Dave

In October of 2020 I embarked on a surf expedition to Yakutat, Alaska. We’d spend 5 days on The Milo, a decommissioned fishing vessel that had been outfitted to explore remote surf breaks. Due to COVID, most of the guests had to cancel their trip. Except for me and Dave. Dave lives in California. He owns a cleaning company. He’s got money. He’s got kids. Dave is an achiever and a hard worker. When I first got on the boat, I didn’t think we would get along. I was a delivery driver at the time, who had just spent 6 months living with my parents, and the last two months living in my van. I had spent all my money on this trip. Everything about us seemed different. But it was the captain, Mike, the guide, Scott, and the deckhand, Maya, Dave, and myself, so there was no avoiding being together. There were long hours between our morning and afternoon sessions and without phone connection, we were left to each other’s company. What happened was exactly what, deep down, I know always happens when you engage with someone else for a sustained amount of time. I realized that all the judgements I had made when I first met him were mostly incorrect. As we caught waves together and squeezed around the tiny table were we shared meals, our barriers began to wash away. He told me about his childhood, growing up poor and making a living for himself. He shared, with tears in his eyes, all the things his son with special needs says to him that reminds him how beautiful life is. That his whole experience raising kids has completely opened up his heart. I shared too, about my pain and my uncertainty. As we listened to one another we kept finding the threads that tied us together. I wish I could spend a week on a boat with each person that I come across that makes me think, you’re not like me.

all that is a home

Thank you for being a home to me, the longest place I’ve lived in my adult life.

Thank you for the eastward morning light that fed my plants.

Thank you for the view of the mountains.

Thank you for being a sanctuary where I fell in love.

Thank you for the moments on this couch, laughing with friends.

Thank you for being a gallery.

Thank you for the the meals, the self-taught guitar lessons, and the occasional bath.

Thank you for not judging me for moving on.

there was a time

There was a time when you’d walk around and explore with your mom. Before you had to go to school, before you were put inside to learn about everything out there. You’d arrive at the park and hop out of your stroller. You were in the world— at that point it was all still so new to you. It was time to explore, pick things up, make a mess. You’d stop for a snack, sit on your mom’s lap and share a sip of your juice box with her. The way the pigeon dunked its head in the fountain was the funniest thing you’ve ever seen. You don’t know why, you don’t even need a reason why. Your mom couldn’t help but laugh with you. Pure jubilation blankets the park. Enough for the business man to pick his head up from his phone, for one split second. Your mom didn’t want you to go too far. There was danger out there, and it’s not that she didn’t want you to see it, you would find it yourself, eventually. But on that day, she kept you close.

Another life, another fish

The dove arrived at the wire every morning before 8am to watch the fish swim. He never sat less than five wires from the bottom— he was too nervous the fish would spot him, and this might interrupt their morning dip. The dove loved the way the fish moved together in circles. He wondered if they had choreographed the moves beforehand, or if it was simply innate. The dove had never swam, well, not since that one dove had dunked his head in the bird bath three summers ago. That dove was such an asshole, but he didn’t have a very good home-life so he didn’t hold it against him.

Occasionally a fish would pop up to the top and take a peak at him (or so he thought). Either way, it felt nice to be seen. Once he ruffled his wings at the fish, but it went back under water. He hoped that the fish didn’t take it the wrong way. The dove smiled and imagined that he was underwater with the fish—laughing, joking, suggesting new formations to swim in… suddenly he heard a camera click go off behind him, which snapped him out of his daydream. The dove was shy, but not really around humans. He wondered what the photographer saw in him. Was it just another bird on the street? Or a dove with aquatic dreams? Perhaps he didn’t even saw him at all.

The dove sighed, and turned back to the river. The fish had already moved on, and as the dove felt a little wetness in his eyes, he thought to himself, next time, I’ll be a fish.

My Neighborhood Is...

Years ago, the Boys & Girls Club branded fence posts, one side with what their neighborhood meant to them, the other side, with journal entries from Bruce Farnsworth. The fence stood in Spenard for some time, and after being taken down, the planks were stored at The Nave. They called on Bruce and I to revive the pieces with a new installation in a back stairwell of The Nave, with pretty much free-reign on the project. On the left wall is a journal entry written by Bruce, which reads “The bigness of Alaska makes us feel lost the way looking up at the stars makes some of us feel like we’re going insane. But it’s the very bigness that seems to account for the constant bumping into ourselves that Alaskans experience. Large surrounding spaces create a kind of psychic miniaturization. When the distances between ourselves and everyone else is great, the compactness of our interior becomes exaggerated—forms a solitude of expanse where we run into our own pettiness and cowardice at every turn.”

The rest of the piece is a collection of the other side of the posts- what the Boys and Girls club saw their neighborhood as. The center is a blackboard where you can add what your neighborhood means to you.

Kerby helped us a ton with the carpentry and installation, and being able to work with Bruce (a legendary artist here in Anchorage) was such a gift.

FROM THE NAVE (referring to the last photograph):

“Last week, The Nave was honored to host the Central Council of Tlingit and Haida Indian Tribes of Alaska for five days of Art & Culture Classes. Written and left on the 'My Neighborhood Is' chalkboard installation within The Nave, this beautiful poem speaks for itself.

Text:

"I feel pain in my body
when I grasp at my culture
my muscles brace at centuries
old blows from boarding
schools ∞ + more
I grasp at the strands +
braid them back together
bringing two things together
that might otherwise
not be joined"
~eternal weave 2023

Chin'an; Gunalchéesh, Háw'aa; Thank you to Tlingit & Haida artists, neighbors, and relatives, for gathering here in Spenard. We love you!

Special thanks to instructor Rae Mills for granting permission to share this poem.”

Perhaps the World Ends Here by Joy Harjo

Perhaps the World Ends Here by Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

in between

Capturing only the monumental moments makes me think that my life is made only of grandiosity. But how did I arrive there? In moments like this. Togetherness. Ordinariness. Holding your hand walking down the street (for no more than a minute at a time). Admiring the fancy Firehouse with all the Seattle-hipster-Firefighters sipping lattes inside. The trip before the trip. The excitement of what’s to come, but more so, the excitement of being right there. And these photographs that bring me right back.