Night Rides

City Route

Route Line

Variables

Stats

Riding home from the studio was always best after 3:00am. A few things determined whether it was a typical ride, a challenging ride, or an exceptional one, including weather, wind, activity in the university district, my mood and hunger level. Sometimes I didn’t feel like riding home, but short of calling a cab, it was the only way back. Summer night rides were the best part of my day. It was often warm and humid at that hour which made it smell like Florida. After shouldering my bike from the second floor to the loading dock outside, I situated my gear and chose music for the ride. I usually selected something upbeat, like Jeff Beck, Tom Scott, or Tom Petty. That night I chose the Nebraska album by Springsteen. I tolerated the first three songs but eventually lost momentum, like my tires were cement. I hit both brakes and skidded to an abrupt stop and chose something else.

Five Rabbits :: The middle third of the route is through the university district, which includes a huge green space with shade trees and a sidewalk that splits it diagonally. I had a lot of negative chatter in my head all day including the ride home — enough negativity that I spoke out loud. “Yeh? Well, if you’re real, prove it, make a rabbit appear.” Poof. A rabbit appeared almost immediately on the grass to my right. I was surprised, but I frequently see rabbits on my rides at night, so I wasn’t impressed. “Show me another.” Poof. Another rabbit appeared ahead to my left. “OK. That’s a coincidence. Show me another.” Poof. Another rabbit appeared. Now I was startled. “This is a coincidence. If you’re really listening, do it again.” I rode a bit further and Poof, Poof, there were two more rabbits sitting next to each other. Five rabbits appeared in that space, on command. I told my wife about my encounter the following day and she didn’t think it was a coincidence.

Ronald McDonald House :: I usually rode past the Ronald McDonald House on campus. There aren’t any signs of activity at that hour, but I’d been fooled many times when riding by because there’s a life-size fiberglass statue of Ronald McDonald sitting on a bench by the front entrance. During the daylight hours you can see its bright colors, but in the dark while its back lit from the lobby windows, it looks like an actual person. The children and young adults who stay there have serious medical situations, so they need to be close to the university hospital for long periods of time and this place allows families to be together. Two nights within the same week, I saw two figures sitting on the bench, not just the statue silhouette. As I rode closer, I saw an older man cradling a young child. I waved to them, and the man waved back. From that night forward I waved every time I rode by even if just the statue was present.

Raccoon :: I entered the Seward neighborhood after crossing the bridge that spans the Mississippi River. Five or six blocks ahead I noticed a dark shape in the middle of the road. It could be anything and it was something to pay attention to as I sped towards it. A block away I figured it was a cat and needed to prepare in case it bolted in front of me at the last minute. I’d seen a lot of cats over the years lying in the middle of the road absorbing the last of the heat. As I got closer, I began to yell out and clap my hands. It finally heard me because it started to shift but didn’t move out of the road. Twenty feet away I realized it was a raccoon and as I got close, it turned, faced me, stood up on its hind legs and swatted at me as I passed.

— — — — — — —

“Like a whisper In the dark.” David Byrne

— — — — — — —

Songs :: Night Ride Home by Joni Mitchell, Bad by U2, Strangered In The Night by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Pump It Up and Moods For Moderns by Elvis Costello and the Attractions

© C. Davidson

Gorge Power :: [Supplemental]

Columbia Gorge :: Fall

Songs :: Sons and Daughters by The Decemberists, Once Upon a Time In the West and Follow Me Home by Dire Straits, and Radio Nowhere by Bruce Springsteen

© C. Davidson 

Hearth

I was hypnotized by the flames and drowsy from the heat of the stone fireplace because I sat so close to it. My feet rested on a wooden stool that was even closer, so I couldn’t keep them there very long because my flip flops were hot and thought they might melt. I didn’t know for certain, it hadn’t ever happened before, but they looked like they were starting to change shape, and my feet were hot, so I scooted back.

Our log cabin rental felt like a small lodge. It smelled like one too — good smells like wood, fire, smoke, and evergreen. It had huge roof timbers, log cross beams, heavy wood chairs and table, two vintage couches upholstered in leather, a couple of woven rugs on the floor, antlers, mounted walleyes on the walls, and large windows that were divided into thirty-two square panes. It was built in the early part of the twentieth century and felt like it could be in a national park, or a scout camp somewhere.

The light was low because there were no overhead fixtures. The main room had a few areas of warm ambient light scattered throughout from lamps, and the expansive glow of our fire. When I looked up from my drawing and my wife looked up from her book, our eyes met. Hers reflected orange just like the flames in front of us. I knew she was warm and hoped she was happy. Except for the sound of her turning pages, my drawing, and the crackling of the fire, it was quiet. Quiet enough that if we listened hard, we could hear wolves howling in the distance all night long. They were faint, but they were out there.

The moon slowly moved across the expanse of windows shifting the color of the glass from black, to dark blue, to light blue, before it disappeared behind the shore trees on Burntside Lake. We fed the fire until after midnight, when the wood I’d split was almost gone. Eventually we slipped into our hand-built log bed with a soft, queen size mattress, a thick homemade quilt, and pillows with perfect densities. We left the bedroom door open so the sound of the waning fire and occasional howling would soothe us while we slept.

Songs :: You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go and Buckets of Rain by Bob Dylan, See the Changes by Crosby, Stills and Nash, Spellbound by Poco, Steady On by Shawn Colvin, and The Book of Love by The Magnetic Fields

© C. Davidson

Load :: [Supplemental]

Load :: Latex and Oil on Stretched Canvas, Plastic, Rosin Paper, and Masking Tape

Songs :: The Revolution Will Not Be Televised by Gil Scott-Heron, Enter Sandman by Metallica, Ohio and Revolution Blues by Neil Young, Fight To Win by Femi Kuti, and Police and Thieves by The Clash,

© C. Davidson

Imagining Marfa

Images :: Google Earth

Marfa, Texas :: Image – Google Earth

Dutton, Montana

I’ve never been to Texas. My wife has visited Texas a few times, her parents lived there decades ago, our daughter has a good friend outside Dallas, and I know someone who spends half the year somewhere in the state. I’ve only heard stories about it, or watched movies and television shows based there. I’ve seen a lot of images over the years too, horrifying and soothing. I’ve read articles about Austin, and I used to watch Austin City Limits frequently. When I see pictures of Marfa’s main streets though, it feels like a bunch of small Montana towns I know — Dutton, Havre, and Big Timber — some with a few hundred people, and some with a couple of thousand.

I was listening to a podcast and the show’s celebrity guest mentioned Marfa, Texas. He’d been there recently and spoke about how much it’s changed from when he visited a few decades ago. It’s become a remote outpost for artists and galleries, initiated by Donald Judd in the 1970’s, who moved in and shifted its energy. Even with that kind of contemporary change, I still wonder how anything can be sustained in towns that size. Then I remember that most small towns didn’t begin because of retail opportunities for the residents, or tourists like me, unless they have a Corn Palace, or a giant truck stop near the highway. They exist because it’s a place for the people who live nearby to drop off crops, buy propane, and replenish their water supply — they’re literal weigh stations. If you look to the edges of the towns, there’s usually a cluster of silos, and depending on the size, maybe even a few clusters of silos. Sometimes the smallest towns only include a hardware store, a small tavern, maybe a cafe, and a couple of gas pumps. If it’s larger, there might be a post office, a bank, a courthouse, a Chinese, or Mexican restaurant, with surprisingly great food, and an insurance agent who occupies a vacant storefront one day a week because they travel from town to town.

If a local farmer, or rancher, drives through and decides to see if anybody they know is there, they rarely need to go inside anywhere to check who’s there. They know just by identifying the trucks parked out front. People often work alone when they live in isolated places like this, so conversation is welcome, even craved sometimes. You might see two trucks parked in the middle of main street next to each other, facing opposite directions, without their engines running, while the occupants talk. Conversations that last awhile and typically revolve around the weather, commodity prices, their families, and updates on the repairs each of them has been making to their equipment. It’s hard to keep everything that’s on their minds to themselves. It’s hard for their spouse, or their kids too, to be burdened with the same worries and frustrations day after day, so, they drive through town looking for others to talk with.

So, I can imagine what Marfa might feel like without visiting it. The air might be thicker and smell different than in Dutton. The color of the soil might differ, construction materials and building silhouettes might be different too because it’s Texas, not Montana. Except for all of the painted stars, cement stars attached to exterior walls, and forged steel stars hanging from mobiles around Marfa, I think its heartbeat is just like Dutton’s.

Songs :: Transcendental Blues by Steve Earle, Out of Touch by Hall and Oates, My Hometown by Bruce Springsteen, All My Days by Alexi Murdoch, and On The Nature Of Daylight by Max Richter

© C. Davidson

Mendota :: [Supplemental]

Songs :: Stand By Me by Ben E. King and Downbound Train by Bruce Springsteen

© C. Davidson 

Remnants :: [Supplemental]

Remnants Postcard Stack:: Postcard Collective – Summer 2021 Exchange :: Burn completed. Ready for addressing and postage.

Songs :: God’s Gonna Cut You Down by Johnny Cash, Street Hassle by Lou Reed, Ain’t That So by Roxy Music, Refugee by Tom Petty and & Heartbreakers, and Willin’ by Little Feat

© C. Davidson

Bay Area Drift

House of Nanking–San Francisco :: Photographer–Unknown

Rolodex Card

“I left my heart in San Francisco.” I finally know what Tony Bennett meant. I left it on the Golden Gate Bridge, the House of Nanking, a sushi restaurant in Berkley, and even further north. It was my first time in the Bay Area. A nephew got married which was why we were there. We stayed in a Walnut Creek hotel with other family members, for a few days, and on one of those days, my wife, daughter and I drove into San Francisco. We went down the crookedest street in the world, we glimpsed the Painted Ladies in the distance, walked on the Golden Gate Bridge, wandered through Chinatown and hiked the hilly streets of downtown. Eventually we arrived at the base of the Transamerica building. I had to see it up close. However much of an architectural seismic novelty it is, it’s iconic and I’ve been transfixed with it since I was a teenager. My interest was reinforced when the Doobie Brothers used an image of it on their album cover, Livin’ on the Fault Line.

After a couple of hours exploring the city we got hungry, so we researched restaurant options for lunch. We were flexible, as long as it was tasty, nearby, and Chinese. The one we identified was House of Nanking. It had great reviews, convenient parking and served what we craved. After inhaling our meals, we relaxed with tea and fortune cookies. Afterwards, we drove north across the Golden Gate Bridge and parked near the end of it, then walked back onto the bridge to the halfway point with lots of other people. I forgot the bridge was orange because its color was overpowered by the overwhelming view in every direction. Even from that height, I could see that the water was big and wild. The force of the wind was significant too and a bit unsettling at first. I picked our daughter up in my arms so she’d have a better view and when I did, the wind hit her face so she squinted into it. The vastness and sea air seemed to soothe her. After an hour or so, we walked back to the car and drove up the west side of the bay, across the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, south into Berkeley for a sushi dinner, and eventually back to Walnut Creek later that evening.

Two days later we drove north with other family members to Point Reyes and the houses we rented in the woods. We had two that were adjacent to each other, a hand built hot tub with a rustic changing area between them, and a few wind shaped Cypress trees that formed a natural room. The bigger house was straight out of the Handmade Houses: A Guide to the Woodbutcher's Art book. I imagined it being built by a young couple who’d escaped the city in the late 1960’s. The other house was smaller, simple and modest, like it had been built decades later to accommodate the overflow during family gatherings. While we were at Point Reyes, we spent time on a beach along Drakes Bay, visited the Tule Elk herds on Tomales Point, and roamed a few small towns for food and trinkets. One mythic and symbolic town we didn’t have time to visit was Bolinas. I often imagine it anyway, because my wife has been there before with friends, Richard Brautigan lived there, and Anne Lamott writes about it.

Our trip was like a lot of other trips we’ve taken. It feels dreamlike, a little hazy, and even surreal because we suddenly jet out of it, not allowing for a gentle transition. When the glow begins to fade weeks later, months if I’m lucky, I try hard to hold on and hope as much as possible will remain.

“You know what? I know what he means. It’s like a childhood memory thing.” From Don’t Look Up

Songs :: Stride of the Mind by Patti Smith, Sands of Time by Fleetwood Mac, I Left My Heart in San Francisco by Tony Bennett, and You’re Made That Way by The Doobie Brothers

© C. Davidson

Hot and Flat :: [Supplemental]

Rail and Pennies — NE Minneapolis

Train — NE Minneapolis

Songs :: Copperline by James Taylor, Runaway by Bonnie Raitt, Sweet Emotion by Aerosmith, Roam by The B52’s, Something You’re Going Through by Graham Parker, and Long Train Runnin’ by The Doobie Brothers

© C. Davidson

Dunkin' Donuts

Bear Trap Canyon Route – 1983 :: Image-Google Earth

Downtown Providence :: Image-Google Earth

Super Target – 2021

Once I crossed the canal fed by Narragansett Bay and the Atlantic Ocean, I sped into the narrow streets of downtown on my black one-speed, with electric blue rims, and pierced the canyons like a blade, just like I did in Bear Trap Canyon with friends eight months earlier. It was usually gray, rainy, or just after dusk when I rode this brief route, the opposite direction from campus and everything connected to it. It was impossible to completely escape though, because there were ghosts everywhere. I brought a few with me from Montana, some were new and mumbled near the window outside my first studio apartment on Congdon Street. Others had been roaming the city for centuries— feeling them when they brushed past me on the high-speed corners, just like the tall, sweet grass did while riding through the Bear Trap flats.

When I finally arrived at Dunkin’ Donuts, I did a serpentine skid to a stop, swung my leg over and locked the bike to the nearest street sign all in one motion. I went inside and waited near the bright display case and scanned the doughnut options. A well-dressed elderly man sat alone at the far side of the u-shaped counter partially blurred by steam from his coffee. He stared straight out to Union Street while three other customers were being helped by an employee speaking softly to them at the end of the counter. Everyone felt like regulars while I was ecstatically anonymous. I purchased four doughnuts and a small cup of coffee, exited, leaned against the glass windows, ate a cake one with chocolate frosting and sprinkles, and finished the hideously weak coffee. I kept the other three doughnuts in the waxy bag and slipped them into my day pack. Those were for the wee hours in the studio and photo lab. Riding solo to this corner, in this part of town, and then meandering slowly back to campus was a huge distraction from the studio chaos I’d left an hour before.

Recently, I found myself at Super Target in Saint Paul looking for the best deals on packaged ground coffee. I’ve noticed the bright colors of the Dunkin’ Donuts bags positioned off to the side for years, pushed out by elegant brands, bigger brands, and local roasters. I assumed that the coffee they sold in these bags would be just as weak and disappointing as it was in downtown Providence decades ago. On this day though, they were placed in the center of the coffee shelves and on sale, two for one, so I reluctantly grabbed two of the darkest grinds they had. I stood there holding the slick bags and flashed on moments from those rides and the significance of everything that was shed and gathered in both canyons almost forty years ago — remembering just how fluid everything still is.

— — — — — — —

“Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.” Norman McClean – A River Runs Through It

— — — — — — —

Songs :: Burnin’ Streets by Joe Strummer & the Mescaleros, Several Styles of Blonde Girls Dancing by Martha & The Muffins, Smalltown Boy by Bronski Beat, Times Like These by Foo Fighters, Take Me To The River by Talking Heads

© C. Davidson

Send A Boat :: 12–17–1925 (Supplemental)

Flathead Lake, Montana :: 1960’s

Songs :: Pictures of You by The Cure, Up From A Dream by HAIM, Landslide by Fleetwood Mac and The Smashing Pumpkins

© C. Davidson

Discovery

Mercury Monarch

Lewis and Clark Expedition Route :: 1804–1806

Great Falls of the Missouri River :: Photographer–Unknown

Missouri River Bluffs Night View

The songs Dream Weaver and Love is Alive by Gary Wright and Baby Come Back by Player were frequently played on AM radio during my high school years. Music influenced a lot of experiences—like Thursday night Key Club meetings, Friday night football games, choir festivals, and hiking in the mountains. Music accompanied the view over the Missouri River gorge towards the Rocky Mountain Front and Canada too — exactly where my friend and I were parked.

It was dark and the moon had set, so it felt like an endless, unexplored void through the car windows, with just enough ambient light to define the dim edges of things. Earlier that week while I was sitting in my history class waiting for it to begin. J. walked over to my desk, squatted next to me, and quietly asked if I’d like to go out sometime. My jaw must have dropped. Then I assumed she was messing with me because it was so random, but I looked at her and she seemed serious. “Um… sure” I said. “How about Saturday night. Are you free?” she asked. “Yeh. I think so… sure… I think… I’ll have to… yeh… Yes.” I said. “Great! Maybe let’s talk on Friday and figure something out”. “OK” I said. She smiled and went back to her desk. I didn’t know her, and she didn’t know me, but we had mutual friends and some common interests, so we had things to talk about. I’d noticed her in this class, in the hall by our lockers because they were near each other, and sometimes in the lobby of the performing arts building. I was still skeptical.

The following Friday we figured out the plan and eventually found ourselves parked in my parent’s brown, four-door, Mercury Monarch way outside of town after we saw a 9:30pm movie. I don’t recall what the movie was, but I remember sitting next to her in the theater. After the movie let out two hours later, we drove awhile and eventually found a good spot high above the coulees facing the falls on the Missouri River. We had all the windows open, so the thick smell of damp sage outside the car, from an earlier rain, drifted inside. We sat in the front seat for hours, listening to the radio, smoking, drinking, laughing, and talking about everything for the very first time. We connected easily and became friends quickly, before we sank into the beige vinyl seats. I took a lot of risks driving my parent’s cars into places like this, rugged river bluffs and two-track mountain roads were all best suited for four-wheel drives, not the family sedan, but I didn’t own a four-wheel drive, or a car of my own at the time.

Besides our own energy, that spot was embedded with lots of historic energy, because in June 1805, the Corps of Discovery spent a lot of time in this area. They had to portage four giant boats and all of their gear around the ‘falls’ on this part of the Missouri River. Ours was the same dimly lit horizon that the Lewis and Clark expedition saw at night. They may have even experienced this exact view. All of them may have hiked through this location looking for firewood, foraging for edible plants, hunting, and keeping a watchful eye on their new, unpredictable surroundings. They’d been trespassing into occupied territory during their entire journey, including this place. Every tribe from the Midwest to the northwest knew they were there. Fortunately for them, the indigenous people were mostly helpful and tolerant. Sacajawea was an integral part of the Corps too and was frequently responsible for their survival. Some have even written that she had saved their lives on more than one occasion. She may have walked where we were parked too, hauling her baby and all her other gear across the wild prairie.

It felt a little wild that night with my friend too. It wasn’t 1805 wild, but It was a Saturday night in 1977 wild. We’d just seen our first movie together, we had Coors, Black Velvet, cigarettes, the rumble of the falls close by, and we were riding an ‘astral plane’.

— — — — — — —

“Fly me high through the starry skies
Maybe to an astral plane
Cross the highways of fantasy
Help me to forget today's pain” Gary Wright

— — — — — — —

June 13, 1805 – Lewis and Clark Expedition Journal

Anxious to prove he’s right, Lewis scouts ahead of the rest of the ‘Corps’ and is overjoyed (at first) to find the Great Falls, describing them as a “truly magnificent and sublimely grand object, which has from the commencement of time been concealed from the view of ‘civilized man’*.

But it soon becomes clear that the portage (carrying canoes over land) around the Great Falls is going to be far more difficult and will require more than the one day he planned. To help with the challenge, the men fashion crude wagons from felled trees and drag the canoes and equipment across miles of unforgiving, cactus-strewn terrain.

“It takes them almost a month and a half to take all of their gear 18 miles,” says Buckley. “It’s probably one of the slowest parts of the whole trip.”

*Unsettling

— — — — — — —

Songs :: Dream Weaver and Love Is Alive by Gary Wright, I’m Not in Love by 10cc, Hello It’s Me by Todd Rundgren, Baby Come Back by Player, Dust In the Wind by Kansas, Venus and Mars by Paul McCartney, and Lowdown by Boz Scaggs

© C. Davidson

In Goldenrod :: [Supplemental]

In Goldenrod :: 28th Anniversary – Franconia

Songs :: In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel and I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) by the Proclaimers

© C. Davidson

He's On The Terrace

Bryan Ferry :: Photographer Unknown

American Icons Program Poster – Front Cover

30 August 1988

It was a typical Tuesday at work until I received an afternoon phone call from my friend in the Performing Arts Department. “Hey, Craig. What are you doing right now? Are you busy?” “I’m working, but I can talk.” “Are you sitting down?” she asked. “No, I’m standing. Why?” “Bryan Ferry is in the building.” “What? Bryan Ferry is in the building?” I said. “Yeh, he’s sitting on the terrace outside the restaurant as we speak” “Bryan Ferry is in the building? I repeated. “Yeh, he’s on the terrace,” she repeated. “Wow. OK. Hang on. I’ll call you back!”

I hung up the phone and walked across the hall to the conference room, climbed up on the white built-in, waist-high, Formica cabinet that lined the entire side of the room along with the windows, and looked down to see if I could spot him. I couldn’t see anybody no matter how hard I scanned and pressed my face against the glass. I walked back to my desk and called her. “I looked out the windows. I can’t see anybody on the terrace. Are you messing with me?” “No! Can you see the whole terrace?” she asked, “Not really.” “I’m telling you he’s sitting down there. That’s directly from my friend who’s working in the restaurant right now.” “I can’t believe he’s here! Why do you think he’s here?” “He has a concert downtown tonight. You didn’t know?” she said. “No. How would I know that?” “Because you’re a fan! You should go down there and get his autograph.” “Good point. I can’t go down there though. It’ll be embarrassing. He’ll think I’m an idiot.” ”I doubt it. Just don’t do anything embarrassing. If you don’t go, you’ll regret it.” “Yeh… you’re right… OK. Thanks for letting me know!” “Call me when you get back,” she said. I stood there nervously for a few minutes. I was full of adrenaline. I told one of my co-workers what was happening, and she agreed that I needed to go down there. Another five minutes went by, and my phone rang again. “Are you already back?” “No, I haven’t left yet.” Why are you still there? He could leave.” “OK.”

I hesitantly grabbed a couple of printed samples, a pen, and headed down to the restaurant. They were closed until the dinner hour, so it was empty except for a few employees milling about in the kitchen. I walked through the bright space to the huge solid wall of glass and the enormous glass doors that led outside to the terrace. It was sunny, hot, humid, and I still didn’t see him. The terrace wraps around the building so I couldn’t see all of it from the doors, or from the conference room above. I slowly walked to the end of the terrace that overlooked the sculpture garden. I stood there with my heart thumping for a minute, slowly turned around, and saw someone leaning back against the towering brick wall on the two rear legs of his chair. I slowly walked towards him, and as I got within a few feet, I blurted out, “excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering… are you, Bryan Ferry?” He leaned forward until all four chair legs were on the ground and said, “Yes.” “Again, I’m sorry to be bothering you. I’m a big fan.” “Oh. Thanks” “I was wondering if I could get your autograph?” “Sure.” I stepped closer and handed him a folded brochure/poster from the American Icon lecture series, an issue of Design Quarterly, and the pen. He signed them both and handed it all back to me. “Thanks a lot.” “You’re welcome.”

“Are you going to the show tonight?” he asked. The one I only knew about because my friend told me fifteen minutes earlier. “No, I can’t go.” “Oh…, that’s too bad. Are you sure? I’d be glad to get you a couple of tickets. I can have them put aside for you at the door.” I was stunned. “Really?” “They’ll even allow you backstage too.” “Wow! That’s amazing. I wish I could, but I have to work tonight.” “I understand. I know how that goes.” “Thanks so much for the offer though. I’m sure it’ll be great and thanks again for the autographs.” “You’re welcome.” We shook hands. He leaned back against the brick wall on the rear two legs of his chair, and I headed back inside.

I was ridiculous — autographs, a brief conversation, free tickets, and I could have joined other groupies backstage. I regretted my decision more with every step. I’d already said no so I couldn’t walk back to him and say I've changed my mind. When I returned to my desk, I called my friend, told her I got his autograph, and thanked her for letting me know. She was excited for me. I didn’t tell her about the rest of the encounter though.

Songs :: The entire Flesh and Blood and Avalon albums by Roxy Music, and his entire Boys and Girls album

© C. Davidson

Terry Badlands :: [Supplemental]

Terry Badlands :: North of Terry, Montana

Area Map :: Image–All Trails

Songs :: Hong Kong Breeze by Larry Coryell, Lies by Manassas and I’ve Got a Feeling by the Beatles

© C. Davidson

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