, 1990.
Goldsworthy,
Andy. Natural Talent Tim Adams. 10 March 2007.
Goldsworthy,
Andy. Time. New York: Abrams, 2000.
Rivers and
Tides: Andy Goldsworthy Working with Time. Dir. Thomas Riedelsheimer. Perf.
Andy Goldsworthy. 2001.
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