All night, there has been
a running river of sound

tsg | decatur island
—-

Ancient wisdom recounted, savored and documented.

Several years ago, I’d been traveling on AirFrance, and reviewed an article about the careful restoration of an extraordinary grouping of manuscripts. Beautiful. So beautiful, that back then, I’d added some of the pages to my journals.

Timbuktu, Mali, is spectacularly remote:

Located in the center of what one might define as nothingness — still bounded by the grand curves of a major river, the Niger, a commerce portal, preserving its presence since the founding of the city in 1100 AD.

But decaying, the fragile texts were either being sold off, due to the monstrous implications of poverty, or were corroded by the action of insects, or less than appropriate care withering in the blistering heat of Mali.

According to Professor John O. Hunwick, “Efforts are now being made to preserve this literary heritage, beginning with some of the major collections of the city of Timbuktu.”

The actual number of manuscripts, in family collections, libraries and gathered “trunk cases” for protection is rather amazing — tens of thousands of books in various states of condition have been recovered, organized and are set for study and archiving.

Here’s a more scholarly and historical perspective, expanding on Hunwick’s historical reference — the full link is here: http://sociolingo.wordpress.com/

“The Niger Bend is to West Africa what the Nile Valley is to Egypt: an ecological life source and a civilizational magnet. Historically, the Niger also provided a great highway of communication across the region and provided a link between the lands of the desert and North Africa and the lands of the savannahs and forests in the South. The intensive and extensive human activity that has taken place in this region for thousands of years has left behind its traces in a large number of archaeological sites.

Over the past 600-700 years another legacy has developed: that of the literate culture of Islam symbolized by the extraordinary richness of private collections of Arabic manuscripts that still survive, often precariously, in the Niger valley and its desert hinterland. Timbuktu, located on the northern most bend of the River Niger in Mali, was a celebrated centre of Islamic learning from the fourteenth century onwards — local scholars wrote their own works and there is also evidence of a sophisticated local book copying industry in Timbuktu.

The historic city of Timbuktu, now the administrative centre of Mali’s Sixth Region, lies at a crucial point where the Sahara desert meets the river Niger. Its geographical setting made it a natural meeting point for settled African populations and nomadic Berber and Arab peoples. Founded around the year 1100 CE, it rapidly became a focal point for caravan commerce originating in North Africa or the Saharan oases. The city’s rapidly growing prosperity, soon attracted scholars to it from many quarters from Mediterranean Africa, from the Saharan oases and from West African towns such as Jenne and Walata.

By the mid-fifteenth century Timbuktu was as much a city of learning as it was a city of commerce. The scholars who settled there brought their libraries with them, and avidly purchased manuscript books imported from North Africa and Egypt. Leo Africanus remarked on the “numerous judges, scholars and priests [i.e. imams], all well paid by the king, who shows great respect to men of learning”, and added “Many manuscript books coming from Barbary are sold. Such sales are more profitable than any other goods.” By the fifteenth century, the city’s scholars were writing their own books for teaching purposes and to satisfy a demand for scholarly works in law, Qur’anic study, traditions of the Prophet Muhammad, theology, and Arabic language, and a more popular demand for pietistic literature and poetry in praise of the Prophet.

During the period of the Askiyas (or rulers) of the Songhay empire (1493-1591), there was considerable support for the Muslim scholars of the city, many of whom lived in the northern quarter around the celebrated Sankoré Mosque. Some received gifts from the rulers in cash and kind, and the renovation of the city’s mosques was underwritten by the state. One of the rulers, Askiya Dawud (who reigned 1549-83) is said to have established public libraries in his kingdom.

But the principal resource of Timbuktu scholarship lay in the private libraries of individual scholars and some of these libraries were evidently quite large. The celebrated scholar Ahmad Baba (d.1627), who was among those deported to Morocco in 1593 following the Moroccan conquest of Timbuktu and the Songhay empire, complained to the sultan of Morocco that his library of 1,600 books had been plundered, and his library, so he said, was one of the smaller in the city.

To this day the city still boasts some 60-80 private collections, the largest of which, the Mamma Haidara Memorial Library, http://www.sum.uio.no/ has been rehabilitated through a grant from the Mellon Foundation,

while a catalogue of its contents is being published by the Al-Furqan Islamic Foundation.

There is, as well, an active training program, bringing students together to learn the arts of translation, textual gathering, documentation and library science, to define the scale of the collections that are being studied.

The Fondo Kati Library http://www.sum.uio.no/ is now under construction with financing from the Spanish Gabinete del Consejero de Relaciones Institucionales. The contents of several other private collections were acquired by the Ahmad Baba Institute, a public institution that now contains over 18,000 manuscripts.

Aside from contributions by private organizations, family collections in Timbuktu, as well as UNESCO http://portal.unesco.org/ and Ford, the efforts continue, refreshed as recounted here http://www.scienceinafrica.co.za/ and Global Knowledge, http://siu.no/magazine/ the work continues in the translation, digital gathering and imagery of thousands of the books,

carrying on a tradition of centuries of learning — still, in many ways, practiced with the selfsame reliance of the Arabic text, memorization and perfection in practice.

And finally, as a kind of reverence to the heart of my personal experience and evolution as a designer — there is a return to the art of calligraphy, in reviving a nearly extinct practice, in the heart of the desert, in the center of Timbuktu.

What more do you know?
—-
Tim Girvin

Imagery from Ami Vitale unless otherwise noted. Other imagery undocumented.

I think about words all the time.

It’s the crux of my thinking, where things cross. They bridge, they verge, they come back, they go forth.

It’s where the light of my mind is held, that holding place of idea and imagination.

Light in the crux, split in the path:

“Incandescent” came into the English language toward the end of the 18th century, at a time when scientific experiments involving heat and light were being conducted on an increasingly frequent basis. An object that glowed at a high temperature (such as a piece of coal) was “incandescent.” By the mid-1800s, the incandescent lamp — a.k.a. the “lightbulb” — had been invented; it contains a filament which gives off light when heated by an electric current. “Incandescent” is the modern offspring of a much older parent, the Latin verb “candēre,” meaning “to glow.” Centuries earlier, the word for another source of light, “candle,” was also derived from “candēre.”

Heading to nyc, this morning.

tsg

——-

www.girvin.com

Hearing Her

Last night, I
was thinking
about her.

And being
in her presence
that silent

cast that she
arrayed. Down
to me, standing

quiet. Alone,
all one, with
her. Gazing

up, thinking
of her. Remote,
that presents

a perfect orb
of pearl, in
love, that

I am, with
her, formed
in light.

tsg | decatur island
—-

the one, the many

how foolish
we are, to
think that
amidst
that throng,
we are one — alone

when, in that
standing chorus,
we are mere –
the one,
of many,
marvels — they

are, in
plenty
you
i
one
in many.

i’d stay
by this
render, that
it’s better
to love
all ways.

tsg | the skagit valley, Fir Island
—-
written 4 / 9 / 08

I’ve been exploring, studying the work of Andy Goldsworthy for a couple of decades, really. I was struck, immediately, by the work.

What I found compelling was the idea of finding patterning in pattern. That is, if you see something striking in nature, it’s a surprise, a revelation, an epiphany. And maybe this can last only for a moment or two. Sunlight, just glinting — glimmering on water. Mist appearing in a moment. Stones stacked by some random beauty. Driftwood like calligraphy on the shore. And that patterning can be seen anew — if you take the time to dig into those arrangements. Play with them. Tune them. And to be willing to simply let that arrangement move on, shift with time. Like everything else.

That is the key learning, for me, in watching the evolutions of Andy Goldsworthy over the course of the last 20 years. That movement has been steadfast. Beauty full, in its strength of conviction and rich character.

I’ve woven some Goldsworthy here, and some Timothy Shaw Girvin, in the intermingling of the imagery shown below. I’m sure that you can tell which ones are which.

And some Girvin, and some story.

I’d been at TED, this past month — this time in Aspen. I wrote some things there, that you can find here: http://blog.girvin.com/

And being there, that experience, renewed and reconnected me with Andy Goldsworthy.

He’s an artist lauded by the Aspen Institute. So there’s art by him all around. Perhaps a show of his works, that filtered the grounds. Here are some photographs that I’d taken at the Institute:

And the nature of the making, that he does — is simply about looking for the right place, the right alignment, the right objects. And a willingness to create something of beauty that will, truly, not last.

From the history of my life, I started stacking stones maybe about the same time that Goldsworthy did.

Perhaps before.

Andy began in the 80s.

Where I’d seen this was up in the mountains. And what you’d experience, is to come wandering across some opening snow field — where the scree is hard to find from the snow covered path — and where the snow obscures the way. And then people will put up the cairn as a kind of marker. This cairn building doesn’t need to be on a snowfield either. Scrambling paths are similarly — vague.

And you can get lost. Cairns fit in. But they tell the way, as well.

Actually, I didn’t think that this was something that was about marking, more about something that was there — as a kind of art. Something kind of mysterious. Who made them, and how? Why?

Is, still mysterious, I suppose.

That’s part of the history, for me, of putting things up. Putting anything up. Getting it out there.

I’d written about that, here: http://tim.girvin.com/Entries/?p=391 And I’d written about my daughter, here: http://tim.girvin.com/Entries/?p=317

But Andy, born three years after me, is far more than just about the idea of stacking stones: it’s more about how to create entrancements in nature. And that is about looking at patterning in patterning. An arrangement of wood is not only the small collection of objects, but perhaps the larger stream of driftwood that lies around it, which is framed in the longer view of the beach, and the shoreline…extending outwards.

Things that are patterned, a kind of natural rhythm, merely belie other things that vibrate to other patterns. So it’s about patterning that you find on one level, that is also speaking to other patterns, that lie on another level, in turn — that lie on another level.

And another.

Entrancements — for me — it is about the idea of creating entrances to seeing. You look at something, there’s surprise, and you’ve seen something that you’d not seen before. You are suddenly seeing a patterning that you didn’t see before; it’s like hearing, or sensing, another rhythm that reaches into you in a new way. I’d written about the concept of enthrallment — http://blog.girvin.com/?p=693 — being enthralled is a kind of enslavement; you’re experiencing a new entrapment.

I suppose, for me, it’s about that.

Dawn Clark, AIA

That curiosity for me is about:

compulsion — with the pulse of a new force or rhythm
passion — I’m drawn into the moment, the momentum of pain and commitment
bewitchment — I’m magically transformed; I don’t see the way I did before
surprise — the prize that is beyond, the next level
transmigration — I was there, now I’m here.

I find that this is the place that is best for me: in change — surprise | transformed view | something opening that is just like beginning, anew | and that’s a good thing:

beginner’s eye.

I believe that Andy’s curiosity is all about that exploration.

Beginner’s eye.

More soon.

Stack something. Yourself.

tsg | decatur island
—-
I’d gathered some other treatments by Goldsworthy, that expand on the ideas of arrangement. And color. And patterning.

And some of them, I’m sure that you’ve seen.

Others, perhaps not.

It’s a rich legacy of work — all made by hand, all shot by Goldsworthy.

All beauty, found in seeing into the patterning of nature.

And you can do that, too.

And maybe you have.

Maybe you can tell me about what you’ve done.

?

I contemplate: metus | fear.

Things are arranged; then they are rearranged. What do you hold to, that which is arranged, that which is not? Is there beauty in symmetry? Or, symmetry skewed, the chaotic fracture?

I contemplate:

Imagery photographed at DIA | Beacon, NY

I had a client once who told me about his love of doing things that he was afraid of. Interestingly, however, I never saw, or experienced, once, this truth. Another friend mentioned, “do one thing every day that you are afraid of.”. But what is that? Crossing the street? Being in an elevator? Or risk, exposures, dangerous thinking — actions that are bold, things that stride out past where you are comfortable. Being fear full is a two sided affair — one part, to the willingness to risk everything to get across to another vista; you climb the impossible, to reach a new view. And, too, to fear — you are exposed to the liability of losing everything.

Robert Bly, the poet, spoke of poems that take the leap. Read on. You jump somewhere, you take off, when you read them — they push you over the edge. Flight, you are aloft. To someplace new. Another way of seeing. Another form of being.

There is, to the nature of fear, a way of being timid in everything. A kind of living that puts everything neatly in its place, but allays the character of the incessant emergence of chaos.

Things happen, things come into play that can’t be anticipated. And fear merely lets them in. Chaos reigns in the perceived management of hopeful harmonies — but that is the harmony, in a way — knowing that in the most carefully orchestrated serenity, discord can barge in. Knowing fear, looking at it, allows for the observant placement of objects, in time — that you know might be swept away, in a quick gesture of surprise. Arrange, like the balancing of stones. But know that the earth shifts and they can, and will, fall down, to a new arrangement.

I contemplate:

meticulous \muh-TIK-yuh-lus\ adjective
marked by extreme or excessive care in the consideration or treatment of details

“Meticulous” is derived from the Latin word for “fearful” — “meticulosus” — and comes from the Latin noun “metus,” meaning “fear.” Although “meticulous” currently has no “fearful” meanings, it was originally used as a synonym of “frightened” and “timid.” This sense had fallen into disuse by 1700, and in the 19th century “meticulous” acquired a new sense of “overly and timidly careful” (probably influenced by the French word “méticuleux”). This in turn led to the current meaning of “painstakingly careful,” with no connotations of fear at all. The newest use was controversial among some usage commentators at first, but it has since become by far the most common meaning and is no longer considered an error.
© Merriam Webster

Fear. Care less. Care full. Fear less. Fear full.

That’s what I know. What about you?

As I stand

As I stand
out
in the silence
of this morning

there is nothing
to suggest that
I am any thing
less, than alone

A breeze begins.
Distance beckons
and I can feel
just the beginning

of drops, that
come, falling
on my bare
shoulders.

But it is the
sound that is
most compelling,
from that inevitable

quiet, comes that
sound — far out,
reflected on the
island, lying

across from me,
sliding sound of
one million drops
that comes

closer to me, in rain
that shifts to the
leaves, the old
roof, the moist ground

and tells me of
travel — where I
shall be, where I have
been, shall go.

And while I’m here
I’m really there, over
the water, listening
for more.

decatur island | 4.44am

tsg

Krink 3.3.08

Earlier in my life, I’d done some work with graffiti.

Sometimes, I used a spray can — but never unless I was paid. That meaning: that I’d do that for advertising sets, props and installations. And for movie titling treatments. Then I came up with this idea of doing graffiti in bathrooms — especially incredibly funky stalls. But instead of lewd jargoning, I’d write things like — Awake!

Wildly and elegantly calligraphic, in strokes of metallic gold and silver, using special dense brushes from Japan which used a highly toxic xylene fluid with metallic particles in suspension. I still have some, but rarely use them. These days. These graffiti expressions, particularly in NYC, gathered a kind of reputation. I remember people talking about them, in the Village, other spots. Other places. Bear in mind that these were particularly rank locations, bar stalls. Interesting — quick in, quick out.

Now I just use my finger on the glass.

Like this:

But then I heard about Krink. And it all came back. Alan Ket. And the character of the vandal, street art (and Marc Ecko).

http://www.youtube.com/alan_ket

There are some stories to sort out — in the balance between the man, Alan Ket, the graffiti walls of Marc Ecko’s gallery show and installation, angst in NYC (and the reasonable despising of marked and marred city property) and the intrusion of street art.

I will say, however, there’s something incessantly fascinating to me about the raw materials of art. For as long as I’ve been in the space of making things, making art — I’ve held a profound love of the materials. The inks, the handmade paper, the brushes, boards, pigments, ground pigments, compass scribes, scoring tools and bone folders. For now, and for ever. Krink has another spin. And it’s memorable. Scent, touch, texture, the character of the drawn stroke…

More to explore, here: http://www.krink.com/

While I’d never condone graffiti, nor practice it, there’s a legend there; it’s a craft, it’s a statement.

Message found. Story told. Materials intrigue.

I was working in the Dominican Republic this weekend.

On Sunday, I drove around the island, with the boyfriend of one of my clients there.

He drives like I do — wandering. See something, go there. But to explore different entries to the property development we are working for, we had little time to stop and gambol. So I shot from the car, never really looking to crop, to confirm, to set the right dimensions in framing.

I just shot, drive by.

The thing that I learned is that when I did this, somehow a wholly new world of how to see things emerged — completely new ways of framing imagery, without intention. But somehow, in this randomized and speed-by approach, there was a story told, something there, revealed in each image — that I did see, but never expected to turn out in quite this way. Colors and alignments took on new tantalizing juxtapositions.

Here are the images.

Republica Dominicana | 2.4.07

Drive by — then shoot. Try that sometime.

See

tsg|nyc