Fallingwater

Announcement

A Fallingwater Entrance :: Photographer Unknown

Interior – Postcard :: Photographer Unknown

Exterior :: 2007

I have a suite of recurring dreams that occasionally show up together and the feeling they leave behind sometimes lasts the entire morning and if I’m lucky, lingers for an entire day. They uncover powerful fragments and hazy touchstones from my grade school and junior high years that merge with the smell of my dad’s architecture office, the landscapes surrounding my hometown, sage, the Missouri River and one of the last big hugs I shared with him. Those dreams and residual feelings are based in real history, but they’re filtered, reshaped and reconfigured into abstract versions of themselves as I grow older.

Occasionally I spent parts of some Saturdays at my dad’s first office. There were three main rooms with exceptionally high ceilings. The drafting studio had big, heavy, wood drafting tables lining one side of the room under large east facing windows, worn, noisy wooden floors like in a saloon from a western movie, and classic, minimal nineteen fifties and sixties office furniture in the understated reception area and conference room, and a couple of small storage spaces. The public bathrooms were out the front office door and down an expansive, dimly lit hall. It was a magical world where I spent hours looking through sets of technical drawings, blueprints, and original ink renderings on Mylar that I pulled from the endless banks of flat files. I leafed through the architecture magazines at the long wood conference table where I first learned about Richard Neutra, Oscar Niemeyer, Louis Khan and Frank Lloyd Wright. Back in the drafting room, sometimes Phil K., Bill K., or my dad, would ask me what I was looking at, we might talk about it if I had a question and then one of them would often wave me over to show me what was on their board. Eventually I’d settle in next to my dad’s drafting table and watch him work for as long as he could tolerate me.

Four decades later during a quiet Easter weekend with my folks, we talked about the idea of visiting Fallingwater someday. We’d originally discussed it a few years prior when my dad was healthier. We knew it wasn’t possible anymore. We’d missed our window, but we talked about it anyway. We’d had quite a few spontaneous architectural adventures together over the years, like visiting the University of Lethbridge that bridged a coulee by Arthur Erickson, the Kresge Auditorium and Chapel by Eero Saarinen and the Baker House by Alvar Aalto in Boston, the Portland Museum of Art by Henry Nicoles Cobb in Maine, the Chapel of St. Ignatius by Steven Holl in Seattle, and several buildings in Minnesota, including Saint John’s Abbey by Marcel Breuer. Most of these visits were spontaneous sidebars to trips already in progress.

Similarly, I found myself at Fallingwater the following summer after that weekend in April. It was a last-minute decision to visit once I realized how close I was while passing through Pennsylvania on my way back to Minnesota from Providence. I couldn’t miss the opportunity after years of talking about it, even if my folks weren’t with me. My first overnight stop was in a small town near Mill Run, Pennsylvania. I made a reservation to tour the house for the next afternoon and I was lucky because usually it takes weeks ahead of time to schedule a tour. After a late breakfast, my drive took me through the deep green countryside and the rolling farmland of the Appalachians, interwoven with oak forest, immaculate Dutch barns, cattle and hidden limestone ravines. Eventually I found myself in a medium sized parking lot surrounded by woods. After I parked, I didn’t see the house from the lot, you kind of sneak up on it and before I knew it, I was standing in front of a secondary door carved out of stone and glass, almost like it was a private entrance to a cave. Once in, the ceilings were surprisingly low, and the compression I felt was slowly released as the height grew slightly in the main living space. The ceiling heights don’t change radically anywhere though, they’re all low and horizontal and the spaces seemed to pull me sideways just like I imagined they might.

I paid for the basic guided tour which provides some history and allows you to explore independently afterwards. They also provide fancier tours that end with wine and dinner at sunset. After roaming through the interior for a while where I touched as many custom components as I could, like window hardware and built-in cabinetry, I stood in front of the fireplace for a long time, stunned at how part of the stone floor surrounding it was an actual rock formation from below that protrudes into the space. Eventually, I exited through some doors to one of the floating porches and sat on the perfectly designed rail that accommodates everyone’s height and everyone’s body type. It was wide enough to sit on and textured just enough to provide traction and confidence as you looked down over Bear Run and the green ravine below — feeling how this place steps down the slope which echoes what the falls do, and on its descending journey from miles upstream was visceral.

Afterwards, I walked the short trail to the overlook to experience the same view I’d first seen in my dad’s office decades earlier. After some other admirers and I took each other’s picture, I called my folks from that spot to let them know I’d finally made it for the three of us.

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"There in a beautiful forest was a solid, high rock ledge rising beside a waterfall, and the natural thing seemed to be to cantilever the house from that rock bank over the falling water..." Frank Lloyd Wright interview with Hugh Downs, 1954​

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Songs :: The Stable Song by Gregory Alan Isakov, July by Amy Petty, On The Nature of Daylight by Max Richter, I Contain Multitudes by Bob Dylan, Darn That Dream by Dexter Gordon, Another World by Joe Jackson, Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd, Heroes by David Bowie and Sand by Phish

© C. Davidson

Iowa Vernacular :: [Supplemental]

When I saw this image pass through my feed, I thought it was a new Frank Gehry building. So, I clicked on it to find out more and discovered they are storm-damaged grain bins at the Heartland Co-Op in Luther, Iowa – August 2020. Image :: Associated Press

Songs :: Why Can’t I Touch It by Buzzcocks, Hometown by Bruce Springsteen and Starting Over by The Crystal Method

© C. Davidson

Four Giant Firemen

Our Daughter

I don’t think I noticed how alarmed my daughter was at the time. She only told me many years later when we were telling the story to someone. She revealed the fear she’d felt that afternoon when I told her what was happening. I probably used too many words and explained the situation in too many different ways at the time, all with varying scenarios and radically different outcomes, thinking the more information I provided her the better, while simultaneously projecting all my anxiety straight onto her. She seemed fine, and discreetly disappeared to her room upstairs and began to collect her most prized stuffed animals and a few other possessions in case the house burned to the ground, leaving only ash and melted artifacts.

We’d been out of town and the evening we arrived home, we opened the front door and noticed a faint smell of smoke. Something was burning, but there was no visible cause. I spent that night periodically searching the house for the source without any luck. The following morning we started to see a haze of layered smoke in the air. It was slowly getting worse. We walked through every part of the house countless times again that morning and still couldn’t identify the source.

That afternoon I called the health care office where my wife’s appointment was and asked the receptionist if she was done and able to come to the phone. Coincidentally, she’d just finished and was standing at the receptionist’s desk. “Hello? What’s wrong?” she asked. “I think I figured out where the smoke and the smell are coming from.” “Where?” “From above the ceiling in the bathroom.” “Why do you think that?” “Because I noticed that the paint is discolored in a weird pattern and the surface is really hot to the touch. I’m calling because I’m hesitating to call 911. I think I can manage it.” “Really? How?” “I’m not sure yet”, I said. “Don’t you think you should call them just to be safe.” “No… I don’t think so… well…. maybe… yeah, probably. You’re right… yeah, I should call them.” I needed her to gently nudge my ego so I didn’t have to. After I hung up, I called 911 and told the operator what was going on. She said she’d dispatch the fire department. “Ok! Could you do me a favor?” “What’s that sir?” “Ask them not to run their sirens” There was a brief silence. “I’ll let them know,” she said. Our neighborhood fire station isn’t far away and within five minutes, I began to hear distant sirens. They got closer and louder, until they were parked and screaming in front of our house. I guess she forgot to tell them. Seeley was sitting at attention on the couch with her full backpack when the front doorbell rang, followed by numerous loud knocks.

Are all fire-fighters required to be enormous? Because they usually are, like the ones at our door were. I wonder if there’s a minimum height requirement. Some commonly accepted six foot minimum like in other parts of society, usually pointed out by men and women who are only that height wearing boots, or think about that type of thing frequently. I hope there isn’t a height minimum and that it’s just a coincidence, because I feel like if I was 35 years old again, in good shape, still short, but with my high tolerance for heat, I could have been a fire-fighter. I’m certain there are fire-fighters that are my height. There must be. These four weren’t though. When I opened the front door I was staring at their chests. I scanned them from there to the top of their head-lamped helmets. Their rubber suits, other protective gear and pickaxes made them feel even bigger. They were giant first responders.

After investigating the situation, they confirmed that they’d need to punch through the ceiling in the bathroom. So, one of them took his pickax and did just that. He broke through and as soon as he did, smoldering sheet rock and burning wood embers dropped out and landed in the bathtub. It was shocking because there was a significant amount of material burning and smoldering in front of us. Seeley and I sat together in the living room while they stabilized the situation. They left soon after and then an investigator arrived to determine the exact cause and had us shut the power off to the bathroom. It was an electrical fire caused by some incompetent DIY exhaust fan work completed years before we even bought the house. The fact that it caught fire at this time was completely random which made it even more unsettling. I asked the investigator a few questions and he said that by late that evening we would’ve had a full blown fire.

That same night, the electrician we called arrived to repair the wiring, replace the exhaust fan vent tube and sign-off on turning the power back on. The next day he returned to repair the sheet rock in the ceiling. We were lucky. We were safe. Our cat was safe and the stuffed animals were back where they belonged.

Songs :: The Book of Love by The Magnetic Fields and Peter Gabriel, Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough by Michael Jackson and My City Was Gone by The Pretenders

© C. Davidson

Oregon Euphorics :: [Supplemental]

Exposure – Self Portrait on the 101

Songs :: Something You’re Going Through by Graham Parker, React and What’s Golden by Jurassic 5, Keep On Doin’ It by Tom Scott and The L.A. Express, Rockin’ Down the Highway by The Doobie Brothers, and Kashmir by Led Zeppelin

© C. Davidson

Reasons to Drive Through Iowa City

It was oppressively hot and humid during the two and a half days I drove south to Chicago and west through Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming and Montana, my final destination. I drove to Chicago to visit friends before heading west. My first major stop after leaving Chicago was Iowa City. Visiting Iowa City has been on my list for a few reasons.

One :: I designed book covers and a complete book for the University of Iowa Press years ago. I’d never met anyone from the Press because I worked with them remotely, so I only knew their voices, their phone numbers, and random professional stuff. I’d been curious to see their campus because I like having an image in my head of where people are when I’m on the phone with them. Whether they’re sitting on an open porch, in a tall office building somewhere, or in a space with clear sight lines to the campus quad. Sometimes if I know someone well enough, I’ll ask what kind of room they’re in and what’s around them. I didn’t have that conversation with anyone at the Press, but now I can imagine what their day might have felt like walking through campus.

Two :: Steven Holl designed the fine arts complex on campus and I planned to see the building while I was there. I’ve only visited two other buildings of his in person, the addition to the School of Architecture building at the University of Minnesota, and a chapel in Seattle. When I arrived, the buildings were locked, but I could walk around the outside and take pictures. I tried my best to remember what the inside was like which wasn’t impossible, because I’d seen interior photographs in an architecture magazine. Afterwards, I googled co-ops where I could grab dinner and other supplies for the nighttime leg of my drive through the rest of Iowa and Nebraska. I found one near the university, drove there and spent over thirty minutes wandering the aisles making my selections and absorbing the sweet, familiar co-op smell.

Three :: I had a professor in undergraduate school who taught painting and drawing and later moved to Iowa City. I took a two-hundred level painting class from him and a year later he advised a friend and myself in a video and performance art independent study. Occasionally, he called me ‘birdman’ and compared me to Buster Keaton. I was confused by both things and it felt oddly intimate since we didn’t know each other very well. At some point during the quarter he said, "your paintings look like they’re painted by a right-hander. I was defensive at first. As the days passed, I realized they did look like they’d been painted by a right-hander. I had a lot of diagonal strokes from upper right to lower left. I began to question how I was physically painting and how my brush strokes enhanced or detracted from the images. I always appreciated his observation. I don’t remember anything else he said about my work during that class, but I remember that.

Songs :: (Cross the) Heartland by Pat Metheny, Sunshine in Chicago by Sun Kil Moon, Secret Journey and Voices Inside My Head by The Police, The Blue, Wide Open by The Crystal Method, and Summer Madness by Kool and the Gang

© C. Davidson

Idaho :: [Supplemental]

Idaho

Songs :: Private Idaho by The B-52’s and Feel Alright by Steve Earle

© C. Davidson

Lavender and Lilac

Tuesday 24 November 2020 :: I was working late and listening to Rickie Lee Jones and Shawn Colvin and hoped my wife was having good dreams in Florida. I thought about my daughter in the Powderhorn and hoped she was happy, safe, and that we could spend the holiday together. I thought about our overseas Christmas together a few years ago too, and began to look through my photos from the trip. I was completely absorbed in my screen like I was there, when a floral scent slowly filled my corner of the room, and lingered, then vanished as quickly as it appeared — like maybe it didn’t happen, that maybe I’d imagined it. I got up from my chair and searched around my worktable and eventually wandered through the entire house trying to identify the source. I couldn’t find anything. The smell of lavendar isn’t an everyday scent. Maybe during the summer when I’m on the deck near the potted lavender, but it was late November, the plants were frozen, and I was inside.

Soon after we moved into this house, we noticed a lavender scent would appear and linger for a minute or two and then completely disappear. It happened a hand full of times during our first year. We usually experienced it together and eventually thought the same thing. Someone, or something, was in the room with us. It was random but it felt specific and intentional. Eventually we decided that if it was someone, maybe it was the original owner of our house, the grandmother of the person we bought the house from. Maybe she was checking to investigate who we were, if we were worthy the house she and her husband had built in 1920. When that happens, so obviously out of place and time, yet crisp and real, it means something else is happening. When both of us are experiencing the same thing simultaneously, it’s real.

Eventually it stopped happening. Then this night I thought she might be back, but it smelled more like lilac, not lavender. It was different and made me think about my mom, her favorite color, and the lilac bushes she and my dad had planted between our house and the neighbor’s house. They provided a tall, green fence eight months of the year. When they bloomed their perfume was trapped in that in between space just like that night, where I could just linger in a white and purple cloud.

Songs :: Into Dust by Mazy Star, Send Somebody by Colin Hay, It’s For You by Lyle Mays and Pat Metheny, and Into the Mystic by Van Morrison

© C. Davidson

Laundry Index :: [Supplemental]

I tried to sell these empty laundry soap containers on eBay years ago. No one bought them and eventually my post expired, my account was dormant and then completely disappeared. I’ve often thought that if the two caps that don’t match, had matched, I may have had a bidding war on my hands.

Song :: I Don’t Know by Beastie Boys

© C. Davidson 

Bootlegger Trail

View :: Photographer Unknown

Center

It was 8:30 on Friday night and everyone was in a good mood. We chatted for a while outside our cars and confirmed the location of the pending party, including any landmark and nearest mile marker in case someone became separated. After we drove away from the rendezvous point, I began to flip through my friends cassettes looking for something to play and finally landed on the new Boston album. We were on the west edge of town driving towards the Missouri River, past the fairgrounds then left, passing my brother-in-law’s Dads gas station and garage while More Than a Feeling and Peace of Mind played. We continued towards the refinery and turned north on Highway 87 while the sun was setting. We were directly behind Matt and two of his friends in his jet-black Ford truck, with extra chrome. Six or seven vehicles were behind us, from trucks to Volkswagen Beetles.

The third song on that album is Foreplay/Long Time and it was perfect because as soon as we approached the top of the hill and began to exit the highway, the faint transition began. We slowed down to make the gentle turn onto Bootlegger Trail and then the song exploded into the best part. As soon as every car in the convoy centered themselves in the lane, we all accelerated in sync like our cars were linked. We were in my friends red and white four-door sedan, with white leather upholstery, brand new tires, and a state-of-the-art sound system. We couldn’t hear each other speak even if we wanted to and we didn’t really want to, because who talks when this song is blaring. I wasn’t interested in the rest of the album though and I’ve always enjoyed choosing and sequencing music at times like this, so as the song was about to end, I searched for the next tune to keep the momentum going — songs by The Outlaws, Ozark Mountain Daredevils, or Pure Prairie League were typical candidates, but I landed on the Tres Hombres album by ZZ Top. It was surprising because we were both very aware of each other’s music collection and I didn’t know he had that tape. I fast forwarded through the first seven songs to La Grange, to the one I knew best and the one that was perfect for our convoy speeding north.

Eventually Matt signaled his turn onto a seldom used dirt road on the south end of a huge ranch. The people in our convoy would only be a portion that would arrive that night. Since we were the early arrivals, we followed him because he organized the gathering, he owned the tap and was probably the one who purchased the 16-gallon keg. It was late October and cool at night, even with a big fire on the edge of the coulee and a hill on one side that helped break the wind. People periodically retreated to someone’s car to get warm. We were were usually on a classmates family ranch land and our location was secluded with only two-track access. After hours of milling about and catching-up with friends next to the heat of the bonfire, in cars, and under the star filled sky, we said our goodbyes and connected with two friends who’d asked us for a ride home. As we left the orange glow of the party and sparks that streamed into the sky, I flipped though his tapes and landed on the perfect tune. We turned south from the dirt road onto pavement and accelerated. I leaned forward, turned the volume up and settled in to Night Moves towards the light haze of town.

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Community :: A group of living things with something in common like beliefs, customs, or identity. Communities might share a sense of place in a geographic area, or a virtual space.

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For S. S. :: Rest in peace my friend

Songs :: Foreplay/Long Time by Boston, Green Grass and High Tides by The Outlaws, Sure Feels Good by Elvin Bishop, La Grange by ZZ Top, and Night Moves by Bob Seger

© C. Davidson

Pandemic Distraction – Institute of Nomadic Architecture YouTube Channel :: [Supplemental]

Song :: Heart Sutra Song – Gone Beyond by Laurie Anderson, Tenzin Choegyal & Jesse Paris Smith

C. Davidson 

Safeway

Most Friday and Saturday nights during college were predictable. I was either at a friend’s place, my place making stuff, at the art building making something, or an occasional bar like Roses where Kostas and his band often played. One particular night, a friend and I spent the evening at his house on South Fifth. He shared it with a roommate who I rarely saw when I was there. At some point, we spontaneously ate mushrooms and spent the entire evening drawing and listening to albums and the university radio station. The living room was warmly lit by a few incandescent floor lamps and a cluster of burning candles on the coffee table. After an hour or so, everything surrounding us began to bloom.

Eventually we realized our supply of cigarettes was dwindling, so, we discussed the necessary strategy required for us to physically leave our cocoon and interact with the outside world. We pondered it, discussed it, over thought it, laughed about it, and finally gathered ourselves and hopped on our bikes. The store wasn’t far, maybe a half-mile or so, but it was far enough that we felt exposed, while simultaneously relishing the speed and curb jumping. A block away from Safeway, we exited the darkness of the neighborhood and were spit out from Eighth Avenue past the Lewis and Clark Motel and onto West Main Street where the bright lights were shocking. There wasn’t much traffic at that hour, even for a Saturday night, so we maintained our speed and crossed the four lanes quickly. We rode through the large parking lot, locked our rear brakes and made large serpentine skids, before dismounting in front of the store where the bike racks were. It was even brighter there, standing in front of a solid wall of glass, and florescent light like an x-ray. We headed for the entrance and the huge glass doors that opened automatically like they sensed we were there. We looked at each other, and I noticed how big his eyes were. Mine must have been too because we exploded in laughter next to the shopping carts.

Eventually we remembered the strategy outlined at the house and quickly realized we needed to separate to be effective. After five minutes or so, which seemed like fifteen, we met back up, each with cigarettes, a beverage and a snack. We made eye contact and without a word, walked towards the front of the store and the only functioning check-out lane. Out of the corner of my eye I was surprised to see someone in an aisle. I didn’t think anyone else was in the store besides the cashier, but a man was standing with his face just inches from a shelf contemplating something. He was motionless and so close that the front brim of his large felt hat must have been touching it. I slowed almost to a stop, focused even harder and realized it was Richard Brautigan. Even though I’d never seen him in person before, I’d seen pictures of him — his lanky frame dressed exactly the same way. He was unmistakable. I nudged my friend to look too and then whispered who it was. We continued walking to the check-out lane, working hard to maintain our composure because the cashier seemed to look straight through us, the lights sizzled, and a celebrity was present. When we finally made it back to our bikes, my friend asked, “do you really think that was Richard Brautigan. Trout Fishing in America Brautigan?” “Yeh, I’m positive.” “Wow!”he said. We got back on our bikes and quickly rode like we were being chased and disappeared back into the dark streets towards home, while the stars and the breeze streamed straight through us.

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In addition to the universal acclaim and recognition Richard Brautigan received for his writing, he was mythic in the area. He had a home in Paradise Valley near Livingston, and he frequented Bozeman because he was a writer in residence and taught a class at the University in the spring of 1982. My friend Julie told me that he even had an honorary reserved seat at the Haufbrau, his bar of choice. She said she never saw him there, or knew anyone who’d ever seen him there.

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“All of us have a place in history. Mine is clouds.” Richard Brautigan

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Songs :: Sugar Mountain by Neil Young, Something You’re Going Through by Graham Parker, Lost In the Supermarket by the Clash, and Have You Seen the Stars Tonite by Jefferson Starship

© C. Davidson

Don't Know–Not Sure :: [Supplemental]

Don’t Know–Not Sure :: Diptych – 20” x 32’ x 2” – Latex on Canvas

Songs :: Too Much by Drake, Into Dust by Mazzy Star and You’re Right (I’m Wrong) by Colvin and Earle

© C. Davidson

Instant Ramen Time Machine

Benefit Street Apartment :: Ramen Photo–Monthira Yodtiwong–iStockphoto

During the last few years of college and especially my final year, I ate a lot of instant ramen. To this day when I smell it, or see the packages stacked on store shelves, I can be transported to either my apartment between the giant hedges on South Black Street, or my late-nineteenth century studio that overlooked Providence. Those two apartments and years of overlapping memories still swirl when I’m in the grocery aisle, like the past, present and future are singular.

I remember buying a case worth of instant ramen at Star Market in Providence every few weeks. Then I road home, prepared dinner, turned on the radio and slurped my steaming bowl of noodles. Sometimes when it was raining or snowing outside and I looked out my huge windows while eating, it felt a little like that street scene from Blade Runner with Deckard at the noodle bar. After I finished, I was back to nursing my coffee, cigarettes and evaluating whatever was on the drafting table, on the bike to Market House, or a midnight shift painting in the Bank Building. Wherever I was, they weren’t just noodles, they were a lifestyle.

I didn’t eat as much ramen after I moved to Chicago. I don’t really remember what kind of food I made at home when I lived there, but I know I ate out a lot. Once I moved to Minneapolis I cooked for myself most of the time. Years later, after my wife and I were married, ramen found its way back into our rotation because she loves noodles too. Then our daughter was born, and she became a noodle fan as well. We ate a slightly better-quality instant ramen than when I was single, mostly because she pimped it with veges and meat, and a half-hard-boiled egg, so it was transformed into something much better.

A few years ago, though, she suggested we stop eating the packaged version entirely because there were too many additives in the tasty powder. Being averse to most lifestyle changes of any kind, I immediately became concerned and voiced significant resistance to her plan. She listened to me and then gently suggested I be open. So, she began to buy bulk dry noodles and then added everything like she usually did and prepared the broth from scratch. I was spoiled. However, unless she made ramen for us, or we got ramen take-out, I didn’t make it just for myself, because my issue was the same as it was in college. I’m impatient. I want to be eating it in five minutes and I’ll gladly sacrifice the quality to have it that fast. Food impatience might be a part of my ancestry, from when very distant relatives were starving in Scotland, or Germany, and had to eat almost anything they could find to survive that didn’t make them ill — occasional meat, grass, sticks and other unidentifiable stuff that was probably just dirt. That’s what they could find, and they needed to eat it immediately when they found it.

Then last fall, my wife moved to Florida to care for her mother. I held out for as long as I could, but at about the six-week mark, I caved, and went to our favorite Asian supermarket and bought a case of instant ramen for myself and a case for my daughter. At first, I felt disloyal and a little ashamed like I was having a ramen affair, so I kept it to myself. We talk on the phone daily though, sometimes more than once, so what she’s making for their meals on any given day is a frequent topic of conversation and what I’m eating comes up too. Eventually I couldn’t take it any longer and confessed that I was eating outlaw ramen at home again. She laughed. “That’s not all you’re eating though is it?” she asked quietly. “No, but it’s in heavy rotation.” We left it at that. What could she really say or do at that point anyway? There are over fifteen-hundred miles that separate us and I’m already blowing through my second case like an instant ramen time machine.

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“We’re noodle folk. Broth runs through our veins” :: Mr. Ping, Po’s Father – Kung-Fu Panda

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Songs :: Doin’ the Things That We Want To by Lou Reed, Catapult by REM, Love and Affection by Joan Armatrading, Without You by The Doobie Brothers, True to Life by Roxy Music, and Early Morning Riser by Pure Prairie League

© C. Davidson

Eye of the Tiger

Fullerton Avenue Beach

One Friday afternoon in 1986, my boss, the owner of the design studio I worked at, came to me around 4:30 and asked if I’d stay late and help him with a project. We needed to design an album cover and generate a final comp for his meeting in our office at 7:00. I agreed. Shortly after 5:00, my co-workers began to filter out for the weekend, and I walked outside with one of them to smoke a cigarette. When I returned my boss said, “Ok, here’s what I’m thinking. I have this unused color print from a photograph we shot for the (Furniture) Corporation brochure. Earlier today I had a variety of transfers made in different colors and sizes and in various typefaces, for the album title, and the bands logotype. I’d like you to do a couple of layout options while I’m getting the final photo print ready. Do whatever you think works best combining the photo and the type, and then let’s meet about 6:00 and make a final decision.” I looked at the transfers and asked, “so the band is Survivor, you mean the Eye of the Tiger band… that’s the client?” “Yeh.” “So, we’re designing an album cover for Survivor?” “Yes.” They were huge at the time, so I got nervous.

I made black and white Xerox copies of everything so I could create rough layouts while preserving the ‘final’ color components. I made two and after I finished, we looked at them, picked one, made some adjustments and then proceeded to create the final comp. We mounted it on black presentation board, looked at it for a minute, and congratulated ourselves because we’d pulled it off with time to spare.

Since there were ten minutes until the meeting, I headed back outside to have another cigarette when the studio door flew open, and Frankie Sullivan and Jim Peterik appeared. They saw my boss and walked past me towards the conference table where he sat. Both wore tight, leather pants, shirts with the top three buttons undone revealing their tan skin and chest hair, and 3/4 black boots like the early Beatles wore. They met and I went out to smoke. When I returned, I cleaned-up the mess we’d made at the opposite end of the studio from where they were meeting.

When the three of them finished they walked over to me, and my boss introduced us. Sullivan and Peterik smiled, thanked me for my help, shook my hand, and they left as suddenly as they’d arrived. My boss was smiling too because they liked the cover. Then we gathered our things and walked out together—him to the nearby parking lot to get his car and disappear into a northern burb and me to the ‘L’ station on Chicago Avenue. Meeting two pop rock stars, walking out into the humid orange dusk and summer heat, with the rumble and squeal of the trains passing overhead was surreal. Everything happened so quickly and then it was over. I found a window seat on the train, settled in, and looked east towards Lake Michigan where I’d probably spend Saturday or Sunday afternoon tanning, swimming, and eating Italian Ice on the beach with thousands of other Chicagoans.

Later that summer, my boss told me that the album cover design had been approved by the record company and there weren’t any revisions. Then months later in November, I walked into my neighborhood record store on Belmont Avenue under the tracks for my weekly visit and saw the album sitting on the ‘new releases’ shelf. I’d spent hundreds of hours, hundreds of thousands of seconds in record stores in my life and felt a lot of things, but I never felt that.

Songs :: Is This Love by Survivor, Run Through the Jungle by Creedence Clearwater Revival, She Caught the Katy by The Blues Brothers, Sunshine In Chicago by Sun Kil Moon, Someday, Someway by Marshall Crenshaw, and I Feel Alright by Steve Earle

© C. Davidson

Hi-Line Flashback [Supplemental]

Near Kremlin, Montana – Highway 2 :: 11 September 2017

Song :: In the Country by Mission Mountain Wood Band

© C. Davidson

One Way to Bring Them Back

Panasonic VR Goggles :: Original Photo-Panasonic

I have a lot of questions I wish I’d asked my folks. Sometimes I don’t remember the answers to the ones I did ask, so I’d like to revisit those, followed-up with a barrage of spin-off questions. There isn’t a comprehensive list, but there’s a growing list and as I get older, it gets longer. How did each of them cope with catastrophes, like when siblings died, and how did each family find their way through it? How did my mom manage the hardships of wheat farming in Central Montana? Did she and her siblings explore the nearby Highwood Mountains often? What were the group critiques like when my dad was in architecture school? Were there design themes that stood out? When did they both discover their passion for the arts? What courses did my mom enjoy in music school at the universities? What songs did she sing at her final recital and how many? How did they manage the lean times while parenting five kids? What time of year was it when they first met? What was the weather like? What time of day was it? Was it love at first site, or did it take time? Did they take hikes in the Bridgers? Have they reconnected with siblings on the other side — their mothers and fathers? Is there another side? Have you visited my dreams and sometimes while I’m awake? Were you there while I painted during that pre-dawn morning? It felt like you were in the room because I walked towards my computer and saw a picture of you appear as part of my screen saver loop. Were you with me while I drove east through North Dakota during a nighttime blizzard?

So, even though they’ve both passed, all of their ‘known’ history, their data, including passions, accomplishments, disappointments, and desires, can be loaded into a virtual reality program where sophisticated algorithms will process, anticipate, estimate, and fill in any data gaps, then generate an interface that will put the three of us in a space together. Something like the holodeck on Star Trek: The Next Generation. I imagine sitting with them somewhere familiar, like on their deck under the giant willow tree, the cabin porch at Seeley Lake, or the lodge in the White Mountains.

Because if their data, my data and our shared data is merged, our conversation might feel real, it might be like they’d returned. I’d be waiting with my VR Goggles on, a recorder and a legal pad for taking notes. In addition to answering my long list of questions, they could tell me how they’re doing and what it’s like where they are. Maybe then I’d never concern myself with what happens after death, because they would know, and they would tell me If it’s a space filled with light, something infinite and nest like at the same time, or confirmation that his outstretched arms actually did have hands made of roses. After our long conversation, maybe even hours, and before they left, my mom and I could hug and laugh and I could look into her eyes for as long as I wanted. I might feel my dad’s hand rest on the back of my neck, like when he felt close, or proud, or wanted to help mend a disagreement between us. I think it would feel like nothing had been lost.

Songs :: Mercy Street by Peter Gabriel, We Watch the Stars (Berlin Sessions) by Fink, Dear Mama by 2Pac, You’re Missing by Bruce Springsteen, and Wynter’s Promise by Kirk Franklin

© C. Davidson

Dreams of St. Ignatius :: [Supplemental]

Mission Mountains :: Martina Nolte – Photographer :: Creative Commons CC-by-sa-3.0de

Songs :: In The Country by Mission Mountain Wood Band

© C. Davidson

I Still Remember

Hollyhocks :: Photographer Unknown

We used to have some elderly neighbors that lived three houses south of us on the same side of the street — Susie and Lavi. They were a little shy, mostly kept to themselves but were always very warm whenever we interacted. They’d lived in their house for many years before we moved onto the block and for many years after. Their house was a modest single story one-bedroom home painted mint green with white trim and a detached two car garage that was slightly bigger than their house. Their backyard was filled with a large, luscious vegetable garden, a lot of flowers and an elevated deck attached to the rear of their house where you’d often see them sitting, sunning and sipping refreshments.

After two years of waving to each other and exchanging pleasantries, one early fall day they invited me to stop by their house. “We want to show you something.” Later that afternoon I knocked on their front door and both of them greeted me. I stepped in and after we had a brief conversation, I slowly scanned their living room in awe. It looked like a combination of a folk-art museum and a children’s playhouse. There was a shelf about six feet off the floor on three sides of the room filled with beautiful cookie jars and other colorful collectibles, and on the floor lining the same three walls, were large wooden doll houses — each was unique and about the same size. There were at least ten or twelve of them visible. Each one had two to three floors, with highly detailed exterior treatments, like multi pane windows, shutters, window boxes with flowers, hand cut cedar roof shingles and detailed paint jobs. The interiors were completely furnished with things like lamps, chairs, tables, magazine racks complete with miniature magazines, throw rugs, bathroom fixtures, including small toothbrushes and even a mounted roll of toilet tissue, and kitchen fixtures like countertop appliances, cups, plates, silverware, tablecloths, and house plants throughout. Everything was hand crafted in exquisite detail. The front panel of each house was removable so you could view and interact with the entire interior. They explained that they had crafted the houses from scratch over decades and had hand painted almost all of the cookie jars and other collectibles. Lavi and Susie had a secret. They were under the radar artists and artisans, and they were making magical things.

I commented on how amazing everything was and asked them a bunch of questions including why they wanted to show me all of this. Before answering Susie made me promise that I wouldn’t tell anybody what I saw besides my wife. I told her I wouldn’t. They worried about people knowing what they had in their house. Then she told me that they wanted our daughter to have one of the houses if that was OK — that she should come by with us and pick one out sometime soon. Eventually we did go to their house together and she did choose one.

Early the following spring, I saw Lavi walking from his house to his garage. I wasn’t able to get his attention that day and hadn’t seen either of them outside much which was unusual. After a couple of months, I mentioned to my wife that I hadn’t seen Susie or Lavi working in their garden. Eventually I asked our next-door neighbor about them and she said that sometime over the winter Susie was admitted to a memory care facility. Apparently, she’d been struggling and was beginning to put both of them at some risk. Lavi couldn’t manage anymore and he needed help.

Eventually Lavi and I did connect. We saw each other outside and he waved me over one cool afternoon. He told me that Susie wasn’t living with him anymore. “She’s losing her memory. She’s in a facility and it’s my fault,” he said. He got emotional and I wasn’t quite sure what to do, so I reluctantly reached out and gripped his shoulder. I didn’t know if that was going to be OK. He’s a stoic Norwegian Minnesotan and sometimes his generation of men pull back and retreat during moments like this, but he didn’t, so I just kept my hand there. Susie was the love of his life and he couldn’t take care of her anymore. They each had to give-up huge parts of themselves forever. I know what grief feels like, but I don’t know what that feels like and I don’t think emotional survival is guaranteed when that kind of loss happens. Lavi lived alone in their house for only a year, or so, after Susie left. He eventually sold it and moved into a small apartment for senior residents close to where we live. Occasionally we visited him while he lived there. When he saw our daughter and one of her friends, his eyes lit up. Sometimes when the girls were occupied with whatever activity or treats Lavi provided them, he would talk about Susie and his visits with her, and how she was growing more distant every day.

As our daughter got older and grew out of the doll house, it stayed on our front porch for a while before we passed it along to a young girl on our block who our daughter babysat for. After she grew out of it, they returned it to us, and we passed it on again to some new neighbors and their daughter. I think Lavi and Susie would have been happy knowing that what they created together still has a bright life. The house they lived in has had a couple of owners since they left too — it feels very different now, but if I concentrate, I can still picture them working methodically in their garden, or sunning on their deck, partially obscured by the huge hollyhocks and other large country flowers that gently swayed in the breeze between us.

For Susie and Lavi

Songs :: The Beginning of Memory by Laurie Anderson, It’s for You by Lyle Mays and Pat Metheny and Coral Room by Kate Bush

© C. Davidson

High Windy Places :: [Supplemental]

North to Minnesota – 2019

© C. Davidson

Flying Again

Gore Hill — Great Falls, Montana :: Image–Photographer Unknown

Cottonwood Trees and Pollen Release :: Image–Photographer Unknown

White Cliffs of Dover :: Image– Karen Roe

There was a time in my life that I actually flew, without assistance from anything other than the wind and my gray hoodie, which I’d unzipped, raised over my head and used as a sail. I was hiking with a friend on Gore Hill just below the ridge, through sagebrush and thick prairie grass, some of it bent by the wind and some from its own weight. My hometown is a perpetually windy city — sometimes it’s a breeze, but it’s often a stiff wind. It blows in from the north and west, uninterrupted from Canada and the Rocky Mountain Front. We walked through cut banks and drop offs looking for the perfect ones to leap from. The soil and terrain there was like other parts of the west where you find things, like marine fossils from the great rivers and receding seas, to partially exposed prehistoric skeletons. We identified another perfect take-off. They were usually no more than big enjoyable jumps, but this time the height and distance of my leap, the strong gusty wind racing up the slope along with my small stature all at the same time, carried me weightless and I flew. That feeling was imprinted forever.

Most of the time though, I only dreamed of flying. When I did, the dream was always the same. It began by running as fast as I could from my front yard, across the street, through the narrow side yard between my friend Curt’s house and the Novis family house, into his backyard towards the three Cottonwood trees that defined the back edge of his lawn. Right before I collided with one of them, or had to run between them, I would abruptly get lift and take flight straight up like a jet — brushing the limbs and leaves gently, but enough to release cotton and pollen into the air. After reaching the top of the sixty-foot trees, I slowed down quickly and ended up hovering like Peter Pan and posed like I was in a fight scene from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. After floating there for too short a time, gravity took over and I would drift slowly down while trying hard to stay afloat because I didn’t want it to end.

More than fifty years later, I had another flying dream. I’d been hoping to have one for decades since they’d ended. I even talked about it with my wife periodically, describing and reliving the one from when I was a kid, trying to will it to happen again, or any other type of flying dream, but it never did until a year ago, out of the blue. This time it was completely different, the location was different, I was an adult, the complexity and risk were ramped way up, and there were other people present who appeared to be there waiting for me to fly, expecting me to fly. I don’t remember who all was gathered, but I know my mother and my father were there. That was the first dream of any kind I’d had where they were together again since they’d both passed away. It was also the first dream I can remember that my mom was in sharp focus, rather than a blurry, almost invisible presence. My father had been in a couple of my dreams alone before, one when I even spoke to him, but having both of them present while I was flying five decades later was unexpected.

The location looked a little like the White Cliffs of Dover. It had a similar drop off to the sea. After wandering around briefly, without interacting with anyone, and without any preparation, I ran as fast as I could to the cliffs edge and leaped. I knew it was risky because I hadn’t flown in my dreams since I was a young boy and I didn’t know if I could actually stay airborne, but it worked, and I began to soar out over the ocean, making gentle turns, gaining elevation quickly and whenever I wanted to, and then arcing gently back towards the cliff and accelerating along the edge during each fly bye. I did that a few times before I eventually didn’t turn back and continued along the ridge for a half mile or so, and slowly descended to the shore far below. I found myself alone in the middle of some sort of archeological ruins along with more recent abandoned buildings. They were made from brick, concrete, and fiels stone nestled among prairie grass with cut banks similar to the terrain of Gore Hill. After exploring for a while and wondering why I was in this place, questioning the dreams purpose, it immediately faded, but now I have a new flying dream to hold on to because it feels good to fly, it feels optimistic.

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“Roaring dreams take place in a perfectly silent mind.” Jack Kerouac

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Songs :: 10,000 Miles by Mary Chapin Carpenter, Given to Fly by Pearl Jam, July by Amy Petty, Flying Cowboys by Rickie Lee Jones, Into the Mystic by Van Morrison, and Expecting to Fly by Neil Young

© C. Davidson