A Corporate Poet

Blue Migration, Alley24 | Seattle

2010-03-25T00:16:00.000-07:00

On Monday, March 29, 2010, hundreds of Blue Morpho butterflies (Morpho Menelaus) are predicted to descend on the public sculpture, Baladeuse, in Seattle’s historic Alley24. Seattle’s first and only migration of Morpho Butterflies, with their metallic, shimmering shades of blue, is expected to attract hundred of peepers and transform Alley24 into social meeting ground. Alas, though, the Blue Migration will last only two short weeks, so hurry on down and don’t forget your camera!

Seattle resident and installation artist, A. K. Mimi Allin, wishes to address the ways in which public art and public space come to mean. How can a sculpture, without plaque or provenance, come to signify? How do spaces become places? Allin will fuse and cut light and dark blue silk to craft fabric butterflies for this migration.

Alley24 connects residents, shoppers and workers along Yale & Pontius Streets. At the heart of the alley stands Baladeuse, 18’ tall, 17-sided and lit from within. Baladeuse is French for wanderer or lantern. Those who live and work in Alley24 are quick to respond with, “I love it” or “I don’t care for it,” but Allin questions their taste. She believes relevance, and not matter, makes an object mean and that by imparting relevance, we can drag an object out of the pale and into the system. In the relevance model, it is meaning that imparts value and, well, that’s what poets were put here to do.

Educated at City University of New York in Museum Studies and Poetry, Allin is keenly aware of the predicament of art and artists in modern America. She believes that, in our product-driven world, it’s hard for people to know what they want and believe.

Allin has been planning, since mid-January, ways in which to address the alleyway. As part of her artist residency at NBBJ, she telephoned the sculptor, James Harrison, asking for information about his sculpture. Harrison told her the metal bowties or butterflies on the piece had a two meanings: 1) like dovetail joints, they call up the vocabulary of cabinetry and architecture, and (2) they hint at the questionable sexuality of 19tth century aviator and dandy, Alberto Santos-Dumont, the dirigible-flying character after whom Baladeuse was modeled. This information provoked Allin to see the butterfly as a key to not only her wishes for the alleyway, but to the sculptor’s wishes and the wishes of NBBJ. It was NBBJ who so carefully designed Alley24 into “a narrow European street.”

Allin has a unique relationship with Alley24. In January 2010, she became the nation’s first corporate poet when she partnered with global architectural and design firm and Alley24 resident, NBBJ. She was testing a model for cooperation between poets and corporations and that model was supported by a CityArtist grant from The City of Seattle Arts & Cultural Affairs. For more info about this project, see: http://corporate-poet.blogspot.com/.

Now at the end of a 2-month residency, Allin is stepping out the doors and into the alleyway. This move from private to public, a sort of backward permeation, seems a natural way to go, considering the intentions of Alley24.

KPLU: Artscape: Poet in the Board Room

2010-03-22T00:53:00.000-07:00

KPLU: Artscape: Poet in the Board Room

The wonderful Paula Wissel produced a fabulous report on my corporate poetry residency for 88.5 KPLU's Artscape, which airs this week. You can hear and read this broadcast by clicking the link above. Hoorah for KPLU (my radio preset for jazz and news radio). Heartfelt thanks to Paula Wissel and to Adopt-A-Poet granter, The Seattle Office of Arts & Cultural Affairs, for their faith and support.

Who loves the radio? I do! I do!

Sunday 3.14.10

2010-03-15T12:20:00.000-07:00

ARTIST TALK @ Studio-Current

Studio-Current announced its first speaker, A. K. Mimi Allin, in a new Artist Talk Series that began on Sunday March 14 @ 5PM. Allin is the recipient of a 2009 CityArtist Grant for her project "Adopt-A-Poet." The talk was hosted by Vanessa DeWolf and facilitated by Karl Thuneman.

A. K. Mimi Allin, poet-in-residence at NBBJ (a leading global architecture and design firm based in Seattle), spoke about the nation's first corporate-poet residency, brokered by the artist in January 2010. Allin rowed daily in a little wooden rowboat across Lake Union to get to work. Once there, she presented a number of poetry-driven installations such as "The Blue Line," "No Swimming," "Blind Poet," and "Dear Architect." After the presentation, there was a brief reading of original poetry produced during the residency and a guided discussion with an open Q & A.

Allin received funding from The Seattle Office of Arts & Cultural Affairs for Adopt-A-Poet. Her intention was to craft a new model for artists and corporations, to suggest a dynamic and symbiotic residence. Now in its final stages, Allin is reaching out to the community to talk about the project. If you would like to schedule a presentation at your school or organization, contact: mimiallin@gmail.com.

The talk raised a number of challenging questions, such as, how restrictive is it for an artist to work within the confines of commerce, either in a space or an organization? What is artistic freedom and where can it be achieved? How does an artist who goes into a corporation keep from becoming corporate themselves? How can we call this model a success when it failed to produce true corporate backing in the form of continued funding?

Paul Wissel of KPLU was in attendance and recording the event. Paula is preparing a piece on Adopt-A-Poet for the station's new arts program, Artscape. This piece will be aired on Monday 22 March at 5:30am and again at 7:30am that same day.

Monday 3.1.10

2010-03-01T16:49:00.000-08:00

A Fortune Is Coming Your Way

I announced The Color Stone project today, posting signs inside for the NBBJ workers and in the windows for residents and delivery persons in Alley 24. I left a healthy stack of Color Stone wallet cards on the common tables at NBBJ then wandered around the block, handing out Color Stone Fortune Cards to the commercial business operators down Yale, Thomas and Pontius.

Fortunes Based on Original Writing & Observation of Color Wall

I met lots of friendly and receptive folks as I went around the block. Pemco and Vulcan, who own this land, make a point of leasing to single-owner, local businesses and thus supporting the community model at Alley 24. Having dropped into every single business for a chat, I can say it makes a huge difference! The owners were naturally vested in the community. In most cases, I was talking to the owner and they were, across the board, interested in me and my project. Nine businesses currently operate around the block: Southlake Grill, MAD Pizza, Snowboard Connection, Tottini, Golf, Velocity Design, Espresso Vivace, Spa Blix, Bebi’s sandwich shop and Stretch Physical Therapy.

The goal was to assign significance to the colors in the light wall. The wall is floor-to-ceiling, in the main lobby at NBBJ, and faces the alley. It is clearly visible to anyone passing by in the alley. The colors are vibrant and change hourly. I had the idea to imbue them with meaning so they'd become common signifiers for the workers, residents and users of Alley 24. They are especially visible early and late in the day, but you can see them on a bright day if you get close or look through the apertures on the solid side of the wall. Color Stone is a Cornerstone that combines fun and myth to build community. Happy Fortunes to you all!

Stepping Out

I’m working now with the Alley 24 Leasing Office to prepare a final project, an alleyway project, called Migration. It's still a secret, but once permitted I'll announce details and a date. I hope to install in the next few weeks. The Color Stone and this final alleyway project are my ways of gently transitioning from private to public space, a sort of backward permeation. Moving towards the community seems a natural way to go, considering the careful intentions of Alley 24.

Towing the Line

I removed a significant portion of The Blue Line today which, for me, marks a significant shift. Those who saw me doing this questioned me. The first woman to remark said she was just back from a long stint out of state. It was her first look at The Blue Line. She didn't want it to go. I said, “It’s sad, but it’s got to go.” She replied stiffly, “Why does it have to go!” Hmm. Tough question. I gave her a few poorly thought out reasons then questioned myself. Does it have to go? Now? And why? I continued pulling up the line, questioning my reasons. Within a few hundred feet, I came to a firm stance. Yes, the line had to go. Here are the reasons why.

(1) The Blue Line was intended as a temporary project
(2) the floor needs to be cleaned
(3) even safe release tape eventually leaves a gummy mess
(4) areas of the text have been already lost to the mop & moves
(5) we need to grieve this going & loss together, you and me
(6) it would be unfair to leave this work for someone else to do
(7) the taking up, like the laying down, will change the space
(8) this is the next step

Thursday 2.25.10

2010-03-01T16:30:00.000-08:00

The Color Stone @ NBBJ

I spent the day in a common workstation at NBBJ painting color chips onto wallet-sized fortune cards. I use this toy German watercolor set. A week ago, I read about color theory and color in design and dreams. I spent some time then watching the color wall in the lobby at NBBJ, writing the landscapes, emotions and affects these colors had on the immediate environment. I brought in a friend and we wrote together about this. From our work, I composed little fortunes to correspond to each color. Now when you walk into or past NBBJ and the wall is yellow it means something. Sudden Significance. The wall changes colors slowly over the course of the day. It takes one hour for the wall to shift from blue to purple.

Hand Drawn

At noon, I was invited to attend a project review with pizza. It was a strong presentation by the waterfront tunnel operations team. Massive fans will keep the tunnel aerated and free of carbon monoxide. The buildings that house these fans are called lungs. Nice! I was delighted to see a show of colored hand drawings on the projection screen. For the first time, the slide show was more interesting than what was going on in the room! There was no wind in the trees, the birds were not in a flocking mood, the people were all hiding in cars, but the shading and textures in the drawings took my eyes and mind on a journey and that was a significant event. It drew me into a visual participation. You can have your computer renderings. Give me a line drawing. I learned the tunnel-boring machine used for the project will be 400’ long. Wow. Imagine the mole’s surprise! They called the area south of Pioneer Square "The Greater Duwamish Industrial Zone." I like this, better than Sodo.

Take a Note

“Pioneer Square desperately needs some residential.” Agreed. Seattle has been bringing in artists with short-term projects to solve the social woes of the area, when what it really needs is a stronger, ongoing community of residents. “Here is an idea that will reconnect South Lake Union with the center of the city.” I’ve felt this disconnection, but I’ve never articulated it. Interesting to question how our various neighborhoods are connected or disconnected, what fights the connection, what aids it. “There are no zoning requirements on chimneys.” Makes me want to build a chimney house. We saw an array of venting buildings from all over the world. Those in Boston take on the cladding of their environment. Those in New York are monumental and heavy and screen a thing you presumably don’t want to see. Most of the international examples are crazy and sculptural. And then I heard it! The unthinkable. “We’re building a lifelong building here, not a 20-30 year structure.” Wow. Sounds downright un-American. It's got me wishing all buildings housed significant venting machines.

Wednesday 2.24.10

2010-03-01T16:25:00.000-08:00

Color Stone Fortunes at NBBJ

I spent the day filtering the color writing Vanessa and did into single line fortunes, then laid that out into business card format and printed and cut a few hundred wallet-sized cards. The plan now is to paint color chips onto each card by hand. This will take a few days and will happen in a public space at NBBJ so the community there can observe and inquire about the project.

Sunday 2.21.10

2010-02-25T17:32:00.000-08:00

The Color Stone

Vanessa and I met for a second time to write about the NBBJ Color Stone. After a half hour of writing colors (today we wrote red and orange), we worked to distill our ideas into single-sentence answers. I made a few color sheets, painted with patches watercolor. We used these to complete a 3-step process, which yielded wonderful, silly, symbolic fortunes (or indications) based on the colors of the wall. We learned, by observation, that the colors change hourly. They slide from left to right, through the colors of the rainbow. The panels are never one solid color. They are usually a mix of two colors, pulling like a curtain to the side, so while one part is deep red, the other is more rosy and the end pink. If you were to glance at the wall in passing, you would see only one color. For this is the impression they give. But closer inspection says otherwise.

Goodbye Blue Line (Image by Sean Airhart/NBBJ)

I began lifting The Blue Line this morning. While I was waiting for Vanessa, I took up the section in the main lobby. It is sticking in the heavy traffic areas, where it bends around the lobby couches and in at the stairwell. This was to be expected, but slow pulling at an angle helps. I have lots of practice pulling tape from my boat yard days. Once the tape was gone, the area looked bare. The space changed dramatically. It opened up, the temperature dropped and the world felt less defined. I’m sad to see it go. Alas, but change is my name.

Friday 2.19.10

2010-02-25T17:26:00.000-08:00

South Lake Union Rotary Club

The South Lake Union Rotary Club meets on Fridays at 7am at the Center for Wooden Boats. Due to dock construction at the CWB, this morning’s meeting was held at the Amory Building next door. Breakfast was served--coffee, donuts, bagels and fruit! The members gathered around, nibbling and chatting, conference style and Betsy called the meeting to order. She'd already set up the computer and projector. The group put special thought into my visit and had poets and poems to share. How nice. After a few introductions, we were directed to the screen and watched a TED Talks video of a poet doing a performance piece on the value of a good teacher. A second TED Talks video, Rives on 4am, was shown. This one was more entertaining and comical. Afterwards, someone in the group gave a hoorah for the quality of the talks on TED. After that, the committees gave their reports. The work the reported on spanned from the assembling of water purification thermometers for nations in need, to organizing scholarships for high school students wanting to attend business week at a local university.

Key Note Speaker

Russ introduced me by reading a poem of mine he'd found online. He did a perfect reading of roof of air. Very impressive! I was asked to come and talk about my work as a corporate-poet. I’d prepared a little slide show of the installations I was doing at NBBJ. I just barely got through the show when my time was up. Alas, the questions would have to wait. I was thanked and presented with a bag of mandarins and a gift donating, in my name, 100 pounds of food to local food banks. Very thoughtful. I stayed and chatted with a few members. I'd never before been to a Rotary Club meeting and was intrigued to know what they looked like. This group is small in comparison to some, I am told. Most surprising to me was the cost of membership and the monthly dues. I certainly couldn't afford to join, even with the stimulus plan they are offering (no dues for the 6 months). I suppose that’s the point though, a group of people with means coming together to help those without. I am thankful to the Rotary Club for inviting me, for their hospitality and for the opportunity to consider the whole of my work at NBBJ.

Saturday 2.13.10

2010-02-25T17:21:00.000-08:00

Sunday morning at St. Spiridon

A few weeks ago, I attended a Sunday morning service at the St. Spiridon Cathedral. It was packed with young couples and children. We arrived just as they began ringing the bells. They sounded just slightly different from the first time I heard them. The rhythm was quicker and less regular, but the call was the same and the congregation found their way inside. There were greetings of smiles, candle lightings and songs from above. The sign of the cross was remembered frequently, the ground was touched, heads were bowed and relics kissed. The priest swung his incensor. The altar boys opened and closed doors. They clergy emerged and retreated behind screens. The congregation crossed their hands over their chests and received communion. Bread was chewed. Wine sipped. Spoonfuls of wine were offered to babes. Children whispered and were picked up and set down. The money basket was passed around. It was a rich and golden service filled with ritual and gesture. I left wanting more and so...

Vespers

Kris and Cherie came up from Kent to attend Vespers with me. We met at St. Spiridon at 5:30pm. Kris has been studying the French composer Frederic Mompou in whose works, I read, the bells are audible. She came to hear the bells of St. Spiridon. Alas, they were in a minor car accident and missed the bells, but I heard all of them. Glorious! Kris and Cherie arrived just as the service was starting and we went in together. The flavor of the Vespers was very different than the Sunday service. There were only about 20 people present, no children. All the candles dangling in their red votive glasses before all the saints in gold frames lining the walls appeared to have inner volume. The altar and dome lights went on and off twice during the mass which changed and heightened the candlelight that followed.

A Blessing

There were two priests presiding over the mass. Each wore a different tall velvet hat. Their outfits changed periodically. One held the bible, the other waved the incensor. Twice, they circumnavigated the room and the congregation moved in together, the way a flock of birds might change direction to face the wind, to let them around and then be blessed. We made it one hour into the service before the group needed to go off for dinner reservations. Kris made some interesting observations about the choir. We all noticed the man at the front of the group who was pulling his hair out.

Friday 2.12.10

2010-02-25T17:11:00.000-08:00

A Poetry Break

I wandered through the office today with a sign around my neck, "Take a Poetry Break," and an envelope full of poems. Psst—want a poem? Floor 3 was partly empty, but I wandered around anyway, offering my wares. Many were too busy to partake, some were on the phone or engaged in their work so I left them be. I found more success on floor 2. It felt like a good thing to do, to throw out the seeds of poetry. It felt remarkable too, that so many were reading poems simultaneously in this one building. I imagined the temporary, palpable community it was forming, the way freak weather (heavy winds, hail, brown-outs) forms community. The way a community formed when a truck hung in the balance off of I-5 and everyone came to the windows to take pictures and talk. A brief but deep community based on a shared experiences of the world.

The Color Stone @ NBBJ

I invited a friend to join me tonight to write about the color wall or Color Stone at NBBJ. There is a 2-story wall which changes colors throughout the day. One side of the wall faces towards the alley and is made of opaque panels to show the colors, the other side of the wall faces the Giant Steps and shows color through only two slim apertures, a vertical one near the base of the steps and a horizontal at the top. This gives a bit of Villa Savoy and Dan Flavin feeling to the wall.

We chose to meet in the evening as we thought it would be the best time to observe the colors. Vanessa Dewolf is a modern day Gertrude Stein, at the center of the performance art scene in Seattle. She runs a studio on Capitol Hill and acts as a hub for dancers, writers and performers of all kinds (improv, contact improv, actors, dancers, performers, playwrights, directors, poets and more). It is Vanessa who begins the dialog about the artist’s practice and about the ways in which we can improve our viewing of art. I’ve known Vanessa for 3 years and, in that time, she has worked and performed in Seattle, Oregon, New York, Pennsylvania and Germany and has facilitated Field sessions, taught classes at DAGMar and provided countless artists with residencies, showings and feedback opportunities. She is a boon to the arts community.

Thursday 2.11.10

2010-02-21T21:10:00.000-08:00

Dear Architect, (Images by Sean Airhart/NBBJ)

I carried the overhead projector and my box of transparencies down to the Great Steps. I plugged in, aimed the projector at the two-story white wall, pulled up a chair and began writing. I wrote letter and letter. For 5 hours, I wrote. The letters all began with the same salutation, “Dear Architect,” It was the building's turn to talk. I sat facing the projector, looking into the light, my arm resting on the light table. I weighed the way I was feeling with the way the building was feeling. I weighed what I’d learned with what I’d dreamt about buildings. I considered what a building might know and remember with what it might miss and long for. I considered the facts. This wall was solid. It had no window, no doorway, no stairs. I considered what every building wants to be with what this building was and how to reconcile those two. I took the opportunity to air my feelings, to give thanks, to question and make jokes.

Below are some sample letters.

Dear Architect,
Darling, I’m leaving you. You stood me up the other night and I just can’t accept that. There are other buildings out there, I know, who will catch your eye, have caught your eye. I need some time alone to think about things. I’ll call you.
Take care,
The Building

Dear Architect,
A quick note about that coffee stain on the floor. I’m over it. Not a big deal at all. I’m sorry I got so bent out of shape. You’re busy of course, and human. We all make mistakes. Forgive me for mentioning it.
Warmly,
The Building

Dear Architect,
I wanted to give you some flowers and say thank you for your glorious footfall, the movement you do through me all day. Of all the things, it resounds the most, moves my walls & floors & windows the most. It might be imperceptible to you, but to me—woah, O!
Many thanks,
The Building

Dear Architect,
From what are you sheltering yourself? To which points of light are you connecting? Which of the animals scares you most? You must face it then, that animal, that point of light. You must say, “You— wind, rain, cold, buzz, pest, obstacle to warmth & work, I defy you and only you within this place. All other things I invite.”
That is all.
The Building

Dear Architect,
Make me flexible. Make me sensual. Sensitive. Subject to shame and pride. Bring the rain inside. Let the sighs out. Open the windows. Let the ants march in and do their work. But don’t forget the trumpeter. Don’tt forget the elephants, the winged thing, the red ball in the attic. O give me an attic! Give me a place to store up my play and dreams and fears and wonderings. Let a river flow down my steps and pool for my pondering feet and eyes. Give me a cellar to catch and store my coolness. And give me ears to hear it all. O give me nothing I do not deserve!
Humbly,
The Building

Dear Architect,
I’m putting in for my vacation time. I’ve got three months saved up and I plan to use them this summer to travel down the Columbia River by sailboat. You’ll have to find a way to work without me, a new shelter system, while I’m gone. Certainly, without my walls, doors, windows, stairs and elevators, life will be different, but perhaps there’s something to be gained from going without and feeling the wind and rain for a while. Thank you for your assistance with this.
Respectfully yours,
The Building

Long Live Untitled [Intersection]

I finished up a last letter and rushed out at 3pm, by automobile, to meet with the folks at The Phinney Center. The short-term fate of my monthly series, Untitled [Intersection], would be determined today. After 3 years, my poetry & performance art series is morphing form a demanding showcase of artists to a sustainable experience in art. I'm meeting with the directors to feel out their interest in supporting this new format. And I’m determined, more than ever, to find the right home for this series. In part, I owe this calm pursuit to my work with NBBJ. Once you’ve been so well supported, it is hard to accept any less. Follow your heart.

Untitled [Intersection] began in 2007 as an invitational event. Two poets and a performance artist were brought together to present new work. The hope was that their work might find some overlap, cross-fertilize and invigorate. The new format, Write to Move, is about activating all sides into a living experience. It’s about exploring movement and translating that into writing. Each month, a new performer (dancer) will move for an hour while a group of artists and writers gather around to respond. Some will write. Some will draw. Others will compose scores for movement. The test-class in January yielded some exciting results and spurred a rich discussion of work and methods.

Wednesday 2.10.10

2010-02-19T06:10:00.000-08:00

Chanel No. 5

I spent the afternoon on the 2nd floor, in the NBBJ library, copying images from The Encyclopedia of Design onto transparencies. I wasn’t sure what the morrow would bring and wanted to have some things at the ready. Tomorrow was to be another aka project at NBBJ. This one would be called Dear Architect. The idea is to write letters from the building to the architect on the wall, using an overhead projector. In preparation, I copied the outlines of many an historic object, which actually just became a nice meditation. I drew a Tiffany lamp, a bottle of Chanel No. 5, a Coke bottle, a box of McDonald’s fries. I drew buildings, chairs, couches, irons and vacuums. I even wrote out a few Gaston Bachelard quotes. I spent some time online then, researching overhead projectors and art projects. I came up with a few interesting items. There are artists who make dramatic and ephemeral sand art drawings on overhead projectors. As soon as an image is made, it is wiped away and another is started atop it. There is a group in Germany that sponsors a week of overhead projector art. Then there is local artist Frank Junk who with his friend Mark uses overhead projectors to mix colors and designs which shine through spinning bicycle wheels onto the walls. Suddenly, my simple idea to write letters to the architect seemed too simple. Sometimes too much research takes you farther afield than you need to go. What does my project need to be? Sitting at the projector tomorrow will tell me.

Madagascar

After a few tries earlier this week, I finally got to lunch with Michael of the IT department. Michael was one of the first people I really talked to at NBBJ, generous, easy-going, friendly. We walked out, in the light rain, across Boren to Soup Daddy’s. Surprisingly, I didn't eat my bread bowl. I must not rowing hard enough. Hm? I inquired with the sandwich clerk about the brass bell atop the counter. When does this bell ring? We ring it when people order the Big Meal. The Big Meal is $13. No one ordered the Big Meal while I was at Soup Daddy's. Michael and I got onto the topic of boats and I learned that he once worked as an engineer on a vessel touring the South Pacific. He's been diving in Madagascar and Tonga and Indonesia and Japan. No wonder the smirk!

Mood Ring

I spent my afternoon researching and collecting materials on color theory. I found a good bit information online about how color affects our moods and how they are used in interiors and what they mean in dreams. I'm preparing to write a color code for the opaque plastic, paneled wall encasing a series of LED lights that runs from the first floor through the ceiling to the ceiling above the lunchroom. I am told it runs all the way up the building. After my research, I'll spend time observing the walls and sitting nearby writing. Then, hopefully, I'll condense that into a pithy, card-friendly, fortune key so you know what it means when you arrive and see the color green.

Color Code

What does it mean when you pass the wall and it is blue? I want this to be an event. I want it to mean something. And not only to workers at NBBJ, but to those passing in the alleyway, from the residents of Alley 24 to the store owners and the shoppers who frequent the shops around the block. Even the delivery person should know what a red wall indicates. And they will.

Once I've got a code key worked out, I'll post a sign in the window and make wallet-sized versions to offer passersby. I'm hoping to offer, with this simple key, an ongoing, meaningful experience in the alleyway. I'm hoping to provoke community through shared knowledge, shared myth-making. A knowledge that transcends glass and concrete and brick and offers a weave of experience and memory.

Tuesday 2.9.10

2010-02-19T06:05:00.000-08:00

Air. Air.

One month ago, NBBJ opened its doors to me, offered me a space to work, a supportive audience and an invitation to play. I’ve never felt so supported and welcomed in all my life. It’s been truly heavenly to work within these walls, with these alert, creative, responsive people. Now that my month is officially up (ended 5 February 2010), I'm thinking about the model we built and wondering, will other corporations support this model? Will they confirm the value of this work with a dollar amount? Having gotten so much positive feedback, I decided to ask this question while I'm still at NBBJ. No, my work is not yet finished, but is there a desire to have me stay? I composed a letter to the firm, requesting matching funding and suggesting an interest in staying on for a month. I’m waiting for the response.

Will I be granted an extension? I have so much still to do. Will my CityArtist grant be matched? At the completion of my residency, I will have received $5800 from the City of Seattle's Office of Arts & Cultural Affairs for a full month of work, plus time spent organizing the residency and writing, formatting and printing a chapbook. What a boon a matching grant would b!! $5800 is half a year's salary to me. Though funding was never expected, it would set a strong precedent for the corporate-poet model and underline the kind of support a corporation is willing to give a poet, the value they place on the experience. What with corporate coaching and team-building workshops and the money spent on increased production and job satisfaction, perhaps a poet stands a chance? Rubbing elbows with innovation. And yet.. the air is tight, the economy is tough. And I have no string. See me rise and fall.

LitFuse

I met a poet for lunch today, Michael Schein, director of LitFuse, an annual poetry festival in Tieton, WA. I’ve been on the LitFuse faculty for 2 years, since Michael asked me to teach a Guerilla Poetry class in 2008. Michael was responsible for a new direction in me. He got me started thinking how I might foster my public urge in others. He’s come to discuss this year’s event with me.

A Poet’s Work

I spent my afternoon keying in the never-ending Blue Line. Now that it’s in my notebook, I have the job of transcribing it from there into my computer. Workworkwork. Night Is Falling has me looking for a column to address. I have an idea for a final project, for the effect of the poet's true departure which will indeed be light night is falling. I walk around observing columns. There are columns embedded in walls, corner columns, hidden columns, dead end columns and bold ones at the tops of the stairs. Which is the most lovely? Which the most secret? Which the most archival? Which the most dreamy? And which does my project want--a bold or a reclusive column? Still thinking. Still thinking.

The Houseboats Are Sleeping

It is 10pm when I row home. I wear my down jacket zipped up all the way. My hands are numb. I have no gloves. The lights in the houseboats are out. This is my latest row yet. I am hunting for food. Sniff sniff. I see an otter in the water. It’s dark, how can I be sure? The surface, at night, is rife with silhouettes. Every disruption is keen. The lights from the hills reflect perfectly on the lake, which is icy, still and crystalline. It felt like a holiday card, a Scandinavian nativity scene.

Monday 2.8.10

2010-02-19T06:03:00.000-08:00

The Coffee Shop

It is cool and clear. I rowed in at the leisurely hour of 10am. I got to work at 11 and hid in the red armchair in the corner of Café Vivace. This is the beginning of the week after the-week-I-was-scheduled-to-leave. I am not sure if I am still welcome or if I am in the way. I do not yet know what or when my final presentation will be. I am waiting to hear. I am fielding small passes, “When are you leaving?” “We love having you,” “Stay as long as you can.” I’d still like to finish a few projects, address a few spaces. Slink. Slink.

Documenting

I spent 4½ hours in Cafe Vivace, updating my blog. Documentation takes a lot of my time, about a day a week. From 3:30–7pm, I am back at my computer, at my desk, plugged in, dealing with mail, perfecting my blog. I left my boat at the CWB again and took a ride home. I'm feeling like a day-old balloon, wandering around low to the ground. What will become of me? Will the winds be favorable?

Saturday/Sunday February 6-7

2010-02-19T05:53:00.000-08:00

I did not come into NBBJ this weekend. I am giving up hopes of completing The Blue Line. Perhaps this is what it means to let go? Knowing how much to give and when to let go. Perhaps these are the keys to maintaining your health as an artist?

Friday 2.5.10

2010-02-19T05:50:00.000-08:00

Observation

I spent my morning racing around Fremont and Ballard, gathering supplies for a final NBBJ project. I went to Joann’s and Fusion Beads then stopped by the bank. It's rent day today. Woe woe! I’m borrowing this month. Outside of a school loan when I was a student, this is the first time I've ever had to borrow money to pay the rent. I knew it was going to be close, what with the grant money coming in after the project is complete. A circle of stress. I did my best to relax at Lighthouse Coffee. I spent the afternoon transcribing my Blind Poet notes into my computer. I got half way through and called it a day. After writing all day, I began to recognize that the experience of sitting and listening was more important that the written results. The real results were my observations. It's good to recognize what you're doing, see the beginning and end of your work.

Transcribe

On top of writing in the round and documenting my activities at NBBJ, so many of my projects need transcribing into a computer to save them. What if I were to leave them to erode and fade? What if it were all to disappear? This I am ok with.

Thursday 2.4.10

2010-02-19T05:48:00.000-08:00

Ouch My Head!

Wisely, I’d left my boat on the south shores of Lake Union last night, and so I took a ride into work. I was still feeling a little sick, but today was The Poetry Charette, my Poetry Charette, so I had to be there. I arrived mid-morning and spent some time looking at some possible locations for a final installation. Scheming, I am. Those who saw me near my poetry columns asked, Are you editing your work? No, no, just looking. I’d have to do this at night, late at night. Too many eyes in the day. I’m planning to leave a little magic behind, but I want to do it right, do it in secret.

The Poetry Charette

I scheduled a conference room, pinned my questions to the walls, set out some snacks and waited. The entire firm was invited to drop by between the hours of 12–5pm, for any amount of time, from 5 mins to 5 hours. Perhaps those I hadn’t met would see this as an opportunity to stop by and say hello? I didn’t know if it’d be a welcome opportunity or a disruption. Either way, it’d be a learning experience. Alas, I had only 4 guests all day, but each one opened the world in a new way. I do not see it as a failure, but rather as a tool to better understanding this firm. I learned something I already knew and something I didn't. These are bright, busy people, on tight deadlines, in the middle of an inter-office move and they have an inherent fear of poetry,

Charette Questions

I prepared a set of exercises and questions, hoping to get to the heart and soul of NBBJ. I asked those who came to remember and dream. If they wanted to talk, we talked. If they wanted to write, they wrote. In the evening, I sent the same questions by e-mail. One person responded to that e-mail. Those who responded were all people I'd made a personal connection with. Connections are important when it comes to collaboration.

Here are the questions I posed.

DRAW
Draw, very carefully, using a precise instrument, an outline of the NBBJ project you’re working on.
Draw the same project again, on a different page, as quickly as you can, using a fatter tool, such as a piece of charcoal.

IMAGINE
* Create an annually recurring ritual to renew the heart & soul of NBBJ. Explain who is involved, in what season it occurs and the elements and words necessary to carry it out.
* Imagine the great floods have come. The building floats off like a ship. Where is the prow? Where is the engine room? What is the anchor? Where does the ship go?
* The heart and soul of NBBJ were transferred from Pioneer Square to South Lake Union in 2006. Describe how these items were transported and what the trip was like.
* Imagine for a moment that NBBJ, from the front door to the 3rd floor, is the extent of the known world. You have just arrived from a distant galaxy and go about surveying the territory. This is where you will live now full time. In what place do you settle and why?
* Buildings have safety mechanisms and procedures for dealing with fire, earthquakes and other natural disasters. Imagine the safety mechanisms and procedures for dealing with the renewal of a building’s spirit. Describe the mechanisms and write out the procedure.

TELL
List the date you arrived at NBBJ. Describe yourself, as you were then, in one sentence.
List the date you arrived at NBBJ. Recall something, an object or a sensation, that made an impression on you the day your entered.

Complete the following
NBBJ (the building and practice) is an affirmation of…
NBBJ (the building and practice) is a rejection of or a protest against…

The Heart & Soul of NBBJ

Grant is an architect’s architect and a very gentle soul. He drew me a picture of the project he’s working on and talked about the site NBBJ was built on. He pointed to the site of a building as its heart and suggested how a strong and lasting memory might attest to a building’s soul. He was talking about the World Trade Center – an interesting looking back, like rowing a boat. We talked about the ways in which NBBJ lives in the projects it designs and how a soul might be scattered through many projects. Then came Christian, who offered much in the way of himself and left a comet blazing in me. Christian is an architect and a fine artist. I suspect his heart is split among many places. I imagine him in a pear tree, among grape vines in southern France, as an old man, working on his art. I imagine all of these people out on their patios, walking into the fields, the sun and wind in their hair, with their families, in the landscape. You can see their sources in their smiles. Duane arrived next, excited about the project he’s working on, the firm’s most energy efficient project to date. He offered a glimpse of the firm at its former location and the shock of the sudden change on his psyche from old to new space. And Maggie was last. She fleshed out the experience of finding this warm and wonderful family. She shared her delight at the firm’s sense of humor and play.

A Frog Box

Stacks of green plastic crates on carts, ready to pack and shuffle a studio off to a new floor,flank the copier rooms. In the early evening, I too moved my things. I went from a window desk on an inside corner to a flex area on the aisle. Things!? What things could I possibly have to move? Oh, I have a mishmash of items for projects I’d hoped to pursue. Under my desk, I have four bags of rice, 8 boxes of rock candy, an overhead projector, a old record player, four jazz albums, a hammock, a stack of notes from all the meetings I’ve attended, drawings on trace paper, a library of poetry books and an art box with watercolors, pencils and charcoals. Some of these items will be used, some won’t be. I’ve been working long hours and weekends too, but a month still feels too short. Perhaps I want too much?

Wedsnesday 2.3.10

2010-02-19T04:53:00.001-08:00

Ouch my head. On the row in, my lower back was saying No no no. Usually this work limbers me up, relaxes me, irons out the kinks. Today, it felt damaging. I spent some time transcribing my notes from Blind Poet into my computer, but felt worse and worse and finally cancelled my only meeting and lay my head on my desk. I started getting cold and so went to take a hot shower, hoping to heal myself. Not able. I needed sleep. I got a ride home, went straight to bed and slept late the next morning. I should have stayed in bed. Alas.

Tuesday 2.2.10

2010-02-08T14:55:00.000-08:00

Blind Poet, Images by Sean Airhart/NBBJ

I went to the pharmacy to get dark glasses. I wanted the kind a person with impaired vision might wear. The pharmacist sent me to The Eye Clinic. I explained that I was an artist planning to explore acoustics at an architectural firm as part of a poetry residency and that I needed dark glasses for a day. Dennis, the optician on duty at Olympic View Optical, gave me a loaner pair. Bring 'em back when you’re done. Who knew opticians were such an understanding bunch? The glasses were perfect! They were wide, tall and dark, but they weren't quite dark enough. I filled the lenses and side windows in with black construction paper. Then, I really couldn’t see.

Ample Warning

A few years ago, I spent a season volunteering with Ski-for-All where I worked with disabled skiers. Those with sight and hearing impairments wore bright orange vests with their disability spelled out: “Blind Skier,” “Deaf Skier.” This communicated to others that their normal visual and audio signals might not work and that they should give a wide berth to avoid the unexpected. And so, for this project, I bought a black t-shirt and white iron-on letters and made myself a “Blind Poet” shirt, which of course I saw as humorous, but also as a way of invoking the audio space around us. And, of course, there’s this reference to the wise, unseeing soul and to our own hidden intuition the to the ways in which we rely on one another, especially to see and communicate our experiences in this world.

Capturing Sound

My self-assigned task was to spend the day writing the audio-architecture of NBBJ. I had a clipboard, legal pad and pen. To start, I positioned myself on the little wooden bleachers in Village Vanguard, near a coffee bar. I was struck right away with how loud the space was, how busy the hallways leading into it. After a half hour, I was moved to a studio on the 2nd floor. Over the course of the day, I listened to 12 different spaces and took 38 pages of widely spaced notes. I was basically writing in the dark, so my lines go up and down and cross paths sometimes, but the writing is, for the most part, legible. I'd spend the next few days making sense of my notes and keying them into a computer.

What Did I Hear?
O, I heard many things! I heard a humming so vigorous the rooms were vibrating. I heard paper in hands moving through space, a hummingbird in a book searching for facts, a dandelion holding its breath and a radar of conversations in concentric zones. I heard a place where humans are louder than machines and a place where the world is in tune with the building. I heard the pfft of a soda and the crushing of paper, a beginning and an end. I had in mind, while listening, the fairness of the spaces and their potential for collaboration. My conclusion, based on this cursory exercise, is that collaboration is like anything, it's quality verses quantity. Coffee bars offer lots of collaboration, but the quality is low and the duration short. Spaces like the materials department offer quality collaboration, but the chances you'll run into a dozen of people from ten different departments is slim. Where so many of the spaces dwarf the human voice with vents & clicks & clacks & hums & drones, the materials department seemed capable of holding it. People seemed to be able to have longer, deeper discussions in the materials department because of it. The conversations in the vicinity of the coffee bars, nooks and worktables were just interludes, the noses and tails of things. The conversation in the materials department, separated from the noise, traffic and machines of the open work spaces, was more relaxed, in-depth, more of a heart than a tail.

A Time to Chide

Over the course of the day, people joked with me, surprised me, played tricks on me, made silly sounds, offered me food and even drummed up conversation for me to hear. When no one was available to move me and I was finished with a space, I moved myself. When I moved from the model shop to the work table, I saw someone had surrounded me with sharks. I made tea twice during the day and lifted my glasses to do so. This elicited a good chiding from those around. What, you can just leave your disability behind when you want to?! Blind Poet was both a practice and a performance. I'd put myself out to be seen. Being seen with a temporary disability gave people an opportunity to approach, to open, to chide. This sort of play allowed a new kind of community. No doubt, it made me more friendly and approachable. I am imagining the heads of companies taking the opportunity to put themselves in such a position, once a year, allowing their employees to relate to them in this way, in play, like the elementary school principal in the dunk tank at a school fair, how would that work to change the dynamics in a firm?

Blind Poet Paradigm

Bob ran into me at the corner and questioned me. Was there a blind poet paradigm, a reference, I was working with? It started with Duane’s comment about hearing the architecture, in the two-dimensional drawings in his floppy books. I was fascinated with the idea that architects might be working with an unseen rendering of sounds. It added a complexity I hadn't considered before. I started wondering about the ways in which we experience space. I’d been thinking about emotions, how we experience spaces, emotionally, and what we do with those responses. I was then specifically requested by a worker to write about sounds and that sealed it. Listening was at the top of my list.

Bob told me about a blind poet in a story by Ismail Kadare. I confessed I didn’t have a specific book or poet or character in mind. I’d read about the experiences of those who lost their eyesight and how the brain works to retain or let go of their stored visual information. I’ve read essays about people who have gained the ability to see after being born blind and how, if this happens after a certain age, they are unable to distinguish female from male faces and how they test distances by throwing things. One of my favorite authors, Max Frisch, wrote a book called Gantenbein about a man who loses his sight in a car accident and then regains it, but doesn’t tell anyone he’s regained it. He goes on pretending while seeing what others think he cannot see. It’s about what people show us and what they tell us and how far these things are from the truth. And there are, of course, those famous blind poets, Homer and Milton and Borges. Here someone has made a list of blind poets.

Touch Reliance Collaboration

Unless you’re working in the healing arts, it’s usual to touch or be touched at work, but touch was such a necessary part of this project. In order to be moved from place to place, I had to be taken by the arm or take the arm of a guide. This required trust, communication and cooperation. We walked slowly, talking, but rarely about work. To keep from tripping, I peeked under my glasses when we were approached the steps, but on the flat surfaces I trusted my guides to lead me safely around.

What Is Forgotten

Interestingly, only one person introduced herself by name all day. Not surprisingly, it was someone who’d had an experience with sight impairment. I didn’t ask of the others who they were. I allowed them to remain anonymous. I recognized a few voices, but mostly not. When people were addressing me, it wasn’t always clear to me as they didn’t use my name. It wasn’t clear, either, when they were finished addressing me, as they didn’t say I’m going or Goodbye. I had to figure it out through the extended silences that marked their parting. Strange how much we rely on sight to begin and end things, how little we put into words.

Collaboration

In reflection, at 6pm when the project was complete, I was touched to think of the collaboration required to make the day happen. Six people had moved me around, many others attended to me, gave me food, talked to me, put headphones on me, asked if I needed anything, said goodbye, joked with me. I’d put myself in the care of the community at NBBJ and so many stepped forward to care for me. I’m not one to ask for help, even when I need it. I pride myself on self-sufficiency. I know this causes difficulty for those in my life who would like to care for me. People have a need to be needed, I know. The art of giving is a skill I have learned. The art of receiving is one I am still perfecting. A day like the one I just experienced is truly heart-warming, the kind that makes one believe in people and in community, a reaffirming kind of day.

Sunday 1.31.10

2010-02-08T13:49:00.000-08:00

The Blue Line...

The Blue Line is 1500' long. It is the pyramid I built and must now decorate. I spent 13 hours at NBBJ today, a Sunday. And I wasn’t the only one! There were lots of busy architects preparing for project deadlines. Actually, I spent my morning in Vivace, transcribing notes from my little red journal into my computer. I went up to approach The Blue Line at 11am. I worked on it for a while before a worker came in with his partner. She was not accustomed to the work space. Her voice was louder than all the voices on a typical workday. I was having some difficulty concentrating so I decided to go see what else I could do.

Transcribing The Blue Line

I found myself at the beginning of my line, transcribing it into my notebook, something I’d been meaning to do for a long time. I had no idea it would take so long. I spent 7 hours transcribing The Blue Line. It was fun to revisit my thoughts and words. This task brought with it a few mysteries to solve. In 3 short sections, the words had been lost, washed away or moved. O my! In one section, a longer strip had been lifted and put in the trash. I set about rescuing it. Come out of that bin this instant, dear words. I pulled a snowball of blue tape out of the bin, pulled it apart, straightened it and pieced it together in broken lines on the floor. Then I transcribed it and put it back in the bin and moved on. No tears.

Baladeuse, The Green Lantern

I asked about the public art in the alley. I got various responses, from excited to cool to neutral, but no one seemed to have any information about it. I did a little research today, even found the artist's telephone number. I decided to call him up. After two messages, we connected by phone and had a lengthly conversation. I was sitting at the work tables on the second floor of NBBJ, within view of the sculpture, with my notebook in hand. We spoke for half an hour. The artist answered all my questions and more. I did my best to keep up as he spoke and spoke. I certainly feel like I got the story.

James Harrison

The sculptor responsible for the green polygon in Alley 24 is James Harrison of Portland, Oregon. He was hired by Vulcan to make an outdoor sculpture for this space. He was not the original choice for this site, but when the initial artist fell through, James was contacted as a second. He had worked with Vulcan before and they liked his art. James knew the piece would live in an alleyway and that the building was once a laundry and that an architectural firm would reside in the building. The artwork, made of colored art glass and illuminated from within, is titled Baladuese, which is French for wanderer or lantern. The term has some less flattering connotations as well, such as wandering finger or wandering hand, avoir la baladeuse has to do with moral behavior.

The artist had three things in mind when developing this work: (1) The dirigibles of Brazilian aviator, Santos-Dumonte, (2) jewelry design and (3) the mathematical construction of a heptadecagon (17-sided polygon).

Dirigibles

Alberto Santos-Dumont (20 July 1873 – 23 July 1932) was an early pioneer of aviation. He was born in Brazil and spent his adult life in France, designing, building and flying the first practical dirigible balloons, demonstrating that routine, controlled flight was possible. He won the Deutsch de la Meurthe prize in 1901 on a flight that rounded the Eiffel Tower making him one of the most famous characters of the early 20th century.

I suppose if you turned Baladeuse on its side, it would look like a dirigible and its size, in relation to the buildings around it, might suggest the hopeful Dumonte flying around the Eiffel Tower. The metal butterflies in the piece are meant to reference Dumonte's questionable sexual orientation. I didn't find any mention of this in the biographies online. It was only mentioned that he never married and had but one love, a married woman with whom he spent little time.

Giant Gem

The artist confessed to a fascination with jewelry design and liked addressing this interest in sculpture as it appealed to him an an architectural idea. He sees the piece as a giant jewel, faceted with delicate sensibilities.

Heptadecagon

Baladeuse is 17-sided, which makes it a heptadecagon. 17 is an odd & rare number in math, one that references a great mathematician, Carl Gauss. In 1796, at the age of 19, Gauss, one of the greatest mathematicians of all times, discovered a construction of the 17-sided polygon using a compass and ruler. He was so excited he requested a heptadecagon be carved into his tombstone. And so, the 17-sided figure & reference to Gauss is a bit tongue-in-cheek from artist to architect, as a reference to non-euclidean geometry in a world based on strict euclidean lines.

Martin Puryear

James explains one of idols is Martin Puryear who's pieces are prototypes or pre-objects, objects before they are objects. As you move around them, as shadows are cast on them, they become things, different things. James wants his pieces to be baggage-friendly. He's happy to have people bring interpretations to them and was surprised to hear the plaque with his name and the title of the piece was gone.

Feedback

I told James I was wanting to do something to activate the alleyway. He seemed excited and willing to do what he could to support this. He even suggested a willingness to call the appropriate authorities to authorize the tying of things to his sculpture. He seemed thrilled as well with the feedback I'd given him and commented on how, as as sculptor, you don't get responses to your work, you just sort of put it out there into the world.

Saturday 1.30.10

2010-02-08T13:44:00.001-08:00

Dear Architect

I borrowed an overhead projector (the old-fashioned kind with the hot lamps and transparencies sheets and projection lens on an arm above) from a friend this morning, bought two replacement bulbs for it and brought it into NBBJ. It looks like E.T. sitting on my desk, with its tall twisting neck and large head. I think it’s going to be happy here alongside my old school record player. Both have metal tags that say, “Do not remove from AV Dept.” I tested the projector out on the Giant Steps with a variety of pens for thickness and writing style. To write on transparency paper so that it’s right reading on the wall, you have to face the projector, which means away from the wall, and into the blinding light. Another backward project. Great! Before I begin, I will sit with some buildings and read about materials and spaces, much in the way I approached the columns. Then I’ll sit in the space and let the building talk to me.

Alley 24

I spent my afternoon at Green Lake, collecting weaving materials, pine cones and needles. I'm not sure these are the right things, but they are working toward an idea. Still wading.

Friday 1.29.10

2010-02-08T13:40:00.000-08:00

The weather is holding, 50F & clear. I spent my morning on The Blue Line. Yes, still writing. I haven't tired of it, but I do struggle to find the time to do all the things I want to do, including writing. I have a book to assemble before this project is complete. Strange dilemma for a poet, wouldn't you say? Not at all. Finding time to write is the age-old wedge between many a writer and a finished book.

Lunch at 5000'

I had lunch with Gregory, The Balloon Man. He’s been at NBBJ for 3 years, in the tax department. What a wonderful story Gregory has to tell! He’s been ballooning since he was a kid. His father was a ballooner. Now he makes his own balloons. Cloud Hoppers, he calls them. He’s made 7 so far. One of the ones he showed me took 5 years to make and he flew it 1700 miles from Albuquerque to Atlanta, which took 2 days, for a race. Such a trip requires helium, but shorter journeys use propane to fill the balloon. He told me about the joys of night flying and about lying on the bench at night and seeing the Milky Way up above at zero speed and how that changes your life. He has trading cards with pictures and facts about his balloons. The second balloon he showed me was tetrahedron, designed for one-person. That’s the one where you strap a propane tank to your back and can, if you want, dip down into the stream to wet your legs and lift yourself back up again. That settles it. I’m on Gregory’s list of summer helpers! Ballooners need people to drive around and pick them up after they land in a field near a road. I offered to gather a group of poets to go up and write about the experience for his website. Sounds like a good trade to me.

Conference Room Recognition Tool

I spent my afternoon following up on two projects I’ve been thinking of. I’m searching for vinyl records to correspond to the names of the conference rooms at NBBJ. There are 30 rooms and public spaces named after famous jazz albums. I called the library the first week I was here to ask what they had. Nothing. Since then, I’ve asked friends, looked online and purchased the few available records at Golden Oldies. These albums are collector’s items. Finding them all will be either improbable or costly. Then I come upon Tom, who says he has most of these in storage. I urge him to pull them out!!

Alley 24

I’ve been thinking about an alleyway project. There are lots of threads to follow in the alley. I feel as if I’ve been wading in this project for a long time. I’ve spoken with Dawn and Brent and Dan and Mylinda about the various ideas I have. Dawn and I have met several times to discuss the ways in which we might call attention to the intersection by weaving some naturally occurring material there. But what material and how? The various threads are the significant history of Alley 24 as a laundry for 80 years, the large green public sculpture and the multiple users: the residents, the workers and clients at NBBJ and the retail workers and clients.

Thursday 1.28.10

2010-02-08T13:31:00.000-08:00

A Clear Bright Winter

50F cold & clear. Rowing is the calmest part of the day. The slowest, most focused and always the most rewarding. Going through that thick darkness to the south side where things move, where the houses & planes & boats & barges move. Where the wood bobs. Where the birds watch. Where the weeds float. Where the air brushes down. Casting off is as satisfying as tying up. A real accomplishment, both.

Nook #2

Spent 4 hours writing in the 2nd floor nook at NBBJ. Sent an office-wide email letting people know about the sharks, who had made them and why and how to fully experience them. So many similar questions. I felt the need to announce them all, flatten the information out in space so that a large and shared space users might all know. So everybody has access to the same information & invitation.

Visual Culture

Attended another crit today. It lasted +2 hours. I was struck by the amazing amount of time that goes into studying the flow of people within building, pleased by it. While watching the slideshow presentation, I got to feeling about the emotions of the figures in the computer renderings. How will they use the space when they’re sad? How will they use it when they’re quiet? How do we experience buildings emotionally? What part to emotions play in designing spaces? All the while, I had a growing feeling that I was witnessing an exhibition of the love affair we have with images. Pointed out, in these images, was the wind moving on the water and the light on the building. Ahh, our fascination the image! I thought back to a course I took in college called Visual Culture. I wonder how the world is changing because of this attraction and, is it really, or does it just look as if it is? I wonder how images might be hampering us. I’m most interested in the critique with the stories I’m told. There are stories about men and women who use Legos to show the flow in a building and about an old battleship with a cargo of information no computer will ever hold. As the images disappears, the stories calcify. I do believe this is what Christian was talking about when we first spoke in December, about the architect as storyteller.

At this crit, as at the last one I attended, a few people talked a lot and a few people didn’t talk at all. I wonder at the fear inherent in this model and about the humans collected in the space--a group of workers from different projects, different departments, some young, some veterans. It got me wondering about the walls that contain it and what is responsible for open communication. At this last crit, I was asked my opinion about thing outside the room when the crit was over, but not in it during the critique. The notion of collaboration and the flat discussion of a thing is all about putting it out under the eyes of the many who will think about and see it differently so that it might be fully illuminated and carefully turned.

There are times we go off into the world with a polished thing seeking affirmation. Look at this beautiful stone of mine! I do it with my poetry. No doubt we do it with ideas. I wonder how collaboration and creation fit together, at what stages the two are possible? Do they coincide? Can they coincide? Does collaboration require that we meet before a thing is formed in our minds? Until what point exactly are we open to input? At what point is a thing set in stone? And, as far as the arts are concerned, what would we not see if collaboration were the model? And what would we see?

The notion of collaboration keeps coming up, so I’m sensitive to it, looking around for it. I wonder about the kinds of collaboration possible in one space verses another. What is allowed in a hall? What is allowed in a conference room? What on a stairwell? At the door? By the coffee machine? Collaboration has roots in space, yes, but it’s also got roots in sound and in the intensity of an activity and in the work culture and the profession and the individuals themselves. It’s like a willow spread out at the edge of a lake, needing protection from the winds of our desires and fears.

The Long Way Home

Tonight was the night I rowed home with Thomas. We planned to meet at 6pm and walk to the lake together. I offered Thom the oars. He wished to row. Shortly after pushing off, he asked what the bright lights on the eastern shore were. Looks like a boat in dry dock being worked on. Can we go see? Absolutely. We took the long way home, rowing the entire eastern contour, curving into every marina and around every piling, right up alongside the cozy honey-lit houseboats. We were surprised by outriggers silently passing. Just as they are passing they let out a hOH! I think they do that on purpose, to startle you with their stealth. Gotcha! We met two geese at the end of a pier, sitting together in the red glow of the pier-end light. When we crossed over from the east shore, we met a man in Gas Works Park on the concrete pier. We asked him, “What city this is? We’re lost.” He asked, “What are people doing in boats at night?” We countered with, “What are people doing in parks at night?” It took us 2 hours to get home, but we had a nice tour of the lake and the moon was high and full with clouds all around.

Wednesday 1.27.10

2010-01-28T12:27:00.000-08:00

"No Swimming"
NBBJ Installation
Recycled velvet, poly-stuffing, Mozart, Handel, Elgar

I am waiting for the sun to rise, sitting in the 2nd floor nook at NBBJ. The sharks are here beside me--purple light in the hall, refrigerators buzzing, elevators sliding up and down their squeaky chutes, bells sounding in succession, demarcating the vertical zones: 1, 2, 3, 4…

And then.. there’s Mozart. I sit with the headphones on 20-30 times over the course of the evening. There is a magical opening up of space. Mozart’s “Eine Kleine Nacht Musik” wells up in me. It makes me feel as if things are right in the world, burstingly right. It transports me to the other places and spaces and times I've felt this way. I connect these moments into a timeline. Perhaps this is a picture of my spiritual life?

Kinetic Energy

I have spent the past three days sewing and stuffing shark fins, turning my gold pedestal into a blue pedestal, searching for the perfect music to say just what I wanted to say. I’ve been tuned into the classical station, looking for sharks. I heard one the other night. When I searched it out online, I found Elgar. Elgar! I went to purchase Elgar and Mahler. I listened to Tchaikovsky and Puccini. I borrowed Handel and Mozart. I’ve been asking everyone , “Can you hear the sharks, in what music?” I wanted to effect a sort of riveting release within the mind of the listener. It wanted dark and romantic, dangerous and freeing. In the end, I selected seven tracks, works by Mozart, Handel and Elgar. I wanted to encourage a breath. What can possibly override our mass work culture? The CD is resting in its portable CD player atop a slim pedestal, waiting.

Yes yes yes

I want to give them a dream-moment, to expand their heart-visions. Where the building cinches, I want them to expand. The windows too want them to expand. And the light. And the ceiling and floor. I want to lure them in and rivet them to the spot, that forbidden place among the sharks. I want to make for them a spirit space.

The Soundtrack

"No Swimming"

Mozart: Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, Berlin Philharmonic
1. Divertimento In D (4:56)
2. Divertimento In F (3:31)
3. Serenade #13 In G (5:32)

Handel: Water Music, Prague Chamber Orchestra
4. Suite No. 1 F Major (2:16)

Elgar: Violin Concerto, Philharmonia Orchestra
5. Elgar: Violin Concerto, I Larghetto (5:42)
6. Elgar: Violin Concerto, III Allegretto (3:08)
7. Elgar: Violin Concerto, III Allegro molto (18:54)

No no no

At 3am, I had the fins and podium arranged just so, signs affixed, play/stop buttons clearly marked. I went to take a nap in the Quiet Room. The couch in the Quiet Room is not designed for napping. I lay, sharply folded, for 2 hours, waking every half hour to see the red numbers on the digital clock. “Not yet, it’s not time yet.” At 5am, I stopped trying. I went down to the nook, to wait for the sun to rise. I was deep-down cold and reminded of my last overnight on Rainier in early spring, alone, camping on the snow, in a bivy. The temperatures had dipped to an unexpected low and I couldn’t get warm, despite the hot food and the hot water in the nalgene at my feet and the emergency chemical packs ripped open after so many years in my first-aid kit. That night, I lay staring at the clear dark sky with its clear-cut crystals. Surely the sun will rise, at some point. It’s just a matter of time. But no, it refused. I lay, hour after hour, minute after minute, counting stars, waiting. When the first light did finally appear, it was epic. It was The First Sunrise. It signified something huge, Life. It isn't often the sun Signifies in such a monumental way to a suburban girl in the city.

Mozart

It is just before 7am. The first person arrives. I am silent. They walk by. They do not sit in the chair. They do not listen to the CD. Woe. O woe! A second person arrives. He greets me, but does not stop. Don’t worry, little poet, this is their routine, their daily comfort. Let them have this. Lunch in the frig, coat in the closet, bag in the desk, lamp on, computer on. Perhaps my presence near the work will thwart them? I remove myself to the opposite nook, out of view. I can still see one fin, along with the listening chair, in the reflection of the model shop window. I want to write about the piece. I want to watch the light come into the sky from here. There goes a third person without stopping. This is normal. People are used to arriving, beginning their day, without you, without this work. It is early. So much can be accomplished before 9, before the meetings and telephones and lunches. Seize the hour, you architects of efficiency! A poet must be patient. Your audience will come. When they are ready, they will come. O, but I’m anxious to know, to hear, to see. Here now, a twosome arrives. There is light conversation, a burst of laughter, the word shark is uttered. The woman puts the headphones on. It is 7:02am. Halleluja! Mozart has arrived.

The Response

I converse with my first listener. “The music is beautiful,” she says. She’s coming back for more, but later, after she gets some work done. She agrees, the nooks are too public to refresh, but they're good for conversation. I ask, then, where and how will we refresh? The sun is still refusing. It is 7:30am. The coffee machine greets the workers. I greet the coffee machine. Small, regular. I position my cup to catch the morning. I peek around the corner at my work. It delights me. If no one else sees this all day, it will satisfy me still. Here now, the first hint of light, at 7:38am. It has been a long and impatient night. The white-gray growing in the sky is in the concrete family. It goes well with the building’s skin, with the metal sunshades. If I were coming into a familiar space and glimpsed a new work of art, would I see it? I missed the portraits by the water fountains, I missed the frosted quotes on the bathroom mirrors, the first week I was here. And if I were to register this new work of art, would I stop right away to enjoy it, or would I put it off and come back when I was needing a breath? There’s no telling. The workplace is not a changing gallery that requires our eyes and ears. Work is work and home is home. These are our knowns. The telephone and computer brings in the news. As the day goes on, I overhear some comments. "We have some sharks in the lobby today. They seem to be following the blue trail." "This is it, life and death." "O? Whales!" "What are they?" "I bet this was the poet." "Love it!"

Slacker

It is 9:14am. Somebody saw somebody heading for the coffee bar. Their greeting? "Hey slacker!" There it is ,that keep-it-moving attitude, that ever-leaping attitude. This is what I’m up against. Grin and bear it, sharks. Grin and bear it. This will take some time.

Tuesday 1.26.10

2010-01-28T12:08:00.000-08:00

KPLU

I met with Paula Wissel of KPLU today. She is the Law & Justice reporter for KPLU. We met by chance, last week, at Counterbalance Park during “Studies in White.” I mentioned my residency at NBBJ and she asked if she could interview me. KPLU is starting a new arts programs and Paula will be contributing. We spent 2.5 hours at my office in Fremont talking about Adopt-A-Poet, my residency at NBBJ, and about past projects. She asked some pretty expansive questions. Why are you doing this? What do you hope to accomplish? How will this help? What's the point? Do we really need this? I had no trouble talking. These were things I knew. I was glad for the chance to articulate my thoughts. It is when looking at my larger body of work that I realize what is it I'm doing, which it seems then to be one thing, one overarching mission--to live. After the interview, we walked along the ship canal to my boat. I showed Paula how I cast off in the morning. I untied and paddled around while she captured the sounds of the water. I let Paula in on a secret. I'm planning a surprise installation for NBBJ in the morning. She asked if she could come capture some of the responses. I cleared it with NBBJ and we planned to meet in the morning.

SURPRISE

I spent the rest of my day sewing, selecting and purchasing music, seeking out items for other NBBJ projects further afield. At 11:30pm, my partner Clinton dropped me off in the alleyway at NBBJ with the materials for the installation. It took two trips to get everything to my desk. It was then I made the final selections and burned a CD, made signs and labeled the CD player. At 2am, I began setting everything into place on the 2nd floor landing. I rearranged things a hundred times and approached from every direction before getting it right. Perfection is the enemy of good. I was growing tired.

Monday 1.25.10

2010-01-28T11:48:00.000-08:00

Voices

Spectacular sunrise, well worth the pre-dawn rise. I was headed in for a 9am meeting with Studio 18. I was to read a poem. I chose “Under a Certain Little Star” by Wislawa Szymborska. It is a poem about what can and cannot be, about the polar opposites of life and how we must forgive ourselves if we are to enjoy all the little pleasures and sensations. The meeting was well-attended, lovely and light, with a choir of informative voices all around. They asked how my work was going and I told them what I was thinking of. I asked for help with Alley 24. After the meeting, Thom asked about my rowing. I invited him to row home with me. We decided on Thursday night. In the hallway, as I am leaving, I see Rysia. I tell her I just read a poem by Symborska at a studio meeting and she tells me she is Polish. She's from Wroslaw. Szymborska is one of her favorite poets. She could have read the poem in its original. And there I was, down the hall, reading a translation! O! I tell her I lived in Nowy Sacz and later in Ropczye. We chat for a while about Poland and poetry. Someone standing nearby says he has trouble with poetry. I bring him a collection of poems by Billy Collins. Is it my knee-jerk response to troubles with poetry. Billy Collins is one of the most accessible poets I know and accessible is a very good place to start.

Artist-in-Hiding

I have lunch with Dawn, a Principal Architect at NBBJ, yet another artist-in-hiding. We discuss many things, including Alley 24 and Dawn’s travels and her passport and the nest she built and burned on the shores of Decatur Island. My alleyway research continues into the afternoon. I speak to Laura in the library and to Jeffery at the work table and Dan in the materials department. Then, in one of the common areas, I am approached by someone looking for poems specific to suffering and healing. I promise to rifle through my archives and collect what I can. I’ve been sending poems by e-mail to a long list of friends since 1998. I call this list the "aka poetry list." Because of this work, I have a many large files close at hand filled with poetry of all kinds.

Alley 24

I take a tour of Alley 24 with Brent who designed the building. I wanted to hear him articulate what the space is meant to be and do and allow. He tells me how a 10' slice was cut away from the 1945 brick building that sits under the roof deck to expose the 1923 face of the building next door. He takes me for a walk out onto the roof deck and through the alleyway to Pontius Street. He shows me the windows and doorstoops, explains how the original canopy was adapted, how the low privacy walls separate private from public spaces. He brings up an interesting question. How do the people whose doors open onto the alley experience it? It would be interesting to talk to them. I agree. It is something I will do.

Saturday 1.23.10

2010-01-28T11:21:00.000-08:00

Extra Credit

I came to work today. I drove a car, which I parked in a 10-hour metered spot. It cost $7 dollars. A service was just starting at Immanuel Lutheran Church on Pontius Street. I have been meaning to see this church. I passed by, then stopped and turned back. Now is the time, I say to myself. The mass is a memorial to Robert Anderson, a priest who died two weeks ago, at the age of 70. His son and daughter were playing cello and piano while their friends and family assembled. The church is creamy white as if a certain light had leaked in and saturated everything. The bulk of the building outside belies the coziness of this interior. I sat for 10 minutes in a pew before leaving. I wanted to work on the blue line. I walked through Alley 24 to access NBBJ. I have come out this way, but never in. The sensation is homier than the commercial entrance on Yale. Shaped garden beds to left and right with small round plants, small doors covered with a dash of canopy, brick walls, blinds.

The Blue Line

I wrote for 3 hours on the blue line. I met a hedgehog who does wonderful things here at night. He comes up through a little door in the floor to bless the drawings on the presentation boards. When I am lost, I look out the window. I refer to the view, to the way the line is moving, to what it's moving through. It is not fast writing. It is slow and thoughtful. I finish another 1/4 of it. I'm at my half-way point, about to come back into the waistline window. A friend meets me for lunch. We discuss ideas for an alleyway project. I feel so far still from what it is, what is needs to be. I spend the rest of my day researching these ideas. The blue line waits.

Friday 1.22.10

2010-01-28T11:12:00.000-08:00

Oarlock

Ahah! My 2nd oarlock broke. While not entirely surprising, it was once again comical and action-packed. I was right in the middle of the canal, at the mouth, just like last time. This time, however, a barge was moving swiftly toward me. Hah-ah! And I was just then thinking, I’ll just work on this here, what on earth could happen to me?! The barge came, I suppose, in answer to my question. I could obliterate you in one fell swoop. I see. I scurried to the west side of the canal with my one oar and tied to a dock to roll the sleeve off of my oar and replace the lock.

Artist-in-Residence

I met Saaduuts Peele at the Center for Wooden Boats. He is their current artist-in-residence. He is Native American. He was wearing a beautiful sterling silver necklace with a turquoise stone around his neck. He told me about his work at the CWB, carving dugout canoes. They are gifted to various tribes once they are finished. He was a long tall slow man with generous amounts of glossy dark hair. One day I plan to come back and watch him work. I have seen the dugout boats in construction under the gazebo, heavy and long, roughly chopped.

The Truth

This morning, I sat in on another critique. Fascinating process! Very big picture. Questions arose such as: What do we believe? How can we tell the truth? What is the truth of this building? In the afternoon, I struggled again with the alleyway. What does it want? Was is its truth? I am determined to work this weekend, to approach the blue line again while the workers are away. I am wanting to finish it in one fell swoop, much as that barge this morning deigned to finish the poet, whoosh.

Thursday 1.21.10

2010-01-28T09:45:00.000-08:00

I had trouble waking up this morning. I way overdid it yesterday. When I finally rolled out of bed, it was 10am. It was 11 before I got on the water. I'm in my kayak today, using an entirely different set of muscles. They feel terribly similar to the muscles I used yesterday to row one-oared though.

I spent an hour on the blue line today, then worked with Laura in the library to search for information on the neighboring brick buildings. The buildings, now a historic site, once housed the Richmond Laundry. This area of South Lake Union was once filled with laundries. Laura was extremely helpful and turned me on to History Link, The University of Washington Libraries Digital Collections and the Lake Union Cybertour. I printed the info out and continued searching online until after 8pm for laundry-related arts and performance projects.

When I row home, it is dark outside, which is both peaceful and romantic. Little red lights line the lake, on dock-ends and houseboats, showing its contour. I have a headlamp, which I secure around my torso so I'm visible. Sometimes I forget it though and am a dark thing on the water, just part of the night. Legally, a rowboat isn't required to have lights, but all the crew boats have pinpoints of white light on their bows. This evening, I had two boats and a broken oarlock to contend with. Happily, I was able to swap out my broken oarlock for the new stainless one without much difficulty. So silvery! I think the moonlight will befriend me. I had to roll a 10” rubber sleeve up and off the oar to get the old lock off. It took a little wheedling, but I was eventually successful. Then I tied my kayak to the stern of my rowboat and towed my little red teardrop home. When I made the red nun #2, she scolded me. Look up, you fool! O the stars. O the quarter moon. O the white contrails! I could easily see Orion, Sirius, Taurus, Gemini, Pleides, The Big Dipper and Cassiopeia. Ah, I needed scolding. I did a lot of head-back rowing with my face to the sky. What a night!

Wednesday 1.20.10

2010-01-21T20:20:00.000-08:00

The Blue Line at NBBJ - Photo by Sean Airhart/NBBJ Seattle

A Strict Schedule

Having to be at work at 8am, I pushed off in my rowboat at 7. It was going to be close. I’d have to concentrate on smooth strokes and be quick about tying up. Just out of my slip, half way across the canal, my starboard oarlock broke. oooO? And hmMmm. I wonder now, am I going to be the kind of poet who scurries back and gets in a car, or am I going to be the kind of poet who keeps going, with one oar? Adventure calls! I tried a few methods, even lashed the oar with a bit of rope to the holder, but that only chewed up the wood which splintered off in strips. I resigned to standing up and flipping one oar back and forth, right hand to left, overhead. A new fencing move. A heavy baton. My arms were already tired. O thank you still waters. What queer questions I fielded that morning from rowers in the lake. For some reason, there were lots of rowers about today. Perhaps the calm water were calling them. One says to me, “Where are you going?” I answer, “The Center for Wooden Boats.” I wasn’t anywhere near it, by the way. He replies, “You’ll make it.” How wonderfully hysterical! Later, a crew of gray-haired men in a skull, call out to me, “How come you don’t use the other oar?” What fun. I tell them, “I’m rowing creatively.”

Site Visit

I arrived at NNBJ at 8:30 and not 8:10am. I have missed my party. I quickly sorted out the necessary equipment and whereabouts of the site and walked off to 5th & Harrison hoping to connect with the IRIS team for a visit to the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation. With a few questions to the right people, I am suddenly there, in a trailer with the crew. It’s a miracle! Grease soaked donuts in a white box on the table just out of reach. No way was I going to ask for one, but o I live the hungry life. After a few competently-handled RFIs, we readied for the tour and set off to see the hot spots. I felt a little dizzy between the work of the week & the work of the morning, not having eaten & needing sleep, but I hung in there and leaned, when I needed to, against the steel-studs. O glorious building. O curve!

LEED

I attended another lunchtime presentation, this one about the changes in LEED (Leadership in Energy & Environmental Design) certification. It wasn't a wildly exciting talk, but the information was needed by those who attended. The lunchroom talks are inevitably accompanied by PowerPoint displays. I spend time thinking about how the images work with and against the the verbal information. How else can an image support, deepen and further our speech? Are they simply visual fires, offered as a focus point, not to distract but to pacify us? Is this necessary? What does it make up for?
After hearing the whole of the information, I wonder, is the intention being lost? Is this innovation for innovation's sake or are we truly thinking? How does a certification program encourage thought? How does it discourage thought? My thoughts as I walk out the door are: Where is the tree? WHere are the birds? When does the river bend? I go off with confusing thoughts. I'm excited to learn more about The Living Building Challenge and troubled to think that until recently you couldn't collect rainwater from your roof to use for flushing your toilet and in many places it's illegal to hang your laundry. It seems sometimes as if we're taking the long way to what making sense.

The Blue Line

In the afternoon, I found my place on the blue line and took up my white crayon. Being tired, it took a lot longer to pick up threads. I spent much time looking out the windows. A fine response.

Photo by Sean Airhart/NBBJ Seattle

Oarlock

Landlocked, I stopped into West Marine on my walk home and purchased a set of 2¼” stainless oarlocks. I have no idea if they are the right size or if they match the material on my rowboat. I can’t quite say what my airlocks are made of. I must be living in a dream.

Tonight is the night I clean a friend’s house. O, woe, o. I must persist. $40 is $40.

Tuesday 1.19.10

2010-01-21T19:53:00.000-08:00

Writing the Architecture at NBBJ - Photo by Sean Airhart/NBBJ Seattle

At 10am, I arrive at NBBJ & begin to write the architecture. I start at the front door and work my way up to the south wing. The waxy blue paper around the crayon & the white stick itself leave a miniature mural in the crux of my hand—-a mottled blue sky. How lovely. It’s the only contrast I have at times to the concrete all around. Writing with this tool, at this angle, for this length of time, is hard on the forearms. I ice my wrists at night. I’ve started taking Ibuprofen. The rowing along with the writing are saying, let's see now, here is a muscle. Have you ever written a 7 hour letter? It calls for a nice long bath.

My Architect

I watched My Architect before going to bed–-a wonderful portrait of Louis Kahn and a significant self-crucifixion by his son. In 3 distinct places, I see how it fails because of the son’s pride & need & closeness to his subject, but I was glad for the time with architects who knew Lou and were able to talk to his character, for the people who praised him & taught his son to quit looking for a father and let him be just a power of the people.
Photo by Sean Airhart/NBBJ Seattle

Little Water - Lake Union

Back in the rowboat again. It begins with a bucket. Bailing. A red bucket. Until there’s less than a quarter cup. It’s good to be back in the boat. Dry & clear, atop the water. What a treasureful time! And what do I see? I see tugs pushing tenders into dry dock. And sleeping boats in rows. And floating cranes. And gulls. My favorite sailboat, red and white, is a pilothouse named “Metaphor.” I ask the same dumb question of it everyday. What’s a metaphor for? I carry on— What’s a petit four for? What’s a semaphore say? Where is Dumdledore’s door? What gives a gramophone tone? I am upon buoy #2 then, a lone old nun, to whom I give leeway and sing: Two is the loneliest number since the number one. I go on and on, sometimes to the number seven, with rations in rowboats and short and long planks. By then I am dockside at the CWB and ready to pound the pavement to NBBJ.

Monday 1.18.10

2010-01-21T14:42:00.000-08:00

The Blue Line at NBBJ

I confess. I did not row to work today either. Wow. I did not even go to work. My, my! What’s gotten into the poet?! I’m still recovering from Saturday. Seriously. I fought the urge to go into work all day. Let it go. When I finally forgave myself, I was able to realign my goals. What do I need? I need rest. What do I need? Materials to work. What do I need? Space to think, time away from my desk. There’s soooo much coming in, from all directions, and it’s glorious, but I need a few hours in the shade. So today I gather supplies. I went to Artists & Craftsmen, Fred Meyers, The Goodwill and Lighthouse Coffee. A long good coffee is a tool too, a tool for thought. My nervous system was flickering & twitching all day. I made the right decision. Go eeeeeasy, little poet. Finally, at around 6pm, I felt like I might be improving, regaining balance. After a meeting on Capitol Hill & an airport drop-off, I went in to NBBJ. Sure it was 9:30pm and everyone was gone, well everyone but Terry. He was at the window, looking out and waving, when I came up the alley. Hello, Terry! He’s working late again. He's the one who outstays me in my area. I came in tonight to lay blue tape. I wanted to get the work done, to keep from disturbing the peace during the day. I wanted to leave the fun work for the morning. I took time to explain to the cleaning crew. Well, I'm just going to leave this long blue line on the floor everywhere. It's an art project. Niko told me about the ghosts she’d seen. She told me she read the columns. She told me about the ideas she has for an art project. Do it, Niko, do it. I went away once for supplies and came back. After 4 cups of tea and 1500’ of tape, I pulled it off, the last bit of tape, and said, “I’m done.” It was 2:30am. I drove home & fell into bed.

Saturday 1.16.10

2010-01-21T14:24:00.000-08:00

Studies in White was a space-inspired, independent, unpermitted, outdoor winter art event I conceived of and coordinated with a friend, Danae' Clark. Whoosh!

Permission Granted

Who gave me permission? I like this question. Several people asked. My response was something like this, “How dare you wear those shoes!” Really now, who gave me permission!? My park gave me permission. It came to me and said, “You must come work in me. Make me a study.” Why would I deny such a thing to a beautiful park with such clean lines? Studies in White took place at Counterbalance Park from 9am-9pm. It was a joy & a pleasure & it offered real satisfaction to me. And that’s important. But I overdid it of course and woke up ill on Sunday, throwing up and unable to take any liquids. I slept for a day and a half then and was finally drinking water in the wee hours of Monday morning.

Friday 1.15.10

2010-01-16T00:09:00.001-08:00

Testing the angle of repose of fortune cookies on a glass table.

I confess. I did not row today. I got a ride into work. Hah. It was god-awful raining and had been for days. I decided to take it easy. Eeeeeasy. I knew I’d be working outside for 12 hours on Saturday and it was likely to be raining then too. They’re predicting flood rains this weekend. On Saturday, I’m curating, filming & performing in a full-day, rain or shine, outdoor event in Lower Queen Anne called Studies in White. Only I would invent such a thing, with so many unknowns, so few payables. Will we be thrown out? Will it rain? Will there be witnesses? I have no idea. All I care about is the opportunity to prepare and carry forth a study. All it needs is my desire and energy and I’m in charge of that. I want to investigate the difference between a study and a practice or performance or improvisation. What makes a study a study? Have I ever conducted a study? Could I handle one now? A friend suggests that everything I do is a study. Hmm. I consider how that might be true.

NBBJ Tour

I was invited, this afternoon, on a formal tour of NBBJ with Kelly Griffin & Ashley Widman of Studio 33. They are introducing a group of University of Oregon design students to the company and I was invited to sit in on the tour. Fantastic! I learned that the beautiful, neighboring, brick building that the roof-top deck sits on, used to be a laundry. That lends great information to me. I begin imagining. They explain the concept of the alley and its current intentions for this group of users. I question the results and wish to challenge them. The visiting students are completing degrees in interior design. They are all women with great hair and square glasses (to maximize their fields of vision), genuine leather shoes, dressing the part of the designer so well, in a flounce of ruffles, a mix of textures, good dark career grays. You’re all hired!! The most surprising thing about them is how much pizza they are able to eat. Students still. Later they will learn to eat at their desks, get a Bumblebar from the healthy vending machine and work on.

A Warm Place

In the afternoon, I got to feeling cold and tired and lost. I didn’t want to be at my desk. I was on the verge of several projects and needed a warm place to think. I didn’t have my laptop to port about, so I collected my notebook and pen and went looking for a place. I was eager to move forward, but with so many ideas I needed time to sort things out. I went to the Great Steps. I'd spent time there my first day, but found today they were too close to the shoreline. No, I needed a dune. I looked into the nautical nook on the 2nd floor landing. Too airy, too streamlined for my mood. I could hide in the library—if only it had a big armchair! One day I'm going to bring in an afghan, if I had a cat I’d bring it in too, and sit in one of the chairs in a nook and say, “Look at me. I’m taking a break. I’m sitting in a nook and I’m reading a book and it’s ok.” Someone needs to say this. Creative people neeeeeeeed to flush the buildings out of their minds from time to time. Lift their eyes, leave their bodies, seek and see peace, you know. But where?

Refresh

I linger at waistline windows, question the passersby. Where do you go to refresh? When you need a break, where do you breathe? The smokers, I know where they go, shhhhh, to hide, but the breathers? I don’t know. I don’t think they do. I think they stay. Don’t they need a place too, time, air, some shade between the bright spots? It’s not like there aren’t places, places here to sit. There are. There are lots of little nooks. And chairs. And end tables. But it’s another thing to say you can, you should, sit here. I won’t look at you and think, "Slackergirl." I'll look and say, "Damn, I should do that, take a break." Studio 54 called a dance party at 4 o'clock. They announced it over the intercom. I was working hard at my desk. Writing. I’d go down soon. But I didn’t. I kept working. The party was over before I got up. Life. Next time I’ll go. The party is short, the work day long. What’s my job? Jump on opportunity.

I had a beer in the hallway with a couple of architects at the end of the day. I asked them questions. What does this space need? Someone said they wanted to put herbs in a box on the roof-deck. What do you want? They said they didn't know, they’d have to think about it. Do, I said. Then we talked about the look and shape and size of NBBJ, not of the building but of the culture. It’s a construction too.

Architects

I make a list to describe this slice of life, architects. They are a slim, fit, fashionable, white, short-haired, leather-shoed, dark-framed, angular, bespectacled, quiet-spoken, exact, um-free, word-ready, pen-toting, conference-loving, beardless, watch-wearing, balding, softly gesturing, alert, focused, visual-thinking, paper-rolling, fair-minded, inclusive, feet on the floor, short-nailed, idiomatic, quick to rise, unpainted, textured, achieving, coffee-drinking, multi-layered, code-referencing, questioning, jovial, witty, answer-seeking, process-defining, right-handed, price-getting, cost-cutting, assumption-breaking, athletic, referencing, prioritizing, detail-staving, recommendation-seeking, paper-hungry, pleat-panted, benefit-listing, disaster-ready, suggestion-offering, ruler-pointing, always-improving, aesthetic-weighting, cost-weighing, ok-answering, settled, professional, ring-wearing, straight, married, self-monitoring, pin-pushing sort of people.

On Foot

After work I walk home, the long way, posting notices about my event in cafés, on telephone poles, around Counterbalance Park.

Thursday 1.14.10

2010-01-15T07:50:00.001-08:00

Sketch of First Thursday Critique

Hunting for the Soul

I went for coffee with Hao, an Associate Architect, this morning. We had a thoughtful discussion about what’s missing and what’s refreshing and where æsthetics start and stop and what interfaces we’re using and why. Hao wrote his thesis on spirituality in architecture. He brought up the idea of a building’s soul, something I’m thinking about too, then he mentioned the worth of a koan and the shaman’s role in Hmong Culture. Shamans retrieve souls for people who are ill. I asked Hao about his favorite spaces/buildings in Seattle or elsewhere. His answer: St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. I gave him my list of Seattle favorites and tried to determine what it was about them that affected me so and what they had in common. Each have as a main component a shared ritual of procession.

My List of Favorites Places & Spaces in Seattle

St. Mark’s during a Compline Service
Chapel of St. Ignatius at Seattle University
Panama Hotel in the International District
International Fountain at Seattle Center
McCaw Hall (Seattle Opera) when the gates are blue
Labyrinth at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Lower Queen Anne
Bhy Kracke Park in Lower Queen Anne
Fremont Peak Park in Fremont
Floating Village/Studios at 764 Summit Ave E. on Capitol Hill
Residence on Palatine Ave N in Fremont (b/w N 43 & N 42)
Residence at 612 NW 41st St. in Ballard
Small fountain at corner of W Galer & Queen Anne Ave

Hao and I struggled to understand what made a structure/space honest? Is honesty tied to purpose and meaning or is it tied to place and function? I wonder, would what we consider freedom be, to another species, fickle or false? The barn swallow or fire ant larva make the nest they do out of the materials and need at hand. We are free of all that. How free? Is this freedom at odds with truth?

Hmong Culture

In Hmong Culture each person is thought to have several souls. The main soul is reincarnated after death while another soul returns to the home of the ancestors. Another soul stays near the grave of the deceased. The souls of the living can fall into disharmony and may even leave the body. The loss of a soul or souls can cause serious illness. A soul calling ceremony can be performed by elders within the community to entice the soul home with chanting and offerings of food. [Wikiepedia] I imagine a corporate soul hunting ceremony. I imagine a corporate soul calling ceremony. I imagine a corporate soul healing ceremony. None of them look like a company picnic or retreat. They look more like a long walk backwards through the building, from the basement to the roof deck, into ever corner, with every worker present and moving in a line. Where is the soul of NBBJ? How many are there? One? Three? 350? I've been asking, "Where does the soul of NBBJ reside?" I've gotten some interesting answers, but not a one has mentioned a physical location.

The Poetry Columns

NBBJ has a lot of built-in collaborative spaces where it's hoped employees from various departments will meet, interact and cross-fertilize. I don’t often see people sitting on the Great Steps or in the comfortable chairs in the waistline windows. Chance conversations do, however, happen with frequency in the coffee/tea bars, in the lunchroom and on the second floor landing.

Poetry Columns as Collaborative Space

They draw people in.
They provide a shift in thinking.
They allow the viewer mental pause.
They provoke immediate response.
They provoke aftershock comments.
They linger creating spatial and textural relationships.

The comments and stories people shared with me afterwards weren't about architecture or about the function of a column, but about their vivid past experiences. The columns provided a spark to rekindle a moment long past when something similarly disruptive arched over their world and made things possible--that time I was on vacation, that time I was stuck in the airport, that time in which I was similarly energized and open and receiving.

Rowing to Work

I call them puffers, but they’re coots. I saw one this morning. Hullo. And up popped a cormorant's head, like a periscope, slicing the water. The usual gulls and crows and the rhythm returning.

Wednesday 1.13.10

2010-01-14T18:45:00.000-08:00

the clouds were gray moods
falling into space
leaving a hope of color behind
a float plane on the eastern shore
brought a star sailor home
there’s a brief moment in the a.m.
when things transfer
world to world
travelers come &go
&the sky is a sieve

Document Set Organization

Drawings are how architects visualize and communicate space. They contain instructions to builders and act as cost explainers and tools for meeting design requirements and for client and community review. I’d seen the oversized books of drawings splayed out on conference room tables, groups of architects and structural engineers huddled around, pointing with red pens and rulers. The books held some mystery, I knew. I’d watched the movement of the men and women in relation to the books and listened to their language which seemed to issue from the book. I'd seen all the eyes in a room lift and return to it, but I was ignorant as to the detail and depth of the book until Duane, a Principal Architect, took me for a 2-hour tour through 4 volumes of drawings and their specifications. What a thrill to zoom in on the plans with a pro. We flipped through page after long page of instructions to landscape and building architects, civil, mechanical, electrical and acoustic engineers, elevator and concession consultants. As the pages flew by, the building grew, layer by layer.

World View

Here lives every conceivable view of the project, flattened and bound, in one place—the floor plan (God’s eye view), the elevation (from the front) and the section cut (sliced through). Here too are the dots and dashes and hashes that convey concrete, glass, dirt and guard rail. And all the bugs, those little numbers in ovals–-hear them scribbling through the halls and scratching at the doors–-going to schedules, interior elevations and enlarged plans. I got excited when Duane touched on aesthetics, the ideas behind the buildings, their intentions and social functions. Between floor plans, I asked him questions. How do you think our brains have changed since we started using auto-cad? Do we have a decreased ability to arrange and hold information or are we free now to use that brain power in even more complex ways? He suggested, as a potentially positive result, newer generations might have an easier time thinking in 3-D, then he mentioned a different kind of shift, more in the nature of the work. Producing drawings used to a visual-based activity in which the hand was busy and the mind free. Now the commands are verbal and architects must sit at their computers keying in dimensions. This moves the architect from a social space to a solitary one, which means fewer loose networking opportunities. What happens to a profession when its nets unravel?

The Sound of a Building

I hadn’t considered whether or not an architect could hear the space they were designing. Duane says that when he gets to the point where he can hear a space, he knows he’s making good design decisions. What a lovely dimension to add, sound. It makes sense that our hearing turns on as our visual confusion dies down. Isn't that what meditation is about, letting go and simply sitting in the moment? On my row to work, there is a moment in which I begin to hear, distinctly, the music of my oars. It is then I know I’m in the rhythm of my row, my day, my lake, my way. When it’s wet, the oarlock guards say “unh-huh.” When it’s dry, the locks turn and say, “ticktack.” But I only begin to hear them when I'm done with the noise.

Shipyard

After our meeting, I helped Duane transport the documents back to his desk. We carried them folded on our shoulders, like sails in a shipyard. I lingered, then, at a waistline window. The news there is terrible. It’s completely overcast and raining. My mood is tied to that window, that view, that weather. The windows are tall, very tall. I’ll be subject to this later. But it’s never, almost never, as bad as they say. The night is often warmer or brighter or more magical than predicted. You just never know until you're in it. What's going on in that window, in that relationship? Is there doom in that view, in that separation, or is it misinformation or exaggeration or a form of resignation?

Tuesday 1.12.10

2010-01-12T17:09:00.000-08:00

Little Epic in the A.M.

I cast off at 6:30am. Persistent rain. Just out of the marina, I intercepted a crew team and chase boat. I rowed a few strokes, neck in neck, with the team. We said hello and laughed. There were 8 of them. They took me in 4 strokes. Crippled by a hood, I twisted to see a monstrous object to port, a tug pushing a 50 meter barge. Thankfully, I was profiling the western shore and was astride the danger. I had with me a hood, a headlamp, a cow-neck sweater, rubber boots worn at the toes and a pair of Grundens. I needed a wool cap, a clip-on light, a round-necked sweater, in tact rubber boots and a pair of Grunden’s. I am getting more and more waterproof, but I'm still leaking in places. I follow the forecast these days. 48 hours of rain is predicted with steady winds. Can’t say as I saw the sunrise.

Early Meeting

Consistently, I am the first person to the meeting. What does this say about architects? They're busy people. After a very nice introduction suggesting me, the poet, as an NBBJ resource, I read a brief poem by William Stafford called Ultimate Problems. I thought it especially appropriate to the process and level of detailing of the meeting, but when I was through, all of the faces in the room looked at me, waiting, unmoving. Was that the end? What was the meaning of this? Would there be an explanation? I did my best to elucidate and explain why I’d chosen it, but huh? This alerts me to the need to carefully weigh the time of day against the abstractions of the poems I am choosing. Unlike the previous day, I did not come with extra copies, so the room was left wanting perhaps. New rule: always bring copies.

Charette

Today, I sat in on a meeting and saw a charette go up. Last week, I was introduced to the term and taken in to see the end result of a charette, large-size, graph index cards, marked with words and phrases, in red, blue, green, orange and black, neatly organized in columns and pinned to the walls. It’s basically a design exercise, visual brainstorming, used to develop solutions to design problems. I sat in the post-charette clime, writing a response.

a model ear

down in the model department
there’s a renegade craftsman
grafting ears on the buildings
in which direction
do you suppose this one’s turned
towards the river
or away crosswind
to the earth or sky
once a model’s got the hang
of detecting sound
what do you suppose
it wishes to but cannot
filter in what ways
do you suppose
it changes
must it respond to
all the cries for help it hears
who will graft
as self-protection
a shoulder
for it to turn
what simple living systems
become its own
what weathers lights
prevailing winds
perhaps the one
they trundled out
as i came in
was an old model
i did not see its ear
instead i saw a riddle
how many farmers does it take
to change a light bulb?
you know these days
when a boy &girl marry
instead of raising barns
they topple silos
the world’s a backward place
&the land strewn
with cylinders
windows go round &round
instead of up and down
o that silos should regenerate
but anyway you look
up or out
a tube’s a tube
they help us see
the moon &mars
&carry maps
i’m going up
the ladder cage
to whisper something
in an ear

aka

Monday 1.11.10

2010-01-12T02:13:00.000-08:00

Chalk Poems

I spent my afternoon making chalk poems on the columns at the heads of the stairs, level 2 and 3. The day before, I’d printed a few articles on columns and looked up famous columns in history. At first, I was waiting to know more about columns, about these columns, but then I realized I had the chalk and I had the ladder and the only way to get to know a column is to go up to it and say hello to it.

The result was, I think, about my relationship to the whole, that is to say the column’s relationship to the building or the associate’s relationship to the firm. If the free space owes itself to the column, the free space ought to ask it, How are you feeling? I see you. I rest a hand on you. What do you desire? A moment? A moment like this?

Studio 5

In the morning, I attended a Studio 5 meeting. I wish I’d brought William Carlos Williams’ poem, The Great Figure, inspired by Charles Demuth’s painting The Figure 5 in Gold. They would have liked it. Studio 5 is the healthy group of professionals who meet under the stage on the south side of Level 2 every Monday morning. Their work is 90% health care and they seem to get a lot of work. I read The Cucumber by Nazim Hikmet to them. With all the rain and lack of color, it seemed crucial to bring a thing of color into the room, to imagine how it might transfix us and color the air. After my reading, someone recalled "Bring Your Dog to Work Day" and smiled, remarking on the poet-in-residence, "It’s an interesting place, NBBJ!"

Saturday 1.9.10

2010-01-12T02:10:00.000-08:00

After a film class and a quick de-installation of a previous project, I came in for a few hours to get caught up with my writing. I’ve been struggling to manage my time. There’s so much I want to do! I have a tendency to create poetry in the round, but I want equal time to explore it all in writing. Then there’s the need to document this and that and, O, for a few more hours! It being a Saturday at suppertime, I saw no one. The building felt colossal and quiet, but not asleep. I get the feeling this building does not sleep. The lights in places winked on and greeted me. Hello, Poet. Hello, Conference Room. Hello, Poet. Hello, Hallway.

Friday 1.8.19

2010-01-12T01:57:00.000-08:00

Face Time

I spent my morning working around the north end of Level 3, handing out Matchbook Poems. It gave me a chance to find out what people do and how they feel in their space. It took 2 hours to get through this much, just under a quarter of the company. By 11am, I realized I hadn’t eaten and retreated for supplies.

Efficiency in Design
As I wander through NBBJ, I’m struck by the sheer efficiency of the building. Nothing left to chance. Everything tidy, clean and useful. Things are either being used or being cleaned to use or are sitting at the ready. There are no impediments to forward motion. If people wanted to, they could just as easily jet about the place with propane packs on their backs. I think the building would keep up. A few clean-edged things are being ported about, up and down the stairs. The air sounds as if it’s being clean too. But what to do here, with my urge to niche, hole up, dirty, humanize, give texture to, make intimate, mar, soften? What to do with all these lines? I spent time hanging over the banister. I spent time on the stairs. They spoke to me. They said bulges. They said bread. They said blueberries. Melons. Dirt. Grass. Hay. Clay. Mud, paper, velvet, chalk. If it takes the quantifier "some," we want it.

What's Your Plat?

Laura, the librarian, was in and gave me a comprehensive tour of the NBBJ library. O la! I was shown the old plats of Seattle and the books on art and architecture and all the periodicals. I checked out 3 new books and have reason to come back.

Rowing Buddies

I told some of my friends I’d row them home if they wanted after work. One took me up on it. She lives in Fremont and works in Pioneer Square. So Kate shows up at 5pm, in full regalia, rain pants, jacket with hood and boots. Did the wind or rain or falling night deter Kate? No. She’d even brought a headlamp. Smart Kate. I, on the other hand, after 3 days of fine weather, had told myself, forget the boots, forget the extra jacket, the emergency poncho. What are the chances you'll need it tonight? Lighten up. So there I was, in a suede jacket with canvas work pants and leather shoes. Hah! I was drenched through by time we made Fremont. I raced to my office and took an extended hot shower. This is my most recent hard lesson in being prepared.

Thursday 1.7.10

2010-01-12T01:34:00.001-08:00

Image by Sean Airhart/NBBJ Seattle

The purpose of the rooftop garden is:
1. to distract (but the door is heavy)
2. to expand (but the rails are strong)
3. to command (captain my captain)
4. to invite (but O the weather)
5. to pretend (to a ship, a farm, an island, a state of mind, a democracy)

A Day of Corporate Meetings

I had 3 meetings today. How accomplished I feel! How well used! How well distributed! I was part of a brainstorming session mid-day, which gave me a fabulous appetite for imagining in 3-D. I got to peek into those big floppy books with lines that make one feel as if I they were a little plastic figure, legs in a permanent lunge, stuck to a base. Moving through the white spaces, I realized how square the world is. Where will the green things live? Where is the warmth, the heart? What is happening here? Where is my refuge? To where on this page will I drift—the center, the pockets, the fringe? Must I hide in myself? And what of the ceilings? Must I imagine? You can live on a ceiling, you know, if it’s nourishing enough. Think of the New York Public Library! I know, these are only lines on a page, only paths. But what if someone were to break the line, we all know there are fence breakers in this world, would we learn from it? And what would we learn? What is impossible and what is determined? What is imposed and what is offered? Would we learn?

Wednesday 1.6.10

2010-01-12T01:02:00.000-08:00

The Conference of the Birds - Photos by Sean Airhart/NBBJ Seattle

I took a sack of sunflower seeds, an ink stick, some white paper and 4 brushes to the roof deck. I wanted to invoke the birds. I filled the wooden cover of my sumi-e set with the seeds and stood back. With very little prompting, they came. White and black birds, some with long beaks, some with hunched backs, some were tiny, some were slow moving. There were 30 or more in the flock, flitting about the bamboo, on the ground, among the slivers, discovering slow winter bugs.

Workplace Design: Strategies within Business Organizations

At noon, I attended a continuing education presentation offered by Arnold Craig Levin, who’s defending his MBA thesis. Pizza and salad were served and meant to be consumed during the presentation. I wonder if in Europe, where Arnold is taking his degree, it is standard procedure to mix food with business in this way?

I listened closely and heard Mr. Levin say if design and strategy are not linked, the intended result will not come. I wonder then, what are the limits to what a design structure/space can do, all by itself? Nothing? I imagine a grotto when I see the depressed, circular lawn in front of the Seattle Courthouse. All by itself, this space does something, I think, but what? What does it truly do without our shared history, myth and language? Perhaps it does nothing. Only put a person in it and they will give it story, story based on story, based on story... that will sprout new meaning but hark, hark back to something.

Rowing Home

An occasional reckoning, a backward glance—To port! To starboard! Watch ouT!—closer and farther from our supposed destination. With swervy allowance, we go. It’s easy to see your flaws when you’re looking backwards. Where have I gone? Is it where I thought I’d go? Does it matter? O, how filled with direction I was this morning. How focused. How seldom I considered the dangers of my single-minded going. The goal! The goal! How, in this model, does one learn to trust? How does one mistake their way to new destinations?

I am rowing, that means working backwards on the water. It is dark when I cast off. I come into a rhythm. I learn to trust the way is clear. The wind ruffles the dark water. I look to starboard and see I am on a carnival ride. A swarm of clouds plays on the water. I'm on a condensed and curdling Milky Way. I look ahead, which is really behind, and see I’m not going anywhere. It’s all a joke. I’m stuck. And this work I’m so seriously pursing is nothing. Hah! A muscle in my left hip plucks itself.

Tuesday 1.5.10

2010-01-08T13:14:00.000-08:00

My Commute

At the outset of this project, I'd hoped to find a way to row to work. Lucky me! NBBJ is in the South Lake Union neighborhood of Seattle so I'm able to row from Fremont, where I live, across Lake Union to the Center for Wooden Boats. The awesome people in charge at CWB have agreed to let me dock there for the month. I'm heartily hoping this daily commute will seep, no, soak into my project. Exactly how, I cannot say and do not want to. I only know that it is good and it is what I want. I have long been a believer that how you get there affects what comes next and that monumental living is available to us all through a series of daily decisions. And, if we find there is no opportunity for monumental living in our daily decisions, or if we find we want even more such opportunities, we may step back and re-program our lives. For, at the very outset, we decided these things. Things such as where to live, how to get to work, what sort of job, what matters to us, &c.

For me, I find things happen on the water, so that's where I want to be. And perhaps I want to feed this fantasy I have that being a poet-in-residence in a global firm is only reachable through extraordinary means, as if feet couldn't reach it, as if wheels wouldn't find it, and only a secret passage across a misty body of water could get me there. NBBJ, the island. A story such as this imbues my commute with weighty stuff.

So at 7am, on Tuesday morning, my first day of work, I successfully launched my rowboat into the misty, mild, darkness. It took a while to get situated with oars and weight and layers and light, but once I had, I stopped my oars and took in my surroundings. It was then I saw the red and white streaming edges around the darkness in which I sat. No one but me, no birds, no lights on the water. In ways, I felt completely safe. I was invisible. From this place, the sirens whirring down I-5 looked inconsequential, a little comical even. I moved on, quick to find a rhythm. After 40 minutes, I arrived on the southern shore and tied to a floating dock. In a pavilion at the head of the dock, a man was jumping rope. Tick, tick, tick, tick, like a radiator warming up. Does he know where he is going?

St. Spiridon

From the CWB, I walked up around the interstate to Aloha to Eastlake to Yale Street past St. Spiridon. I was early for work and so crossed the street to see this bonbon of a church, with its 7 blue flowers growing up like wild chives from a brick garden, bright blue doorways peaking up from play hinges. The whole thing looks so lightweight, as if I could lift it off the ground on my own. I saw on the church board there would be a service in the evening. Perhaps I would get to see inside?

Indeed, as I passed St. Spiridon on my way home, a black iron gate was open and there, inside a covered doorway, were seven brass bells which caused a twinkling in my eye, so I went in to ask, "Do the bells ring?" "Yes," said the man, “And if you stay you will hear them.” I took a seat and waited. While I waited, I watched a man move from relic to relic, signing the cross and putting his forehead and lips to everything. The room was full of relics in glass cases. His movements were never ceasing. Here again, the streaming around the darkness, not unlike Aurora & I-5 buzzing around Lake Union. When it was time, they said, “Come.” I followed them out the doorway.

The Ringing of the Bells

7 brass bells hang atop one another, each tied with rope to a wooden frame. 4 small bells on top, 2 large in the middle and 1 large alone at the bottom. The bells are connected by a system of rope pulls. I was given a pair of headphones as each man took a rope system into his hands. The first pulled the right side of his rope, 3 times in succession, then he pulled once more. This time he let the bell ring for a long time. After an equally long pause, he rang it again and again, 10 times, allowing the fullness of each ring to go on and on over the Cascades. Then came a rhythm, with a right-left tug. Then a 3rd bell was added, with a right-left-up tug. Then came the small bells. The 2nd man was in charge of these. He made a busy overlay with a right-right, left-left, right-right, left-left, 2 rings for every ring of a large bell. I stood by swimming in the vibrations until, sadly, it all ended with a final pull of the large bell. But now I know what I know. The difference between a bell and the sound of a bell. It is not that a bell sounds, but that there is a bell to sound, an object, and a hand to pull it, to set it ringing. It's that the two of these things are tied to this same meaning, not just present, but fulfilled in it.

Working at NBBJ

I met Kay this morning, the main operator at NBBJ in Seattle. Kay sits in the glass entrance at a tidy table by a paper chandelier. Kay and I have the same initials, aka. She told me about her favorite NBBJ projects, the new U. S. Court House in Seattle and the Alaska Native Medical Center in Anchorage. NBBJ has a strong advocate in Kay.

Christian Carlson met me in the lobby and showed me to my desk. Soon, we were off on a tour of the building. So many smiling people, sharing information about projects, inviting me to meetings. We peeked into the model shop, the library and mailroom, then went for lunch. After that, I was on my own. I wandered around taking in the lines of the building. I’d come purposefully unprepared with materials and ideas, so as to allow the space and place and people to influence the direction of the project. As exciting as that sounds, it’s hard to fight the pressure to know and be producing. Idling is not my forte.

No, I needed to do something. I went to the library and checked out a book, Archetypal Architecture. I got some tracing paper and began copying architectural terms, switching back and forth between fonts, print and cursive. I filled 4 pages this way and painted color blocks on the middle of each. I find it easy now to read poems from these pages. By referencing all cursive or all print or by reading words from the color blocks, I can easily make poems. I used this new tool to set the outgoing greeting on my NBBJ telephone.

After some time on the Giant Steps, I went to the lunchroom and looked out the west-facing windows. There is a strong sense of the nautical. Opposite NBBJ is a building reminiscent of a seaport with a red brick face. Metal lamps hang on loose wires between buildings and a metal gangplank sits over an alleyway leading to a roof deck where narrow garden beds tack back and forth into the wind. Lifelines stand protectively around the edges. I wonder, do birds visit? No, I am told. Not yet. Perhaps the bamboo is too young, the dirt too fresh, the lines too defined, the neighbors too tall, the insects too skinny.

My desk is in REV (Studio 81) on Level 3. I sit near Jane and Jacob and Mother Bernard Gosselin. Mother Bernard whispers to me. "Dear neighbor," she says in a hush tone, lips barely moving. Some things she says with her eyes. "I approve. I approve of your softening agents. Take these tulips. Take this cilantro. Use it. Awaken their senses." Her face is fixed in white vinyl to a concrete column. Christian told me about Mother Bernard. Text in her hand writing is wrapped around St. Joseph Hospital in Orange, CA. "Dear neighbor, I pray that you may find light, joy, and consolation."

December in the Lobby of NBBJ

2009-12-26T21:23:00.001-08:00

Glass all around and outside something like a courtyard, but smaller, slimmer, moving. A skinny market. A pedestrian cross street. A parked truck, laden with ladders, blinks there. Clean surfaces. Undriven roads. Switzerland!! Rusted metal. Steel girders. Weathered brick. Bamboo hedge. Sculpted space, cool space. And moving through the space, men and women. Freshly cut hair. The right sweater. I do not have the jacket, shoes, look for this. My glasses are outdated. In every way, I am patched together. Inside the lobby, on the floor, I find a ball from my sweater, a fuzz ball. Only it is out of place. Charcoal gray ottomans with a hint of camel in shadow flank 3 long leather benches in true camel. Bent strips of metal serve as side tables and hold glass cylinders with red floral mixes of winter and spring. Ordinary people, I suppose, in thoughtful places, smart places, clean bright spaces. Spaces with room--to move, think, earn, gain.

The receptionist says there are 300 employees. A corporation indeed! Don't let it overwhelm you, frumpy little poet. No mess. No trash. Just one little fuzz ball out of place. And you, sitting on the sable stable, looking at the specked rubber floor that stretches as far as the night sky from under you. And white tile in a moat around that. But look! There are lines to pull you up. An opaque purple column of glass! Does it bear weight? 8 silver dollars of light in an angle on the floor. 9 wood beams, 8 bands of glass, form a massive stair that lifts in a pressured ceiling above the receptionist, doomed. But her cords are taken care of. Where is her mess of attachments? How do her devices work?

An oversized, brown bristle mat, set into the floor, walks 15' through the door. In the preamble, then, are the shadows of 5 tools, compacted, elongated and widened behind their tool of shadow. 5 hand tools evenly spaced on an acrylic board. We work. We work. We work. Etc. The ceiling, though, is unfinished, as if to say this is what we were, what we could have been, our under stuffs. Pipes painted taupe. Taupe.

All who move here are darkly dressed, not in black, but in non-black darks. Code for winter success. The floor is noisy with clicking tapping, clacking shoes. No rubber soles. Only good shoes. Leather crafts. Waiting is anxious making. It heightens things. I wait.

Letter to a Corporation

2009-12-26T21:19:00.000-08:00

Dear Sir or Madam:

My name is A. K. "Mimi" Allin. I've received funding from The Seattle Office of Arts & Cultural Affairs for a project called Adopt-A-Poet, which entails placing me, the poet, in a corporation in Seattle for one month. This will be the nation’s first “Corporate Poet Residency,” an exciting proposition for which I believe a corporation stands to gain recognition as a company with a penchant for the arts and for innovation. I would welcome a meeting to talk about a Corporate Poet Residency at NBBJ.

I’m a professional artist. I have worked with a number of local institutions to activate spaces and create communities–Bumbershoot, SAM, ACT, Seattle Parks & Recreation. I believe NBBJ and the poet have some common interests. Your interests in creating a more liveable world and in shaping a future that enhances lives and inspires human potential, ring loud and clear to and through the poet.

What possible value can a poet offer a corporation? If a poet were to go looking for a corporate soul and found one…or affirmed the notion that ideas do change the world…or proposed ongoing research into the self as a means of discovering the world…or offered hope or faith or… When Bachelard spoke of Desire Paths, he meant poets in corporations and corporations in communities, intentional living in spaces shaped by love and attention. No doubt, you get that. The poet works to articulate that.

There’s evidence, too, that keeping artists within communities increases property values. I’m proposing that keeping a poet in the workplace will do the same for job values. Art (be it performance or writing or visual art on the walls) boosts moral, draws communities together, wakes people to their surroundings. Poets have a unique way of plucking the nerves in us that wants to live outside of the mundane, that strive and hope and grow. Why work for a company that cares about us? We long for meaning. I believe poets and corporations have much to offer one another in the realms of power and creativity and that the artist can augment the heart of a corporation simply by being there. “A home (corporation) without a cat (poet)--and a well-fed, well-petted, and properly revered cat (poet)-- may be a perfect home (corporation), perhaps, but how can it prove its title?” (Mark Twain).

Here is the residency I propose:
1. NBBJ supplies a modest workspace (desk, printer, desktop computer)
2. The poet works on location, 9-5, Monday-Friday, Jan-Feb 2010
3. CityArtist covers the poet’s expenses & publication of a chapbook
4. The poet conducts regular “open hours,” offers a corporate-wide workshop & public reading
5. The poet does not propose to write about the corporation, but simply about what inspires her

Thank you for your time. I’m eager to meet you and discuss the possibilities.

Most sincerely,
A. K. “Mimi” Allin
http://thepoetessatgreenlake.blogspot.com

Adopt-A-Poet, CityArtist 2009

2009-12-26T20:42:00.000-08:00

Adopt-A-Poet was proposed as a CityArtist project by A. K. "Mimi" Allin in February of 2009. CityArtist is a program of The Mayor's Office of Arts & Cultural Affairs in Seattle, WA. Below is a synopsis of the project proposal.

ADOPT-A-POET is a group of actions that comprise one poet seeking employment for her work. The goal is to take poetry into uncharted territories and to raise the questions of what it might mean to offer substantial payment to a poet. For this endeavor, I'll organize a month-long residency at a major corporation in the Seattle area. Can a poet successfully broker a deal with a corporation? And, if so, what does the poet have to gain? A place, a voice, a publication? And the corporation, what do they have to gain? The raw stuff of the poet, perhaps the same creative urge in their workers? Might we together gain access to what we need to thrive? Corporate art hangs in corporate entrances saying, “This is our impulse!” I want to be part of that impulse. I want to find a way to connect the work of the poet with the work of the corporation. Securing a residency at a corporation will be a success in and of itself –-a coup for poets nationwide, a shift in thinking. This project hopes to pave the way for poets and artist everywhere to begin entertain the idea of forming bonds with businesses. How are artists to change the world is they do not have a face in the workplace?