pied midden : issue no.23 : being with : tilke elkins
Wild pigments. Photo by Tilke Elkins.
still being with
What if the constant whooshing of cars in my aural periphery were a comforting sound, a sound that soothed me, instead of a benchmark of my proximity to highways I wish didn’t exist? Cars passing make a gentle hush very much like ocean waves. What if vehicular hushing gave me the same joy as pounding surf? Was a cozy sign of the presence of people, a reminder of human ingenuity and the joys of mobility? What if my ear strained and hungered for sonic evidence of cars the way it stretches with longing and excitement to hear the distant noise of crashing waves when I approach the ocean? What if I could listen that openly to car music?
What is the world doing to us? This is a question, wrote philosopher Bayo Akomolafe in 2018, integral to what he calls ‘post-activism’: asking, not just ‘what do we do to the world?’ but, ‘what does the world do to us?’ Our capacity to be amazed, he says, is what blows us open to new modes of acting and becoming. ‘Being with,’ as I feel it, is an openness, a listening, a clearing out of expectations which makes room for amazement, and for feeling what is being done to us. Makes room for — living our lives, being here for our lives, not just enacting narratives. Picking up rocks, and feeling changed by their forms. Letting them fall from our hands.
Wild surface: ‘painting with beavers’ site-specific piece, pre-paint. Photo by Tilke Elkins.
small change?
What does Instagram do to us? I’ve been asking that more than usual, lately. I’m not afraid to say it: Instagram is THE most significant way that Wild Pigment Project has been able to discover and have some hand in forming an international pigment community. Sure, there are other ways that we’ve found each other, but IG has really upped the scope and the scale, and brought together people who would truly not meet under any other circumstance. Quiet people soaking flowers in water in small kitchens in dense urban canyons. Nomadic rock-gathering wild-tenders camped in bell tents. Suburban hermits. Single moms working four jobs who get up before dawn for Zoom calls with other pigment people. Ink mystics buried in agricultural wastelands. You know who you are.
I can, with some confidence, say that the majority of us pigment-lovers are introverts who like being alone or with people who are not in the “human” species category. It isn’t because we don’t like human people — it’s ‘cus it can be tricky to find humans who love (ir even know about) this very particular thing that we love. That’s what the magic of Instagram has done. It’s let us use the poetry of photographs and a limited number of words to say concise, heartfelt things that draw us together. In spite of the (steadily mounting) ads, the potential addictiveness of “likes,” and all the other dangers of social media, I think many of us have felt distinct net positives about participating in the dastardly thing.
Recent announcements from an Instagram spokesperson — “Instagram is no longer a photo sharing app” is, I believe, the chilling phrase that was used — have brought the specialness of what we have home. Ok, so maybe what he meant to say was “…no longer JUST a photo sharing app…”. But we got the point: photos are being de-emphasized, and that creepy disembodied wizardless wizard behind the curtain, known as The Algorithm will no longer cast favor on still images, even ones it previously deemed devourable. The loss of still images as a means of expression and connection has been widely lamented. I’m thinking, yes, of course, that’s tragic, and…what about WORDS?? A whole lot can be said with 2,200 characters. We have found each other through the combination of words and images, and this format is powerful, and powerfully accessible to so many different kinds of individuals all over the planet. (Wait, what? Oh, you’re right, it’s true…you can still put all those words on top of your videos if you want. But… can anyone actually read over the insistent flickering of a video? I mean, do they want to?).
Insect drinking separating water from stone dust during painting with beavers. Photo by Tilke Elkins.
Perhaps our particular love of this slowwww medium is insignificant to the folks who run Instagram, when measured against the sea of people who will gladly surrender their attention to the most zingy short videos they’re served. A mind could find itself on the dark side contemplating political reasons to shut photos + images down….and of course many minds are going there. It seems reasonable to assert that Instagram has played a significant role in the Black Lives Matter movement, both nationally and globally. While It’s true that video-fueled TikTok has also served as a tool for bringing people together, it has yet to be seen what power would be lost if Instagram as we know it dissolved. For now, I’m gonna stay around to wait and see.
What connective tendrils will we invent, if we lose these? I’m curious. In the meantime, I’ve got a bunch of words for you, just in case words are about to become an elusive format (ha!). I hope you’ll forgive me, but I thought I’d indulge in sharing excerpts from the text that formed the narration for a short film (ak! a video!) I recently made, called Being with Pigments, to present at the Pigments Revealed Symposium this past June.
The video is more than 60 seconds long though… more like 60 minutes, actually (well, 53). Since you may not want to watch the whole thing — or, any of it, of course — you can just dip your toe in, here. The symposium itself was pure undiluted magic, so much fuller, more complex and dynamic than anything social media could do, even if social media was largely responsible for bringing us together. To watch the entire recorded event, all four days of lectures and panels and so much more, go here. To watch the panels and presentations by me and Melonie Ancheta and Heidi Gustafson, the other organizers, go here. There, you’ll also find the recording of ‘Waving In Place,’ in which ink hero Jason Logan, of the Toronto Ink Company, and I orchestrate a giant international online Zoom art piece… of people assembled largely through IG.
So now, these wordz from me…
Still from ‘Being With Pigments’ by Tilke Elkins, 2021.
i.
I paint on wild surfaces: dry leaves and twigs, dead tress, clear-cut stumps, human refuse. I’m part of the painting that is the world. I call the pigments I use ‘wild pigments’ because they come from interspecies communities of beings, both remote and close-in — forest creeks and city parks, river banks and logging roads and vacant lots.
Wild pigments are found in pretty pebbles that make colored marks when scratched on other, harder rocks. They’re in the husks of the rotting black walnuts that gather in the gutter at the end of your street in late September, and the patch of red soil at the edge of the road you that take to work every day. They’re in berries and clays and rusty nails, burnt vines and fire-blackened logs, chalky hillsides and proliferations of common flowers. Wild pigments are abundant. Arriving in human company through the hands of people connecting intimately with the places where they live by picking up what they find on the ground, wild pigments are nexus points for learning about ecologies, communities, and land histories.
I coined the term ‘wild pigments’ in 2019 when I founded Wild Pigment Project, because I wanted to describe foraged pigments of all kinds: mineral, botanical, and those made from the scraps of what humans toss out. In the context of art materials, the term ‘pigment’ is technically used to for colorants that are insoluble in water and can be dried out and stored in powder form — usually, a mineral that’s been crushed into a dust. Earths, clays, soils, and other minerals are all used to make pigments. But from a scientific perspective, plants get their colors from botanical pigments, and while plant colors dissolve in water, artists have invented many clever ways to affix them to minerals, allowing them to be dried and stored in powder form too. Madder lakes and indigo-clay blues are two examples of this. So, to use the term ‘wild pigments’ is to bring the whole range of artists working with foraged color together: painters and dyers, designers and printmakers and ceramicists and sculptors.
My palette, foraged primarily on Kalapuya lands. Photo by Tilke Elkins.
For me, as an artist working site-specifically, these pigments present a way to create in place with the land itself. So many of the signs of human presence on the land around me feel like evidence of dominance, neglect, over-extraction or destructive indifference. In an era where the term “Anthropocene” came into being to reflect the lasting visible geological record of massive-scale extraction of mineral resources, the possibility of a healthy anthroinclusivity — the inclusion of humans in living landscapes — is what drives me. I make pieces that ride the edge of what’s perceptible as human-made, collaborating with marks made by other beings: beavers and beetles, rain and chainsaws, tides and sea creatures. I use only pigments and water, no binder to glue in place. They arise from their surroundings and gradually return to them through the erosion of water, wind and time.
Early on in my time of discovery with wild pigments, I was concerned that natural colors would produce only simple, muted and muddy tones. I really wanted rich, bright, strange colors — the kinds of colors I was used to from the synthetic pigments that had always filled my paint box. I’m a synesthete, meaning, I associate nearly everything with color — letters and numbers, sounds, tastes, body movements, you name it. My internal, synesthetic palette is extensive and extremely varied, and kind of weird and electric, like the day-glow synthetic colors I grew up with. These colors are my authentic palette, one rooted in my actual experience as a white artist raised by white culture, and not appropriated from another culture with a still- existing rich tradition of wild pigment use. By investing years of exploration into local rocks, soils and plants that yield color, and especially by learning from the incredible, diverse community of pigment practitioners that Wild Pigment Project has connected me to, I’ve come up with a palette that sings for me. Bringing these natural, synthetic-pigment-inspired palettes with me onto the wild surfaces of the dead wood, leaves and stones I paint on, I’ve been surprised by how integral they nevertheless can feel. Using rocks and plants endemic to where I paint seems to merge them with the landscape even if the color compositions I use are out of place.
A section of ‘painting with beavers’. Photo by Tilke Elkins.
Do I have a right to add my particular visual voice to the tender surfaces of the more-than-human world? Is this work a violation of the sanctity of wild spaces? What damage do I inflict by interrupting the processes of beavers, beetles and myriad other beings with the tiny areas I coat with a thin layer of dust? What do I nourish, protect or give shelter to as I paint? How do my painted marks differ from marks on the land made by roads, clear cuts, agriculture and multi-colored plastic trash? Who has the right to mark the land and in what context?
I began my journey with wild pigments out of a desire to paint on the land with the land, to craft a complex material color vocabulary which would connect me to the locations where I worked. In the process of this inquiry, I uncovered other questions, most significantly, this question: what does it mean for me, a white person raised by Eurocentric, colonialist culture, to work on the land with wild pigments? Following this question has led me into the incredible, dynamic network of the planetary pigment community.
ii
Wild pigments are homeopathic doses of revolution. They represent pin-prick-sized exit points out of the colonialist, capitalist structures to which most of us are inextricably bound. They connect us to our bodies, to our physicality, to sensuality, to all the aspects of life that a screen-dominated, indoor-bound existence lacks. They lead us back into our communities and our ancestors, and invite meaning and collaboration in a time when emptiness and isolation abound. To bend down, pick up a pebble on your path, and make it into paint is to step into a zone of freedom that is incomparably rare these days: the freedom to make your own choices about what sort of gifts you have to offer in exchange, what sort of actions you can take as reciprocity for what the land has given you.
‘painting with beavers’ by Tilke Elkins. Photo by Noelle Guetti.
Wild pigments are not a “green solution.” Their value is not as a commodity which can replace all synthetic pigments and swipe clean consumer guilt. Artist's pigments only account for less than 1% of the total global pigment market anyway, and even natural, mined pigments that are retailed are an insignificant waste product of other mineral mining. While work with wild pigments is likely to make artists more sensitive to the material realities of taking from the land, and thus perhaps affect their consumer habits, the pigments themselves are more than just an “earth-friendly” material to be commodified and substituted for synthetics.
Instead, wild pigments lead away from consumerism and towards relationship and stewardship. A wild pigment is a pigment whose history is known, whose network of relationships is seen and understood by the person who brings the pigment into human use. A pigment whose intimate history is cultivated, remembered and passed on carries lineages, and encourages artists not to hoard their unique visions out of fear, but to pass them on generously, while acknowledging teachers, mentors and helpers. Working with pigments as an artist dissolves the myth of the creative genius and the damaging ego-trip of the art star by emphasizing the complicated networks and lineages that support individual artists to thrive.
~ excerpts from ‘Being with Pigments’ film, written & directed by Tilke Elkins, presented during the Pigments Revealed Symposium 2021.
‘Colors of the Midwest’ by Teri Power. Thank you for this auction donation, Teri! Photo by Tilke Elkins.
one more wordz
Last week I orchestrated the first-ever Wild Pigment Project fund-raising auction: yet another coming-together of exuberant community which could not have happened without a certain words + images format. In thanks to the artists who offered heart-wrenchingly lovely pigments in the form of inks, pendants, talismans, rouge pots, kits, sets and vials, and to the bidders who sat on the edge of their seats and bid more than was probably prudent, AND to the winners who poured bounty into our scholarship coffers, I offer… the image of a boatload of brilliant wild blooms on a still pond at dusk, adrift by itself. Thank you.
The auction proceeds will support this year’s Wild Pigment Project Equitable Opportunity Scholarships, which I founded exactly a year ago in response to the massive global anti-racism movement that was ignited by George Floyd’s murder.
Although I can thank IG once more for its crucial role in offering a window into Black Lives Matter, the app does have limitations. I ran up against them during the auction, when I tried to post about what the Equitable Opportunity Scholarship Fund means to me. For one, I didn’t have an image that really went with what I wanted to say. And, the 2,200 character limit felt cramped. The post didn’t seem to be getting much attention, and so, thinking that I’d rewrite it, I deleted it. Time and circumstance have steered me towards replicating it for you here instead, in a sort of “Instagram Comes to The Newsletter’ move. I didn’t rewrite much, but guess I did add a couple sentences. ;)
Posted through @wildpigmentproject, on Instagram, circa July 2nd, 2021:
(this is the (admittedly kinda dull) image that went with the post…)
a word about the equitable opportunity scholarships this auction makes possible: they came into being exactly a year ago, as one of the answers that i arrived at when asking myself, what what what can i actually do to help annihilate racism forever? as a white person, in spite of lots of expensive, supposedly clear-headed education, i’d somehow spent most of my life feeling confused about how to respond to the disaster of racism. i was, absurdly, so embarrassed about the whole nasty situation that i often unconsciously did something white-supremacists do: i avoided black & brown people. at least, in retrospect, it seems that way to me. i chose to live in really white cities in really white states. i didn’t seek out friendships with black & brown people because i didn’t see how or why someone experiencing the violence of white settler racism could possibly stand to be around me, a white person, let alone be my friend. i paid all the liberal anti-racism talk lip service, & certainly thought of myself as anti-racist, but i remained confused about whether it was ok for me to even talk about race.
last summer blew all that noise out of the water. george floyd’s murder opened a door to widespread dialog about race that i pray will never close. suddenly i heard the loud message that YES it is OK/VITAL to talk about race — and to make anti-racism a priority no matter what field you’re in. i heard crystal clear requests, advice, recommendations, & top-tens….& i heard A LOT of grief, rage, ferocity, poetry, triumph & insight from the BIPOC community, that helped me feel like it was ok for me to be part of this uprising in a real, genuine way, & not a virtue-signaling, liberal nicey-nice way.
this is just an IG post. i can’t say much more than this here. but i can say: THANK YOU all you BIPOC artists out there whose job is NOT to educate white people, but who have nonetheless done so. my infinite thanks, especially, to @lucillejunkere, for shining her glorious determination into our many conversations about race & art & sparking me to evolve in this conversation.
As I mentioned, the post got very little attention. Like, way less than usual. Not a single comment after several hours. I wondered if I’d said something horribly embarrassing or if the picture I’d used really wasn’t gripping enough for The Algorithm. Or maybe it was the new Instagram changes? When I talked with Lucille Junkere about it, she said she doubted math had much to do with it — that people just don’t like talking about racism. That they’re uncomfortable with it and avoid it and don’t know what to say. As a Black woman who refuses to be silent when racism comes up in the many situations she finds herself in, and as a Black artist whose work addresses the history of the enslavement of Africans on indigo plantations in the Caribbean, Lucille has had plenty of experiences with this sort of discomfort.
Bringing up the dismantling of systemic racism with people (usually white of course) who say they don’t want to discuss race publicly because they think the subject is too contentious has felt heart-crushing to me. I’ve wondered if that feeling has given me a microscopic taste of the loneliness and sadness inherent in advocating for anti-racism amongst white people that someone who isn’t white might feel. To know that hearing a clear stance against racism is absolutely essential to feeling as though one is safe and surrounded by compassionate human beings, and then to be told that it’s “too sensitive to bring up” is a sickening, bottomless chasm of a feeling.
Lucille has emphasized something to me: everyone has a different capacity for speaking out against racism. You know what you can handle, and that’s important. It’s important to do what feels healthy and good to you. If you’re an extremely shy person, and your way of taking a stance is wearing a Black Lives Matter T-Shirt or putting a sign on your lawn, then that is what’s meaningful. That sends a message. Our courage to refuse racism publicly in whatever ways we can helps build the courage of people around us.
The reasons for the existence of racism may be complicated, but the message of anti-racism is simple: treating people unfairly based on race is unacceptable, and won’t be tolerated.
I want any community I’m part of to be welcoming and inclusive to everyone. I want to make it clear that my desire to connect with land through wild pigments is founded in a desire for all humans everywhere to have the time and space to connect with land. The Equitable Opportunity Scholarship is one way to help give artists everywhere access to the pigment workshops and mentors that I can access. I’m listening for other ways to continue to broaden the scope of invitation and welcome for pigment people, globally. Let me know if you have ideas for me.
The application for the Scholarships is now officially OPEN. Please do help spread the word!
last wordz for realz
I’m the contributor for this month’s Ground Bright, which celebrates its second birthday this month. The pigment I’ve foraged and prepped for subscribers is one I named ‘Whilamut,’ back in 2019, when it was GB’s very first pigment. ‘Whilamut’ is a Yoncalla Kalapuya word that means, ‘where the river ripples and runs fast.’ This year’s ‘Whilamut’ is a green, possibly olivine-based pigment freshly foraged from a similar spot. The 22% donation will go, once again, to the Kommema Cultural Protection Association, which hosts a culture camp for Kalapuya youth every year, and has recently been given back a piece of ancestral homeland. After hearing about plans for the land from Kalapuya elder, Esther Stutzman, I’m especially excited to contribute funds that will be used to establish plant communities there, and possibly the building of an education center.
All you non-subscribers: if you don’t wanna subscribe, but you’re curious to learn more about the pigments, their contributors, and the organizations they help support, you can now go and check out the Ground Bright ARCHIVE, which carefully catalogues each pigment with, you know, pictures + words.
My assignment for myself for the summer, dear reader: listen to the sounds of cars passing as though they were the gentle hush of falling ocean waves. Let go of narratives and just Be With.
Happy July, and —
Stay Around,
<3 Tilke
p.s. You may have noticed there was no newsletter last month. I was frantic-busy with the symposium, and May pigment contributor Scott Sutton was discovering butt-shaped mushrooms in the woods (as well as carving a giant public wall mural, establishing a dye garden, producing pigments, building a hemp-crete structure and volunteering with our donee organization of the month, Adobe In Action…just a couple things.). But, I’ve missed you! As always, I welcome your emails. Please write to me.
My little trove of favorite rocks. Pic by me, Tilke Elkins.