The Rest of the News from Monterey

Asilomar Gateway

I wrote a blog for The Architect’s Newspaper about the Monterey Design Conference. They wanted it short and sweet. So I decided to post some of the long and sour here.

Although I attended almost all the programs, I struggled to find a theme. In some ways, it was a relief that the conference organizers didn’t impose one.

If architecture is going to survive, it needs both research and humility. To initiate research, often without payment, takes a lot of confidence. But confidence is rendered more believable when mixed with humility. The media machine, of which I am a card-carrying member, has put too much emphasis on fame and notoriety. Students entering architecture school think they have a chance of becoming famous. If you look at the numbers, I think they have a better chance of becoming a movie star.

I have a lot of regard for young architects who try to carve their own path without too much focus on fame. That was the case with most of the “Emerging Talent” sessions. Only one of them seemed to have been plucked from the magazines.

All four of the “Emerging Talent” sessions shared a theme of research. I am still wondering whether the robots of Andreas Froech (of Machineous) can make wall facades. But the mysterious wall at SFMOMA created by Andrew Kudless (of Matsys) changes depending where you stand. [both images] I also loved the straw exhibition building and simple graphics presented by the two partners of Rael San Fratello, even though I wasn’t quite sure what they were up to.

IDEO Fellow Liz Ogbu

Although some architects, like Minnesota’s David Salmela, have very modest practices, and others are growing their firms with international commissions, like Jeanne Gang, there was, for the most part, a refreshing humility. Salmela’s slides couldn’t be seen because of poor lighting, and he is not a sparkling lecturer, but his Midwest roots and sure hand were reminders that a very small practice can produce exquisite work. Very importantly, he read two poems as part of his presentation. For him, place is not just the physical locale where you work, but the emotional place your work emanates from. He reminded us that architects cannot live on design alone.

Jeanne Gang must have the reputation of being the kindest world-famous architect. Having won a MacArthur “genius grant” has not changed her style at all. The humble speakers are often the funniest too. Although she anchors her work in research, her academic explorations result in some powerful completed projects, like the famous Aqua tower in Chicago, where her firm employed topographic studies to create unexpected views from freeform balconies.

Dr. Dickson Despommier from Columbia, who spoke about Vertical Farms, looked like a well-rehearsed TED lecturer. But he seemed to follow an unspoken theme that all of us are feeling: “Where do we go now?” He claims that 80% of available land is already being farmed and that the runoff is destroying our rivers and oceans. His solution to the world’s food crisis is to create vertical indoor gardens. There were a lot of statistics presented in his well-paced presentation, but the audience didn’t seem convinced. Perhaps because he didn’t relate it to design?

Communications consultant Yosh Asato was very convincing about the possibilities of social media. She anchored the panel with a very concise and practical exploration of the possibilities, using real-world examples. Moderator (and frequent MDC attendee) Cliff Pearson, deputy editor of Architectural Record, told the group that the panel wanted to focus on the implications for practice, not marketing. Certainly there are several obvious uses in planning and public participation. But there is still scant evidence that social media impacts design. Although, as Asato pointed out, one housing developer and architect team did use it to test design options in the marketplace. Kelsey Campbell-Dollaghan, content director for Architizer, was clear that social media won’t create design, but may enable it.

Bill Leddy with Cliff Pearson

Tim Culvahouse and Sam Lubell at Gibson Beach

Maybe Los Angeles design star Michael Maltzan didn’t quite follow the “humble” theme, but his range of work, from San Francisco State University’s new performing arts complex to an interior-focused house next to an exposed Neutra house to his numerous and extremely varied projects for Skid Row Housing in LA, did delight the crowd. You could feel the audience perk up when he showed the glowing band shell in Playa Vista Park. Certainly this is one architect who is unafraid of the power of design, even if the project’s budget is very modest.

But the highlight of the show came on Sunday morning. Landscape architect Peter Walker’s presentation about the design process for the World Trade Memorial was beautifully organized, open, and moving. To accomplish such a simple and powerful design on such a contested and complex site required someone with a full, rich career behind him and all the wisdom and patience that brings. He is the only Monterey lecturer that I have ever seen receive a standing ovation.

One of the happy accidents of the conference was to pair Walker’s inspiring wisdom, the result of his long arc, with the inspiring optimism of Borja Ferrater, a young Spanish architect who studied biology in the US and practices with his father, sister, and brother-in-law in Barcelona (a real family affair). Over the years, one of the successes of the conference has been its ability to bring in international talent to shake things up. Ferrater is the son of the well-known architect Carlos Ferrater. When Borja joined the practice, it was reorganized into the Office of Architecture in Barcelona. Ferrater’s occasional mispronunciations did nothing to deter from the work; indeed it added to his humility and humor. He proudly presented the work of his father and was always careful to state whether he had been involved in a project or not.

The scale of housing ranged from camps for children with special needs to a mansion to Olympic housing to a botanical garden. He mentioned that his father often spoke of buildings working like machines. Borja said that their buildings are like Swiss watches, but not as boring. One his most important phrases was “optimistic engagement.” Ferrater is one those rare architects whose work and manner seemed indistinguishable, and that’s why he was so popular. Most of the attendees were looking for a reason to just feel better, to be optimistic. And this rigorous work, grounded in place and geometry, seemed to fill the bill.

The Asilomar setting remains beautiful, even though there were the usual grumblings about the poor quality of the food and the rising cost of the rooms, which are approaching resort prices for rudimentary accommodation and nonexistent service. The lack of enough meal tickets for attendees was just one of the many logistical oversights.

The Post Party overlooking Gibson Beach

Invariably, the technology at the awards program fails. Some say it is Julia Morgan’s ghost exacting revenge for so few women architects being recognized. This year’s event acknowledged some of state’s best architects, but the presentation was unbearably long. But these mishaps add to the comical DIY camp quality of the affair. Unfortunately, due to the relatively high cost of the event (and housing), there are too few young practitioners in attendance. A few folks told me that there are far cheaper rooms down the road and on Air BnB. This is something future conferences might address.

Jill Pilaroscia with the author just before the bust.

Perhaps the weirdest moment of the conference for me was when a staff member threatened one of the many drinking parties with arrest and fines. We all felt like teenagers again. While the for-profit operators don’t seem to understand the deep beauty of the place, the good news is that the Phoebe Hearst Social Hall is being renovated by Page & Turnbull with interiors by BraytonHughes Design Studio. Next time perhaps we will be able to gather in the original Julia Morgan tearoom without fear of prosecution. Nah, they will close too early. See you in two years!

Gibson Beach

The Foundation Maybe Kinda Funky

We had every intention of going to the San Francisco version of the Occupy Wall Street rally Saturday afternoon before going to dinner in the city. But we were waylaid by an extended weekend nap. Not wanting to miss the start of the revolution, I took BART downtown on Sunday to check out Occupy San Francisco. (This was before the police cleared away the tarps Sunday evening.) The protest continues in front of the Federal Reserve Bank. There were perhaps two dozen protestors and only three policemen. Over at the camp itself in the south end of Justin Herman Plaza, there were several more people mostly hanging out. The north end of the park is being turned into the holiday ice rink. Dividing these two sides is an avenue of craft merchants. Overhead a zip line whines and patrons fly like Tinkerbell.

At first sight, the encampment is not exactly welcoming. There are piles of clothes and sleeping bags. One man rakes the sand like a monk while another woman uses a large broom to brush away garbage. The site didn’t smell bad, but it wasn’t a Boy Scout camp either. A woman in rainbow tie-dyed pants was making peanut butter sandwiches for the hungry. A man pedaled a stationary bicycle to power a laptop. In many ways, it looked like the homeless camp that used to be at UN Plaza, but without the orderly rows of tents.

The question is, can this ragtag band of homeless folk form a movement? So far, it does not look like this will be the epicenter of the revolution that will overturn the banking industry. The heart of the movement is in New York in the belly of the beast, Wall Street. Equally important are the live lines of resistance that are not emanating from the left coast. No, they are in surprising places like Buffalo, Atlanta, San Diego, and Austin, as well as international cities like Rome, Toronto, and London.

I would have felt more comfortable yesterday surrounded by other middle-class professionals in button-down shirts, jeans, and sensible shoes. But when we return to our homes, the fort is being held down by a lot of folks who don’t have anywhere else to go. I might not relate to them, but maybe they are the authentic foundation of this movement.

At the dedication of the Martin Luther King Jr. memorial in Washington, President Obama said that King would have approved of the Occupy Wall Street movement: “Dr. King understood that peace without justice was no peace at all.” I have been concerned that this memorial and the corporatization of King’s memory have reduced his fundamental radicalism. Obama returned him to the fiery pulpit of social justice. Of course, King drew great inspiration from another radical preacher. It is helpful to be reminded that the bearded, long-haired guy in sandals would recognize those funky folks at Occupy SF as His people.

President Obama’s remarks on Occupy Wall Street begin at 15:45.

September 11, 2011: Snapshots from a decade ago

"Twin Towers, Twin Peaks"
Collage by Adrianne Wortzel, 1981

Twenty years ago, a friend of mine gave me a piece of her art called Twin Towers, Twin Peaks, a title that links her city, New York, to my city, San Francisco. Slightly larger than a postcard, the image superimposes the bustling area around the World Trade Center towers over two Egyptian pyramids. I have always treasured this enigmatic gift that time and experience have imbued with a particular significance.

The events surrounding our September 11 story began in the city of Toulouse, a miniature and rosier Paris, in the deep southwest of France towards the Spanish border. We had had a honeymoon-like trip exploring the town’s sites, eating rich French foods like cassoulet and braised kidneys, and looking over the river from our garret terrace in a beautiful old nouveau-ramshackle hotel (the elevator didn’t go all the way to our room). For a day or two, we wandered through the open parks and along the canals, basking in the sunshine and recovering from the jetlag.

Kenny in Toulouse September 2001

We drove a few hours from Toulouse, heading for the small town of Couiza in the Lot Valley, green with leafy trees just about to turn. On the way, we stopped in Limoux, but it was too early in the day for their local champagne, so we bought nougat and wandered aimlessly along the river bank before heading on our way. We were checking into the hotel (formerly a castle) where the wedding of Paul’s cousin James was to take place when the patron of the establishment came rushing in, barking in rapid-fire French that something calamitous was happening in New York. All we could understand was “kamikaze” and “World Trade Center.” On the way up to our room, the matron said there had been a lot of trouble in the Middle East in the past few days. We scurried along behind, expecting some trifling incident at JFK that the owner had misinterpreted.

Kenny and Paul at the entrance to the hotel
in Couiza shortly after arriving

We turned on the television, and from that point on we were, like Americans all over the globe, glued to the screen for hours. In the late afternoon, we walked around the village and realized that we might not return home for a long time. Paul’s aunt and uncle, soon to arrive from England, would have room for us, and we could hitch a ride with them, so we would just go back there if need be. We wouldn’t be homeless or without family, and we could probably stay there as long as necessary.

Before the arrival of any of the other wedding guests, we were strangely isolated in a little French village in the era before ubiquitous instant communication. There was only one thing to talk about, to think about, and only each other to talk to. Over dinner, we found it hard to find anything to say.

We woke on September 12 and drove to the next village, Rennes-le-Château, to find the Internet café above the bookshop. Like everything French, it opens and closes on its own schedule, so we waited out the hour with coffee on a gravel terrace. The Internet point wasn’t exactly a café, but a room with two computers. We wrote to our friends in Manhattan, hoping that they were OK. One of them had witnessed the event and had been part of the rush uptown but was not injured. As we sat in this strange room, dealing with the frustratingly counterintuitive French keyboard in this unfamiliar place, we found out that the man at the other computer, who lived in New Zealand and was also trying to track down his family and friends, owned the house across the street from Paul in San Francisco. We later discovered that Rennes-le-Château is notorious for paranormal events, and that the bookshop we were in stocks exclusively New Age and psychic activity titles.

The view from Rennes-le-Chateau on September 12, 2001

Paul’s relatives wouldn’t be arriving for a few more days, and so rather than spend hours in front of a television, growing more numb, we decided to drive up into the Pyrenees and possibly all the way into Spain. Our first stop was a town called Ax-les-Thermes, where the town square consists of a basin of constantly running warm mineral water, heavy with salt and as rejuvenating as a long nap. We bought a couple of sandwiches, rolled up our pants, and soaked our feet together with the locals. Nature was expressing its love by cleaning our feet.

The town square at ax-les-Thermes

Driving on, we eventually reached the Cavernes de Niaux, marked by a great Corten bull-like sculpture/entrance pavilion designed by Italian architect Massimiliano Fuksas. I remembered having seen the design in an architecture journal, and so we drove up to the entrance and stopped. We had no reservation but were able quickly to join in the last tour of the day. We paid the fee, donned our miners’ helmets, and rushed into the dark cool caves, understanding little of what the French tour guide said. In a few words of English, she told us that scholars now believe that the paintings were created as art, not as a symbol for something else. That the bison, deer, and horses were painted between 13,000 and 14,000 years ago, apparently without definition or purpose, was deeply reassuring. In the face of so much pointless and cataclysmic destruction, I felt like we were connecting with a long and reassuring arc of human history.

Entrance to the Cavernes de Niaux

Niaux cave

Niaux cave

Recently, Paul has been talking about Iris Murdoch, one of his favorite writers. Murdoch, a philosophy professor who wrote novels, felt that patient attention to art is a form of prayer and that art is a sacrament. In her book Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals, Murdoch writes, “A sacrament provides an external visible place for an internal invisible act of the spirit. The apprehension of beauty, in art or nature, often in fact seems to be like a temporarily located spiritual experience which is a source of good energy.” That day in the caves, it was apparent that the arc of that sacrament had stretched over fourteen millennia. This was a good sign.

The wedding that we had come to France for took place on September 15 in the courtyard of the castle where we were staying. It was a simple ceremony illuminated by candles and the slanted afternoon light. The party afterwards included many courses, skits from Pagnol films, music, poetry, and lots of dancing. During dinner, the bridegroom’s father, Paul’s Uncle Graham, offered a toast that mentioned us and what we were experiencing as Americans. In response, I thanked Graham and said that there was no meaning in what happened in America. The only way forward is to take what filled that very room, what this very celebration was about, and share more of it, because love is all we have. I still feel that way.

James and Chloe getting married on September 15, 2001

Art Mind: Kurt Schwitters and "Create" at the Berkeley Art Museum

Kurt Schwitters: Mz 601, 1923; paint and paper on cardboard; 17 × 15 in.;
Sprengel Museum, Hannover, loan from Kurt and Ernst Schwitters Stiftung.
© 2011 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / VG Bild-Kunst, Bonn.

My favorite art shows remind me of an open mind, a mind that is, at least for a time, not distracted by finances, traffic, children, and what author Walker Percy called "everydayness." A mind apart, completely focused on expression, on arranging or rearranging a small part of the universe. Some might call it a child’s mind. It is the purity of childhood combined with a lifetime of seeing.

The other night, I went to an opening at Creative Growth, an art center for the developmentally disabled a few blocks from our home in Oakland. Architect Anne Fougeron has guest curated a show called "Opposition/Composition." Most of the pieces had an architectural angle, but only as an organizing principle. Most of the pieces felt fresh, the result of an open mind at work.

Artist: Natascha Haehlen
Sculpture at the Opposition/Composition show
at Creative Growth curated by Anne Fougeron

Over the weekend, I went to see the Kurt Schwitters show at the Berkeley Art Museum and found that there was a concurrent show, "Create," with art from Creative Growth and two other similar art centers, Creativity Explored in San Francisco and the NIAD Art Center in Richmond. Mounting both shows simultaneously makes this small museum exciting. On the one hand, "Create" explicitly shows what are often referred to as outsider artists. Schwitters is now part of the canon, but he was also an outsider for most his life.

Kurt Schwitters: Untitled (okolade), 1926;
collage of cut printed, and marbleized papers on paperboard;
image: 3 7/8 x 2 7/8 in.;
the Menil Collection, Houston.
Photo: Janet Woodard, Houston.

Kurt Schwitters MERZ 1926,3. Cicero, 1926;
paint on wood nailed on wood; 26-7/8 x 19-5/8 x 3-1/8 in.;
Sammlung NORD/LB in der Niedersächsischen Sparkassenstiftung,
Sprengel Museum Hannover
Photo: Michael Herling / Aline Gwose,
Sprengel Museum Hannover © ARS New York.

Kurt Schwitters: Untitled (Silvery), 1939;
collage, silver paint and cardboard on paper on transparent paper;
7 7/8 x 6 1/8 in.;
Kurt und Ernst Schwitters Stiftung, Hannover.
Photo courtesy: Kurt Schwitters Archives at the Sprengel Museum Hannover.
Photographers: Michael Herling / Aline Gwose,
Sprengel Museum Hannover © ARS, New York

Although the structure of the Berkeley Art Museum has been compromised by necessary seismic interventions, it remains one of my favorite modern buildings in the Bay Area. It opened as I entered middle school, and I visited a number of times throughout the 1970s. The whole family took a rare outing together to see the Claes Oldenburg show in 1971, which opened my eyes to what modern art might be. (Melting electric plugs!) For several years, a few of us from high school made almost weekly trips to see the baffling Hans Hoffman canvases on the top floor. The gentle ascent on ramps between galleries allows the viewer to slow down, focus on art, and then reconnect with the shared space occupied by other viewers. You can also take the elevator to the top and work your way down. This is a perfect way to move between the Schwitters show and the "Create" artists to see if they create a dialog. Both shows are both up for a few more weeks.

Installation view of Create, curated by Lawrence Rinder with Matthew Higgs.
On view at the Berkeley Art Museum and Pacific Film Archive (BAM/PFA)
from May 11 through September 25, 2011.
Photo: Sibila Savage.

Berkeley Art Museum

Schwitters lived from 1887 to 1948. He enjoyed some recognition and success in his career in Germany in the era following World War I. However, after Hitler’s rise to power in 1933, Schwitters was ostracized and shown only in exhibitions of deviant art. Eventually he moved to Norway and later England, but was unable to rebuild his famous three-dimensional Merzbau or coalesce a movement around his ideas.

The artists participating in "Create" are mostly working at the beginning of this century and are considered outsiders because of their disabilities. Despite the decades separating Schwitters and these local artists, there are many commonalities. In some pieces, it is the juxtaposition of found objects or the surprising combinations of color and words or letters; in others, it is the apparent randomness that results in a balance just short of chaos. But all of the pieces show the unconscious at work. That moment when deliberation or intent gives way to pure action, pure joy—that moment when time is lost. I think this is what art philanthropist Dominique de Menil was after in her many curatorial projects. A hint of the divine. No surprise that the Schwitters show was organized by the Menil Collection.

Lance Rivers: Richmond San Rafael Bridge, 2010;
ink and ballpoint pen on wood; 8 5/16 x 14 1/2 in.;
courtesy of the artist and Creativity Explored, San Francisco.

Mary Belknap: Untitled, 2006;
acrylic on fabric; 27 3⁄4 × 16 1⁄2 in.;
courtesy of the artist and Creativity Explored, San Francisco.

James Montgomery: Untitled, 2007;
correction fluid pen, ink, and acrylic on paper; 22 × 29 1⁄2 in.;
courtesy of Creativity Explored, San Francisco.

Rarely do two shows speak to each other this well about unconscious motivations without trying to make literal connections. While it may be unlikely that many of the artists in "Create" know about Schwitters, they evidence a similar desire to make order.

In the lowest gallery is the most ambitious aspect of the Schwitters show, a rebuilding of his much loved (and forever lost) Merzbau, a three-dimensional collage environment that existed in Schwitters’ Hanover flat. (It was destroyed by Allied bombers in 1943.) It has been reconstructed from historic photographs. Not every piece is there, but the essence of the room envelops a few people at a time and transports them. Wandering through the space, I kept thinking this space was timeless. All of the artists are part of one great all-encompassing art mind.

Peter Bissegger: Reconstruction of Kurt Schwitters's Merzbau,
1981-83 (original ca. 1930-37, destroyed 1943);
154-3/4 x 228 3/8 x 181 in.;
Sprengel Museum Hannover.
Photo: Michael Herling / Aline Gwose,
Sprengel Museum Hannover (c) Peter Bisseger.

For more information:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kurt_Schwitters
www.menil.org
www.creativityexplored.org
www.creativegrowth.org
http://niadart.org/
http://www.bampfa.berkeley.edu/

Staying with Art: An interview with Seattle artist Jenny Fillius

I first met Jenny Fillius when she transferred to our high school in 1974. She was the tallest and most stylish student I had ever seen. I couldn’t quite believe she was a student. Her family’s home on the bay in Point Richmond was like a bohemian refuge. By the time we graduated in 1976, we were pals and went to Mexico with another close friend of ours, Cherie. Somehow we all returned in one piece. I remember attending her first wedding in Point Richmond in 1980, but we lost touch later in the decade. Subsequently, she moved to Seattle, remarried, and had her daughter, Montana. When Paul and I were planning a trip to Seattle for a concert, I wrote to her and we met at Zeitgeist, where she was showing her artwork.

Q: When we first met in high school, you were already doing a lot of drawing. Would you say you were then self-identified as an artist?

Fillius: I don't know. When I was in kindergarten I wanted to be an artist. People would say, "What do you want to be?" "I want to be an artist." Drawing was just an integral part of my life.

Q: Did your parents encourage it?

Fillius: Oh, my mother did. When I was a little older and stayed up all night smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and drawing, I could wake her up at 4 a.m., and say, "Look what I did," and she'd be very excited. When I was in high school, she bought a membership to the Museum of Modern Art, and I could get out of school if there was a lecture that she thought I should go to.

Q: What happened with your art after high school?

Fillius: From high school I went to junior college and took drawing, but I wasn't good at school. Then I decided I'd go to L.A., and I did extra work on TV commercials. Then I had to get out of there because it was really bad. I came back to the Bay Area and I got married. I went to the California College of Arts and Crafts and took life drawing, but not really.

I signed up for the class, and our first assignment was to draw our own genitals. We were even told how to sit against a wall and position a mirror between our legs. I decided I wasn't hip enough for that, and I wanted out of the class. Because I was a day late, I only got $400 back, and I had to write a four-page essay about why I wanted out of the class. Then I took color and design, and I was in there with all these young kids, and even though I was in my early 20s, I felt out of place.

Then I was hooking rugs, still drawing, just doing all kinds of different things. I was hooking rugs when I came up here, and nobody respected them, because they went on the floor, and I didn't want them to be wall hangings.

They were really great, colorful, 100-percent wool. I was collecting skirts from Goodwill and the Pendleton outlet. I would dye the wool on the stove. I sold a few, but they took me forever to do. I thought, "Well, I do these designs that go on the floor, I might as well be doing paintings, if people think these rugs could be on the wall."

So then I started painting, and then I took a class doing oil sticks, and I loved it. I was cranking out paintings right and left and having shows. My first show, I sold 14 paintings, and so an artist friend said, "You need to up your prices." So with each show I was upping them, and then I priced myself out of the market.

The paintings were just okay. They weren't great, a lot of dogs and cats. I guess it would be considered lowbrow. So then I burned out my shoulder.

Q: Doing repetitive work?

Fillius: Yeah, and taking care of my daughter. I felt that if I had a show, I couldn't show anything I'd shown before. I had to have new work, and I would have four shows a year. I'd show anywhere, I didn't care. I still will show anywhere. Any place that wants to hang my work, I am there.

Eventually I had to get a job. I sold real estate for four years, and I was terrible at it. I'd take somebody to a house, and I'd say, "Oh, you don't want to buy this house, do you?" I did this before I had my daughter.

One day I was sitting in the living room of our house, I guess it was 2007, and I had an empty Diet Coke can in my hand, and I thought, "I should be able to do something with this." So I had my sketchbook, and I took a piece of paper, and I made a little bird out of it. I figured out how to make a little model for a bird. Then realized that if you fold the aluminum, it breaks.

I knew I had to make stronger wings. A friend gave me all her Neiman Marcus cookie containers, so I'd make tin wings, and then I could cut out the bodies and make the beak and the tail, and I figured all that out and put them on Etsy, and as soon as I put them on, they'd sell.

Then I was having all this tin left over from the wings. I already had a tin collection, which I started probably when I first moved here in 1986.

Q: So this was just whatever tin you came across?

Fillius: Oh, no, English coffee tins or tea tins from Holland and England, the really decorative ones.

Q: You were collecting a very particular kind of tin? But you didn't know what you were going to do with them?

Fillius: Well, I put things in them like chess pieces or Bingo pieces. Now they are holding buttons, palm trees, and little rubber dogs for the little assemblages I am making. Sometimes I'll take one off the shelf and cut it up, if I think I can use it, but I don't like to.

Q: How did you get into this medium?

Fillius: A friend of mine, Bill Herberholz, was teaching a two-day workshop on tinwork. He is a former Trappist monk and the youngest of 16 children, and his tinwork is about the childhood he never had. So he does a lot work with toys, really colorful toys.

I went to the class, and it was just like, "Okay, wow, this is just too good," and I just started. It took off. I dreamt about tin every night for three weeks.

Q: Do people give you tin?

Fillius: Oh, yes. The residents at the retirement community where I work give me a lot of tin. Then there are people that leave tin in my driveway or at our gate.

Q: What tools do you use to do this work?

Fillius: I have this really nice, big, rubber mallet that I whack the tin to flatten it out. Before that, I used to put it in the driveway, and I would back over it with my car. The neighbors would see me going back and forth in the driveway flattening it, because I didn't know how else to do it.

I have some really good tin snips. I bought every pair of tin snips I could find, from aviator tin snips that are two feet long, to little things. Then I'd go through awls. I'd break the points off. That's what I use to make the hole in the tin and the wood, before the nail goes in.

Q: Do you have to wear gloves?

Fillius: I don't. I get cuts.

Q: What about goggles?

Fillius: My glasses work, but sometimes things do shoot. I find it in my bra, or I'll track it into the house, and I'll be in the house, and I'll see something shiny, and I'll think, "Oh, heck," and then I go pick it up. Tin is really hard to cut, and I try to stay away from the really heavy-duty stuff, like a tray.

Q: Do you go in search of tin?

Fillius: Last summer, I took a trip to Ohio to go the world's longest yard sale. I drove through Ohio, Kentucky, and Tennessee down to Chattanooga buying tin and dollhouses. I shipped it. Cost more than buying it. But I was so pleased when I got it home, because dollhouses are great. The deer jumping through the window and the one about a turtle, they came from dollhouses.

Oh Dear

Q: Are there a lot of little tricks that you taught yourself about making these?

Fillius: (Removes Look What I Found from the wall.) I took copper tubing and a pipe cutter, and that's what makes this 3D. This one's fun because the goldfish looks like it's floating, and that's pop-riveted. See the little things in here? It turns out that I couldn't find my pipe-cutter one day, so I was just taking metal and rolling it into little tubes to keep it afloat. I also had to come up with a way to finish the edges so they aren’t sharp.

Look What I Found

Q: So, talk to me about the imagery, and do you sketch these pieces out?

Fillius: Yes, I sketch them out, but the ideas come not only from the tin itself, but from everywhere. Here are the drawings for Shakespeare Kick in the Rear. That idea came from a game at school. It was just like Charlie Brown, Lucy, and the football. You knew something bad was going to happen, but you did it anyway. A kid comes up and says, "Shake," and you'd shake their hand, and they grab your hand and pull you around, and then say, "Spear, kick you in the rear," and they'd kick you in the butt. And you'd laugh about it, but then you'd think, "Oh, that was dumb."

Shakespeare Kick in the Rear

Somebody said "elephant in the room," and instantly I had this image of an elephant in the room. And then I thought of a couple sitting in overstuffed chairs, somebody knitting and somebody reading the paper.

Elephant in the Room

I've got a lot that are about making the most of your time, because that's a real issue, you know, after almost dying. So this one is, "You're gonna die some day." It’s a good message. People should be aware of it.

Same thing with the cakes. The cakes are going to say, "Your time is running out," you know, "Don't waste your time."

You're Gonna Die Some Day

Q: So, where did the swimmer come from?

Fillius: The swimmer was actually a box that I did years ago. Annie Lamott wrote a story about her son Sam, and she talked about having a God-box, and so I started making these elaborate boxes that have secret openings where you could put your prayer in. The idea for me wasn't necessarily prayer, but it was positive thoughts.

So, this was a box with this clay woman with her big feet. Her feet were huge, because the idea was that it was underwater and it was magnified. Then there were all these rubber sharks that went around the box, and I loved that.

The Swimmer

And I still have it, and I love it. I got a game that had sharks, and thought, "I'm doing it again," 'cause boy, if anybody knows, you can prepare all you want, and the morning you get up and you have that car crash and you die, when you got up that morning and you were having your coffee, you didn't know it. You didn't know you were going to die that day.

Devil's Pie Hole

Q: How long does it take to do one of these pieces?

Fillius: Days and days. First there's all the collecting. Then there's finding the right pieces. Then there's cutting it up, and then there's putting it together and deciding whether it's okay. Cutting out letters takes me a long time.

Sometimes I'll do something and then I'll think, "No, there's got to be an element here." Then I have to find that. Then if I’ve already nailed it all down, I have to pry it up and not scratch the piece, so they take a long time.

Q: Do you work at a long stretch?

Fillius: I like to have blocks of time. So typically, I don't see my friends. I see them on Friday nights – that’s it. Sometimes I get up an hour before I have to go to work, and I will go out there and cut things out. On my day off I will go out there until the day is done.

Q: What part do you enjoy the most?

Fillius: I like figuring things out. That's the fun part, like figuring the deer coming out the window, and showing the window broken, and then figuring out her flippers, or attaching that little metal bug to that one, and you figure, okay, you've got to pop-rivet it in such a way to a piece of tin, and then you've got to nail down that tin. But then you've got that little nub in the back, so what are you going to do about that? So, little sorts of things, that's where it really gets exciting, because it's a puzzle from my brain that isn't like any other part of my life.

Q: So, are people buying these pieces?

Fillius: Oh, yeah. I've had them sell within three hours of being on Facebook. I sold a big one. It was really sad, because I had just finished it. But it's all about ego. "Look what I did." And I put it on there, and then somebody says, "How much?" And I tell them. They say, "Okay," and then it's gone, and nobody's even seen it. I don't even know that people look at my stuff that much on Facebook, and then I've shipped it off and it's gone from my life. I would have liked to have had it for a show so other people could have seen it.

It's interesting because they're not what you think of when you think of recycled material art. To me they are the equivalent of my paintings, but better, and the craftsmanship is really good on these pieces.

Part of it is that it's my sense of humor. These are my stories. This comes from my imagination, my sketchbook. This isn't something that somebody could look at and go home and do. You might be able to copy a painting, but not these. You've got to have a lot of tin. Not everybody's going to be able to find this tin.

Emerald City

Q: But why is this expression more successful for you than paint?

Fillius: Because in this town, you can't swing a cat without hitting a painter. Everybody paints. In fact, when I was little, I thought that's what you did when you got old, because both of my grandmothers were painters. Not everybody is cutting up tin.


Q: So some of it is scarcity, but don't you think there's something else?

Fillius: The transformation is a big part. I had this tin, and it was so awful and so tacky. But once you cut those cats out of the tin and took them away from the horribleness, they transformed. Suddenly, these were some pretty good kitties. Then they were looking through a window with some birds.

Q: I am interested in the critical eye. The tin pieces seem visually complex.

Fillius: They are smaller than the paintings. I'm already using material that's pre-designed. It has designs on it. Maybe I'm lazy?

Liar Liar

Q: There’s something fabulous about taking things that are broken and almost worthless and giving them a new life.

Fillius: Sometimes I get stuff that's pristine. I'll leave it outside for a few months, and it starts decaying. It fades, and gets rusty, and funky, and then you back over it with your car--

Q: And you're done. How do people find you?

Fillius: Well, if you Googled tin artwork, or recycled tin artwork, for some reason, and I swear to God I did not pay for this, I'm one of the first four people that come up.

Q: Are you in conversation with the other tin artists?

Fillius: I am in a group show in an office building. I like those because they don't take a commission. The space was too big for me to fill. So, I asked two other tin artists to take part.


Q: Tell me about the woman and the birdcage piece.

Fillius: I was working on it, and my husband and daughter weren’t there. I thought that she'd come home after college, you know, from being at school. She didn't come home, and I kept listening for the gate, and I thought, "Oh, my God, this is what it's going to be like when she's moved out." And so I was thinking of empty nest and no one's home. They've all flown the coop.

For more information on Jenny and her work please visit www.jennyfillius.com

Re-arrangeable Flowers

Finding the Right Line

A Conversation with Jenny Phillips

Jenny Phillips is showing her encaustic artwork at the Inclusions Gallery in Bernal Heights from July 8-August 14. Although her pieces retain traces of her background in graphic design, they reveal multiple sensibilities at play.

Q: When did you start making art?

Phillips: Before high school. I have been painting for a very long time. Some of the work was figurative and some was spare and abstract—I haven’t really developed much, have I? In college I combined photography and printmaking, but it wasn’t terribly interesting. I also did a lot of silk screening, which led me to graphic design and away from fine art. Recently, I’ve been working with issues of scale, changing the scale of details, most often those found in nature.

Q: Where are you showing your work?

Phillips: At a small gallery in Bernal Heights called Inclusions. I had been in a group show there and they asked me to do a solo show. But I can’t produce a lot of work with the graphic design business and family obligations, so I suggested a joint show with another encaustic artist.

Q: What’s your goal with this work? Why do you do it?

Phillips: My goal? To do more and more art. I do it for the pure joy. It’s embarrassing to talk about it. When I am into it I just love the process of creating. I try to get everything to its most simple state, and derive energy from the work’s silence.

Q: Which artists inspire you?

Phillips: I feel connected to Agnes Martin and Robert Ryman, but I don’t have a complex theory about their work. I remember walking into a Ryman exhibition and hearing the ocean. When art moves you, several senses come into play.

I think Martin’s work is akin to textile in its simplicity, which I love. Yet, it’s also mysterious. The historical context of when she was working is inspiring; at that time, abstract expressionists like Motherwell were pursuing just the opposite. I think she was brave.

I also really love Ben Nicholson.

Q: But didn’t he do a lot of figurative work?

Phillips: He did a lot of pieces that are just linework. It is simple, but he layers. I think he influences me.

I work a lot on paper. There is no conscious intention when I am making a piece. I mostly want to feel that line, and have the confidence that I know where that line should go. When I don’t sense that, the piece doesn’t work out well. But when it comes together, I feel it inside. That’s where the confidence comes from.

Q: How did you start working in encaustic?

Phillips: I attended a workshop at class at the Kala Institute in Berkeley. Besides the luminosity, I love the sensuous, tactile nature of the material, and the way it smells. I used to worry about all those odors but then I just opened the windows and told the family to get used to it! Every sense is going when I am working in this medium.

Q: Is it hard to work with?

Phillips: It isn’t hard, but it depends on what you are trying to do with it. You have to understand what it can and cannot do. I am impatient so I don’t like the heat gun, and will use the torch instead. Like when I am cooking dinner, if it says put the oven on 150, I’ll put it on 450. The time thing gets in my way.

I like the material’s inconsistency but I don’t like the bubbles which develop if you rush encaustic. This piece in front of me isn’t working; I have put on 40 layers because I can’t get what I want.

I am also trying a more sculptural piece that has a lot of texture, to get away from this smooth surface. I built up this piece, white on white, and just lines. I want it to be very tactile and emotive. But I am not there yet.

In all my encaustic work, I really care that the surface feels good.

Line Weave 16 x 20

Works on Paper

Q: Did you get going right after the workshop?

Phillips: There was a studio in Santa Cruz where you could do this kind of work, but that was too far to travel, so I started working in my office. That was not OK. You need to stay super clean for graphic design, and I was getting wax on my comps and my tools and everything was getting smudged. I had to separate the two kinds of work. The studio space just got finished; I am taking over the family room!

Q: Did you practice art while you were a graphic designer?

Phillips: Whenever I finished a job I would take a few months off and take another art class. Every break from graphic work meant time for painting.

Q: So what drew you to graphic design in the first place?

Phillips: When I graduated from college I came home and my mother asked me what I wanted to do. The only thing I liked was making stuff, and I didn’t think I had a natural talent but I said, “graphic design.” I looked in the Times and there was an ad for an entry level graphic designer at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. She said, “You don’t know a thing, you’ll be perfect.”

I had no portfolio just silkscreen posters from college and it wasn’t a great interview. Then the woman asked me my birthday. When I said, “December 18th,” she said, “Oh you’re a Sagittarius. That’s perfect.” And so I was hired.

She showed me how to use an X-acto blade. I thought you were supposed to change it every time you used it—it was just laughable! But it worked. The Brooklyn Academy of Music was the best. We got free tickets to every show in the city and I went to theater every night.

Q: What drives your minimalist approach in your work?

Phillips: I am really attracted to the spare. I am obsessed with stones. I collect them at the beach. I am just trying to find the simplicity and complexity of this one rock in this painting. But again, I haven’t quite gotten it yet.

I am not a draftsperson, and cannot draw well. My whole life I wanted to be an artist and wanted to draw well. I have taken more life drawing classes than you can imagine. I’ve made a little progress, but I never feel exhilarated the way I do when I am painting or using encaustic.

Chalk Spine 12 x 24

Wave (16 x 20 each)

White Lines on Black 6 x 12

Q: Joan Mitchell didn’t draw well either. It’s not necessary. What about color?

Phillips: Right now I am working in greys, whites, blacks, and browns. But I work with eight shades of white. Every time I try to use color I don’t like it. I have some pieces with dark saturated color, but that’s not where I am going right now so I have put them aside. Eventually, something will happen and they will be useful.

Q: Is your minimal palette a response to all the color in graphic design?

Phillips: Maybe. In one piece I thought one red line would bring it all together but oh my God, it didn’t work at all. I do use color in the paper pieces, but not in the paintings.

Q: Can you describe your process more?

Phillips: I use an encaustic base with many different whites and some yellow. I used to use string, but I kept burning it. I use X-acto blades to carve into the surface, and make many of my lines with an X-acto blade. I love my X-acto blades. I have all these blades that have been worn differently and which make different kinds of grooves. I cut the line, then I cover the board with oil paint and wipe off the excess. It’s like printing. I brush on some more wax and then torch it. After each layer you have to fuse the wax. I also work with India ink, and graphite.

Right now I am working on this really simple piece and I cannot get it right. One day this week I worked for five continuous hours on this one concept: A white line. But I couldn’t get what is in my head. So I melt the whole thing down and start over. The thing is, my pieces are extremely simple and when I start to overwork them they start to fall apart. If the piece is going to happen, it happens quickly.

Q: What do your kids think?

Phillips: Well, they lost their playroom. My youngest one says, “Don’t you think you can get away from scribble scrabble? I can do a better job!” But my son connects with the sensibility and he hangs out with me and does some work. He is totally into it and has good suggestions. Quite often he will say, "When I grow up I want to be an artist," and my response is always, "me too."

Jenny and Fin at the beach.