pied midden : issue no.24 : white land histories : sydney matrisciano

Mississippi purple ochre. Photo courtesy of Sydney Matrisciano.

white on both coasts

What can it mean to belong to a place?

I grew up trespassing on stolen land. A vast field with two massive old white pines like masts in its center, grass kept short by the generations of cows tended by a long line of white farmers whose ancestors came to be owned by this place through a complex series of events that severed the people of the Abenaki Nation of Missisquoi from their ancient homeland: this was my secret stomping ground. As soon as I was old enough to be trusted to cross the road between the house and the field alone,  I ducked under the field’s electric fence and darted between the clumps of thistle the cows avoided, one eye on the distant farms and the other on the cows and the bull that chaperoned them. When I made it to the pines, I pulled myself up quickly and disappeared into the old trees’ soft green arms. Each year my courage took me a little higher, and when the ground grew distant and I shook with fear, I’d ask the pines for guidance. Without deciding anything, I absorbed what felt like a clear language: with my thumping heart pressed against the tree trunks of my pines and my hands sticky with pitch, I would ask. Should I go higher? But also, Are you here? and Are we talking? In response to my questioning thoughts, the trees would answer, catching the wind in their feathery needles and shushing at increased volume to show support, or quieting down to stillness to withdraw it.

And so I learned about intuition, that delicate inner compass that spans the gap between inner knowing and collective, interspecies, perhaps interplanetary wisdom. Intuition is the place where individual experience meets collective knowing, like a ship meeting the sea. Knowing the vessel and listening to the waves are both crucial to navigation.  And like the pines, and the sea, it felt to me that the world around me magnified inner knowing, gave direction, and reflected wisdom.

My pines. Photo by Tilke Elkins.

Growing up, I didn’t know a thing about that land’s history, and I didn’t want to know, any more than I wanted to be noticed by the farmers on the field’s peripheries. I left the East Coast for the West without knowing, so when I eventually emerged into an encounter with land histories, and what it means to be a white descendant of settler colonizers, it was in the West. I’d by then spent almost two decades waiting to belong to the West, walking the woods and the mountains and listening by icy rivers, always struggling with homesickness for the fields and the white pines of my East Coast home. That long listening brought me to wild pigments, and to the beginning of a desire to really dig into land histories. 

Through a fortuitous series of events — too long to go into here — the pines are still in my life. I climbed them just last week, in fact (still secretly). A relationship with this land, which I thought surely would be lost to me, is still open.  For me, asking questions about land histories on the West Coast is quite different from asking the same questions in the East, in a place I’ve been attached to since childhood. A place where my own ancestors participated in the currents of wars that contributed to the profound traumas inflicted on the peoples of the Wabanaki Confederacy and damage to their cultures. 

I have a rare window into an ancestral perspective on some of these currents: a series of “reminiscences” by my ancestor Jonathan Elkins (the younger!), son of an American Revolutionary farmer. Jonathan Elkins (the elder!) moved his family to Peacham, in what was yet to be called “Vermont” in 1775, when boy J. Elkins was 14. The family’s house — on stolen Wabanaki Confederacy lands, I presume — was a meeting place for revolutionary soldiers, deserters, and Indigenous traders, as well as French and English Soldiers and their allies. In 1881 the house was violated in the dead of night by English soldiers and JE the younger was force-marched to Canada, and eventually sent to an English prison for high treason, after much brutal treatment and near starvation. Before that, though, he writes, of 1776 or so:  

[T]he friendship showed to the Indins brought numbers of thair Cheafs in, to larn if it was true what they heard of our kindness. Gill the Chefi' of the St Frances tribe came to our house and stayed nearly a week. we treted him with all the hospatality posable. he could speak but few words of English. I understood many words of the Indin dialect, and between us we could make each other under stand, so· that he appeared to be Quite happy. the Cheaffs from the Cagnawagah tribe came here also, and every friendship was. showed that was passable for us to do, and in the course of the war I became so much aquanted with them, that I under stood thair Langage so well, they would apply to me for my assistance to settle difficultys between each other, in which I was verry sucsesful, and by my under standing so much of thair language when strangers of them met thay would converse about the war, and in some instances, have been able to convince them of errors thay had imbibed so that thair friendship appeared to be secuard, and I be­lieve was the case.” 

~ excerpt from Reminiscences of Jonathan Elkins, from a manuscript in possession of the Vermont Historical Society

A lot to unpack there, most definitely. Who knows what these “friendships” were really like, or what motivated them. Johnny E did what he knew how to do, in the middle of Revolutionary politics and a war that must have been only vaguely comprehensible to anyone. The English were a common enemy, for the Johnny Elkins’, for many of the Indigenous people, and for the French. So — my Elkins ancestors established themselves on Wabenaki lands, and sometimes allied with various Native peoples (the term Cagnawagah, used by Jonathan in the above quote, is a 17th-century term referring to Native people who converted to, or were forced to convert to Christianity). The Elkins’ clearly did their best to hold onto the land for themselves (and they did — my parents were married not far from the site of ol’ JE’s house, still called the Elkins Tavern, in the 1970s, nearly exactly 200 years after he settled in Peacham). All this was much more complex, and more interesting, than I had imagined.

And that’s how all histories are — subtle, nuanced and personal. Politics tear nuance down to stark simplifications and set up ridiculous binary opposition between people who are much more similar at heart than different, but whose family loyalties push them to defiant extremes. Just as I was in the trees as a kid, I’m trying to grow myself up now too, to stay open to nuance in service of a collective good. One ear is still pressed against the trunk of the pine, while the other registers the words of the Land Back movement, the calls for Reparations, the undetectable sounds of falling ash from forest fires far and wide, and the quaint words of my ancestors, among many other voices.

An understanding of settler-colonialism is crucial to an understanding of the land. And, there are innumerable details of history that are flattened by assuming that everyone is either an Indigenous person, or a settler colonizer. What’s the difference between a settler and an immigrant, for example? What about people who were brought here against their will, as enslaved people, and their descendants? Or the multitudes of people whose identities follow several different ancestral pathways? In a novice attempt to understand my own family lineage and how it relates to the land that supports me, I’ve raced to apply identities to myself and others that are sometimes illuminating and other times abysmally reductive and inaccurate. My bumbling is relatable to those who are at a similar place as I am on this journey, and I’m grateful for their camaraderie. Silence may be the communication of choice from those more nuanced in their understanding.   

By its oldest definition, ‘to have courage’ means, literally, to “speak from the heart’ — to say what feels true. I try to do that, even when I know I’m going to say something — well, something simplistic, foolish or  plain wrong. Just as I did as a kid in the pines, I climb a little higher than I feel safe climbing, my heart pounding with fear. I hope the fear makes me a better listener, and a better receiver of whatever the wind has to say — as well as of the silences between what’s said. 

More Mississippi purple ochre. Image courtesy of Sydney Matrisciano.

providence

This month’s Ground Bright pigment, Providence, was contributed by Sydney Matrisciano, a senior at Northwestern University who grew up on a family farm in Mississippi, and whose current creative projects explore ‘the enduring effects of whiteness in Mississippi landscapes.’ An attendee at the recent Pigment’s Revealed Symposium, she got in touch with me, offering to contribute some of the gorgeous purple ochre from an area near a collapsed road in Mississippi, a site that has been part of a recent series of photographs she’s embroidered with threads stained with the ochre itself. Like me, Sydney is a white person navigating her family histories and the ways they’ve both harmed and supported the land and the people connected to that land. For her, this means a reclamation of terms like “redneck,” and, in the college environment in which she now swims, reshaping this identity to include an examination of racial and ecological justice, as well as of the economic injustices that are part of her legacy as a member of a family of rural white farmers.

Sydney completed this interview during the first days of her in-person return to university, all while moving in  and starting class. Far from home, she says that when she first went to Chicago to study, before she’d learned anything about pigment practices and earth color, she brought a small jar of red clay with her to remind her of home. One of us! :) Huge appreciations to you, Sydney, for your sensitivity to the land and its complexities, your generosity, and your courage in this conversation. Here’s our interview.

Image courtesy of Sydney Matrisciano.

interview with sydney matrisciano

WPP: I’m interested in the origins of the intersection of creative work, pigments, and the examination of land histories in your work. By way of beginning a discussion about this, can you tell me about your family’s history on the land where you live?  

Absolutely. I offer my own history in recognition of the multiple identities we all hold. One side of my family immigrated to the United States in the 20th century. The struggles they faced in transitioning between homelands deeply impacted my own sense of place. Another side of my family has lived and farmed on the same plot of land for over one hundred years. However, even in my relatively short lifetime, the way the family relates to the land has changed. Our choices have become more conscious, with shifts towards the cultivation of native plants, beekeeping, and adjustment of our fishing and hunting practices to better care for the space and the others that live with it. It is this side of my family history that influences my most recent project. Our family farm is located at the cusp of the Mississippi Delta, where kudzu lies heavy over the sweeping red clay hills. The landscape of the region bears witness to historic and ongoing injustices. Within my project, I grapple with the legacy of my ancestors. As a white, land-owning family, we cannot ignore the ramifications of our history in our present decisions.  In my project, I analyze modern land-use decisions within historic context, pairing my findings with pigment to prompt community dialogue and education through artwork.

WPP: I’d love to have a little tour of one of your site-specific/land responsive pieces. Can you talk me through one of your favorite works? 

Ooooh it’s too hard to pick a favorite! Instead, let’s take a look at “Redneck Recreation.” This piece depicts a bluff very near to the source of ‘Providence,’ the September 2021 Ground Bright pigment.  

‘Redneck Recreation,’ 16 x 24 embroidered photograph, Image courtesy of Sydney Matrisciano.

[Alt text: Redneck Recreation is a 16x24” embroidered photograph depicting a 150’ bluff in Mississippi. Swaths of red, orange, yellow, pink, and purple clay contrast with trees surrounding the rim of the bluff. There are squares of stitching in varying sizes throughout the image, arranged diagonally].

Before we begin, I’d like to say a little about my use of the term ‘redneck.’ Like many words, this term encompasses a spectrum of different meanings in different contexts, particularly when used by different people. When I left Mississippi to attend an out-of-state university, this term was employed by others to demean my lack of sophistication. Hearing the ridicule, I felt shame towards myself and my home. However, college is a space of exploration and development. As I struggled to reconcile my love of Mississippi with its negative aspects, I came to see the term ‘redneck’ as a distracting stereotype. It obscures the true issues: poverty, lack of mobility, and lack of education. These conditions breed hatred and division. I choose to use the term “redneck” in this piece both to reclaim an aspect of my identity as a member of the southern white working class and to acknowledge the power which holders of this identity possess —  power that should be repurposed to uplift and strengthen our diverse communities. 

Less than 50 years ago, this location looked radically different. Cars flew across the blacktop, with nary a look through the thick tree line hiding the banks of the Pearl River below. Over time, the clay crept away from the roadbed, eventually causing a structural failure. Chunks of the road tumbled down into the canyon and traffic ceased. I’d like to direct your attention to the largest embroidered square, in the upper third of the image. Disconnected sections of crumbling asphalt remain as evidence of our 20th century attempts to move through the space. Though the road was rerouted, people haven’t stopped coming. Now, their travel is on foot or ATV. With climbing gear and picnic baskets, people swarm the site. The people here are primarily white. Their confidence and familiarity moving through the outdoor space fascinates me. I’ve visited this location many times, both as an active participant in the activity and again as an artist and researcher. When I walk past the “road closed” and “no trespassing” signs, I don’t fear arrest. Many factors lead us white people to see this site as one of recreation and leisure, free to use without regulation or recourse. Those same factors can work to exclude people of color.

Notice the smaller embroidered squares, or the smaller still painted sections. They lead up to the most obvious manmade element of the scene. Normally, I use embroidery to call attention to overlooked parts of a scene — things that seem ordinary but are evidence of an alternative narrative. I look for manmade features, like artificial lakes, and connect those elements to the laws and people that created them. However, this location is characterized by a lack of enforced and utilized law. The manmade element, the road, isn’t hidden — it’s being consumed by the surrounding landscape. Therefore, I opted to scatter my embroidery across the scene, casting doubt on the entirety of the freely accessible leisure narrative. Who has access to land is just as telling as how they choose to use it.

Image courtesy of Sydney Matrisciano.

In multiple ways, my biggest challenge centers the struggle of connecting a finished piece with the landscape from which it was taken. When we encounter artwork in a gallery or an online setting, the piece is divorced from its source. However, generating personal reflection is one of my primary goals for this project. I use natural pigments in an effort to close the distance between the viewer and the landscape. I want viewers to engage fully, recognizing that the locations I included in the project are as tangible as those to which they’ll return upon leaving the gallery or digital space. I think this raises interesting questions about the concepts of “realness” and “place”.  

Another element of distance relates to the work itself. Having an ongoing relationship with the land is an important part of my artist’s practice. Capturing the image of a landscape is intimate, and just as I’d show any dear friend a photo I’d taken of them, I choose to bring my finished artwork back to the location that inspired it. Oftentimes, due to the sheer amount of time embroidery takes, months have passed between taking the photograph and finishing the piece. I delight in comparing the two, noticing changes since my last visit and reflecting on the months long process together.

One of the biggest successes of this piece was technical. I wanted to use pigment in multiple ways to explore how processing a pigment affects its connection to the location of origin. This piece includes several techniques: mulled paint, stained threads, stiffened threads, and “raw” pigment affixed with paste. There’s not a lot of information in the pigment community tailored to embroidery thread, so I got to do some experiments! Clay staining for example —  I tested which fibers and fixatives pair best, differing ratios of pigment to fixative, different time lengths, and more. Overall, I learned so much and I’m eager to share it with others who are interested in the different techniques!

WPP:Your projects have examined “the enduring effects of whiteness in Mississippi landscapes.” How is whiteness and its effect on the land a topic of conversation in your family? 

It’s an ongoing discussion. We each have different experiences, opinions, and questions about the role of whiteness in our lives. Much of the dialogue centers on distinguishing what the term ‘whiteness’ means, as it relates to privilege, power, and prejudice. In short, asking ourselves where we see our current lifestyle decisions supporting an inherently unjust system. How can we repurpose our energies to invite, uplift, or make available resources, for those holding other racial identities within the spaces we inhabit? My project explores different aspects of whiteness through the interaction of individuals with the environment. By returning my research to our community through artwork, I hope to prompt continued conversation, reflection, and growth in our relationships with the land and with each other.

Image courtesy of Sydney Matrisciano.

WPP: How did you come to explore earth pigments as an aspect of your creative practice?

In 2016, an artist named Robin Whitfield joined my high school class on a field trip to a nearby swamp. We kayaked through the waterways, learning about the different plants and animals of Mississippi. During a break on dry land, Robin pulled out her sketch book. She used plants and soil to make marks on the page. I filed the practice away as interesting, but not my cup of tea! 

Until 2020, that is. When the pandemic began during my sophomore year of university, classes went online and all activities ceased. I was back home in Mississippi, where conversations about “heritage not hate” were beginning to feel suffocating. I wanted to find something tangible to engage with- something other than a screen! With the help of my advisor, I applied for a research grant to pursue artistic research for social advocacy. As I mentioned while describing ‘Redneck Recreation’, I saw pigment as a possible solution to the dilemma of distance between viewers and art. I dove into the pigment community, learning as much as I could about working with pigments. I worked with both plant-based dyes and soil pigments through my project and have come to appreciate the rhythm of pigment preparation as a key component of my artistic practice. 

WPP: And, finally, another question I’m starting to ask everyone: what would you IDEALLY like to see happening on the land where you are, 100 years from now?

One of the , fascinating things I’ve learned about land and land regulations is the concept of overlapping jurisdictions. The land I’m on is part of my family farm, part of a county, part of a state, and part of our country. In 100 years, I hope to see a state that has embraced its diversity and is no longer bound by political, racial, or socio-economic divides. I hope that the family farm continues moving toward more environmentally friendly management methodology, and that we’ve opened an event space to host artists, local business pop-ups, and celebrations. As we shift away from commercial production, I hope that the farm can become a place of learning and connection for our community.

(end interview)

~ Thanks again, Sydney, and may this semester nourish you in all the important ways!

good to be back

I’ve had some time away from the inter webs — and Pied Midden — this summer/fall. It’s been excessively healthy for me to let Wild Pigment Project lie a little bit low for a couple of months, after a two year stretch of full-on-ness. Many delicious projects are deepening into fiery color this season — I’m looking forward watching their windy flight as the earth tilts into darkness.

And, I’ve missed you! Write me if you’re so moved ~ reply to this email or find me at info@wildpigmentproject.org. If you’re not subscribed to this newsletter (maybe a friend forwarded it to you?), you can sign up right here.

Stay Brave,

<3 Tilke

Me in the pines. Photo by Tilke Elkins.