Speaking in (Other) Voices

I am writing this from a hostel in Punakaiki, which is on the West Coast of the South Island of New Zealand. And I have lost my voice for the second time during this trip! Not being able to speak puts a real damper on traveling, not to mention collaboration! The first time during this trip that this happened was on the "open day" of the collab (Wednesday, March 23). On this day, the public is invited to the site (at their own risk!) to observe the artists in action. Hundreds of people trickled about the site throughout the day, asking questions and looking on...and I couldn't speak. After signing apologetically at people (and having them speak back at me more loudly, which was a bizarre but consistent reaction to my muteness), I finally made a sign to wear (see photo below of me and best bud Steve Haywood, who is wearing his own sign...). To my surprise, I received a hefty share of compliments from my fellow artists for coming up with the best "strategy" for keeping my head down on Open Day.

But of course this was not intentional, and the more time I spend without my voice, the more I reflect on what it means to have one - literally and metaphorically. At this phase of my career as a maker, for example, I think I have developed my own voice in terms of aesthetic and technique. Though it is fluid, it is recognizable to those who know me. What happens to each artist's voice, though, when we collaborate? I believe that in the best possible scenario, all the voices blend harmoniously to form a single new one.

The most common question I get about my participation in collaborative events is, "How does it work?" Though the answer is really, "lots of ways," and it's far too complicated to explain in one entry, I will describe to you the process of making for one piece I worked on entitled "Infinity," pictured below (now in the collection of Lindsay Embree).

On the second day of the collab, Renate von Petersdorff, a ceramic artist from Blenheim (on the South Island), came by my bench and asked if I would like to play with one of her gorgeous raku porcelain "donut" pieces. I had not met Renate before, but was inspired immediately by the piece, so I said yes and added it to my growing pile. As I considered the gem, I was introduced to the work of Bruce Fergus, a sculptor who lives near Renate. Bruce works with a range of materials (and is also a talented musician), but what drew me to him was his love of written language systems and symbols. I asked him to choose a word and write it in Augum (?spell), an ancient language made up of hash marks made above, below or through a center line. He chose the word "Infinity," which you can see here beneath a mica washer on the lower disc on the finished pendant.

From there, it was up to me to put together the pieces using other materials we had on site (in this case, silver sheet which I milled and textured, mica that I brought from home and black rubber cord. I am happy to say that the piece sold to another collab artist at the auction.

Collaboration happens in many, many ways at these events (and it also fails to happen from time to time - more on that later), and all are gifts.