pied midden: issue no.12 : pebbles in our pockets: wild pigment project
Originally published July 10, 2020
Minerals from Oregon, good for paint, foraged by artist Tilke Elkins. Photo by Tilke Elkins.
put a pebble in your pocket
It’s been one year since I began Ground Bright, a social practice art piece/limited edition collaborative art book that poses as a subscription box. What’s social practice art? It’s art that brings change. The change I’m reaching for is the deepening of the love of place. The intensifying of a sense of responsibility for place, for anyone who loves color. ‘Place’ means ecological systems. It means plant people, and all the animal people. And of course, the human people too. The kind of love I want to amplify is the love that keeps you from moving away. Don’t follow the money, says Kalapuya historian and anthropology professor at Oregon State University, David G Lewis, in a recent interview. Stay where you are, and learn the politics of the place. Learn what’s happening with the tribes where you live, and all around where you live. Get attached to the land. This is the best way to be aware of & champion indigenous issues, he says: belong.
what is wild, what is pigment?
What exactly does the “wild” in Wild Pigment Project mean? It means, well, something a little different. It means, anywhere where there’s an awareness of a shared community of multiple beings. Anywhere that is perceived as a reigning place for more than just humans. So yes, wild as I define it — and as it’s enacted by Wild Pigment Project — is a as much a state of mind as a place. How does this work? One example: a sidewalk crack. Depending on your perception, it’s either just a feature of a pedestrian infrastructure — or, if you bend down, and look closely, and spend time there, it’s home to an ecology of pineapple weed, tiny ants, lady bugs, worms, decomposers, microbes, fungi, etc. It’s wild. And your own body is like that too. To the beady human eye, it’s a relatively smooth and vacant place. Whip out a microscope and it/you are teeming with generations of unfamiliar, complex lifeforms. You’re wild.
Wild pigments, then, to me, are pigments found in relationship to interspecies communities of place, as perceived by the forager. This could be ochre from a cave on sacred land high on a mountaintop in a protected park. Or, it could be a rusty iron bed spring (perfect for soaking and turning into paint!) from a vacant lot under an overpass, inhabited by centipedes, moths, cornflowers, goldenrod, and, perhaps, rats. You see? Both wild.
Ok: pigment. To artists and craftspeople, there’s a notable difference between a pigment and a dye. Pigments are understood to be insoluble in water. This means, for the most part, that when they’re mixed into water and left to sit, eventually they will sink to the bottom. This is important, because it means the water can be poured off and evaporated out, and the pigment can be dried into a powder and mixed with medium (either glue and water, for watercolor, or oil, for oil paint). Dyes are soluble, which means the dye dissolves in water and does not settle out. If you dry out the water, you’re left with something sludgy that isn’t a form that can easily be used for paint. Usually, ground minerals behave like a “pigment” and ground plant matter behaves like a “dye.”
There is, of course, a magical bridge between the two worlds: a “lake.” This word has zero to do with a large body of water. This kind of lake is a pigment you make by attaching a dye to a mineral salt, like alum, using chemistry. To simplify it, just imagine a pile of light-colored mineral dust, and a pot of bright madder-red dye. To make a lake, you dye the pale mineral dust red, and then you can dry the dust out, and mix it into paint. The laking process is more complicated than just dumping the pale dust in the pot of red dye — it requires a chemical reaction that can be touchy — but I won’t go into that here, for now.
In any case, lakes are one reason why it’s always made sense to me to celebrate dyers as part of Wild Pigment Project. Many dyers do make lakes with their dye plants — often, ‘exhausted’ dye baths make great lakes — so dyers are ‘in’ according to the the art-historical definition of “pigment.” But also, the primary definition of “pigment,” in English anyway, is, basically, anything that “imparts a color.” Some people are more comfortable referring to “colorants,” when they discuss both pigments and dyes — and that does make sense. However, there’s poetry to consider too, here. “Wild Colorant…” You see what I mean.
Understanding the mineral make-up of foraged greens is a journey for me. ALL of these greens came from a clump of stones I found together, which I believe is chlorite.
what it’s not
Synthetic pigments: what even are they? Well, could they be defined as, “any pigment made by humans”? What’s oft referred to as “the earliest known synthetic pigment”, for example, is Egyptian Blue, essentially a crushed blue glass made by ancient Egyptians using sand, copper, chalk and ash. Alchemy and thousands of years of creative fiddling resulted in a vast range of pigments and dyes, all the happy accidents that were produced by throwing raw materials together and subjecting them to fire, acid, fermentation, and other, more arcane practices (like injecting blood into manure…). Should we call these “synthetic,” or “artificial,” because they were made by humans? Or do we have something else in mind when we think of “synthetic”? Prussian Blue, accidentally discovered during a botched cochineal lake recipe that incorporated blood alkali salts, is touted as the “first modern synthetic pigment.” But what makes it so?
Craving clarity about this, I wrote to Vera Keller, my favorite History of Science professor, who teaches what I can only describe as the coolest possible courses offered at the University of Oregon. I asked her how I might explain what makes a pigment synthetic. She basically did an email version of throwing her arms up in the air and shouting, “THAT is one of the central questions for the modern historian of science!” Well, actually, she said:
“Your questions about what synthetic means are history of science questions about the relationship between alchemy and modern chemistry. We talked a lot about this idea of what is synthetic in my history of color class. (Editor’s note: !!!!! See??? A History of Color class!!!). It is a matter of debate. Alchemy existed as you point out from ancient times, and the study and production of color was a major part of it. The process of making cinnabar was fundamental to conceptualizations of matter in Asia and Europe and was the reason for the widespread sulfur-mercury theory as the basic components of matter (before Paracleus added salt in the 15th century). Thus, there were definitely chemically-produced colors — although, producing “natural” dyes is also a chemical process, using chemical reactions such as mordants, etc.
But can you call something “synthetic” before the idea of organic chemistry? Views are mixed. Some historians of alchemy point to ideas of analysis and synthesis in the premodern period. What was special about aniline and then petroleum based dyes was that in the process of looking for them, organic chemistry was developed.There is thus a very close relationship between the two. If the process of making colors through alchemy in the past was largely based on accidental discoveries, and just a few colors could be made from various metals, etc., organic chemistry allowed chemists to “prospect” for colors by analyzing chemical structures and making many tweaks to them, so that *all* colors could be synthesized from one substance, eg coal tar or petroleum, and specific structures, like alizarin, could be analyzed and then synthesized.
An important part of this was the system of international patents that then allowed these laboratory-produced colors to be patented globally and owned by never-dying corporations like Monsanto, in a way that would be impossible for cinnabar. So business history is as much a part of this history as science is.
In general, I wouldn’t get too fixated by terms like “synthetic.” Most such categories are shorthand for much larger, more complicated stories that can distract from more important issues, like the history of patents, corporations, and intellectual property.
Historians of science generally aren’t too interested in questions of who invented what first, because we know that behind any single development, there is a bigger story. [William Henry] Perkins is an example of someone who’s been fetishized, but behind him is the much bigger story about the development of organic chemistry, patents, and the industrial production of chemicals.” (Editor’s note: Perkins is credited with discovering “the first synthetic organic dye,” in 1856.)
Pigments foraged, forged, and fabricated: from top left corner: 1. Red Ochre foraged in Oregon, 2. Chlorite foraged in Oregon, 3. Weld Lake, made by Natialie Stopka, 4. Mined Lazurite, 5. Egyptian Blue frit, 6. Manufactured Ultramarine, by Agalia, 7. Manufactured Ultramarine Violet, by Earth Hues, 8. Cobalt Blue, by Agalia, 9. Cadmium Red, 10. Permanent Green Light, 10. Quinacradone Rose 11. Permanent Orange. Pigments from the Wild Pigment Project pigment library. Photo by Tilke Elkins.
all natural pigments, all the time
Ah, yes. The history of corporations. Have you, dear reader, already read between the lines here? Or perhaps you’re already familiar with the dark history of aniline dyes and the unfolding of the chemical industry. As Vera points out, there is a very close relationship between aniline dyes and the development of organic chemistry. And if the phrase, “Better Living Through Chemistry” sends a chill through your heart, then you know where I’m going. In short: it was a human quest for color that lead to the discovery of organic chemistry, which lead to the coal-tar-based dye industry, which, through patenting, birthed the original mega corporations (Monsanto, Bayer, etc.), who used the technology of chemicals to produce toxins for the gas chambers in WWII, plus chemical warfare, and then, next, because when the war ended they didn’t know what to do with their wares, they developed toxic pesticides and fertilizers. ’Nuff said. Plastics (related, of course) also brought a lot of things we now cherish, lest we get too sanctimonious here. But still.
In a recent interview with Kamea Chayne, on her inspiring podcast Green Dreamer (if you need a boost of joy about all the heroes out there doing great things for the planet, do explore the archives!), I made the grand claim that “all the industrially produced colors we see around us are petroleum-based.” That was a bit of a simplification. It’s true that many of the dyes in industrially produced garments are aniline dyes, derived from petroleum. And many of the inks in plastic packaging, like magenta, or “quinacridone red,” are also carbon-based. But there are also a lot of mineral-based paints in our world, both in art supplies and other industries.
Modern ultramarine blue, made to replicate the mind-blowingly expensive lapis-lazuli, is a synthetic metal-based manufactured pigment, with the chemical composition Na6Al6Si6O24S4. This one is sometimes described as “natural” by companies that sell what they called earth-based paints. They bake the manufactured ultramarine onto a colorless clay, and say that the paint is mostly natural, since it’s 90% clay and 10% manufactured pigment. I find this misleading, because I think that most people tend to think about “natural” color the way I do: that it was found looking pretty much the same way in the ground as it looks as paint. The Ultramarine Violet has always been especially irksome to me for this reason. If I found an earth that color I’d freak out!! With delight, of course. As far as I know, that particular hue is not part of a landscape anywhere out there. However, many people use these sorts of paints simply because they want a less toxic alternative, and that’s commendable.
When you go to a regular art store, 99.99% of the paint you see is manufactured. The art stores categorize these paints as either ‘mineral,’ or ‘modern.’ The mineral paints are classics like cadmium red, chrome green, cobalt violet, and verdigris. The ‘modern’ pigments are all organic, petroleum-based chemicals: phthalo green, quinacridone red and violet, hansa yellow, permanent orange, dioxazine purple, manganese blue hue. Many, like alizarin, which imitates madder, are chemically designed to copy an existing natural compound.
You may be able to find some mined, not synthesized ochre (most of the siennas and umbers for sale are manufactured) at your local art store. A terre verte from Italy, perhaps, or a rosy ochre from Rousillon, France. The reason that companies avoid selling unmanufactured pigments is that their look and feel is not consistent, and people who sell things like to guarantee that they’ll always be the same. I think foragers prize the opposite: each paint is positively vibrating with individuality and unique personal significance.
There are foraged pigments, there are mined pigments, and there are manufactured pigments. There are lake pigments made with foraged plant matter, (like invasive woad) and mined alum. There are manufactured pigments made with mined minerals, and there are manufactured pigments made with fracked petroleum. It’s quite a rainbow — I mean, spectrum. Both.
As I understand it, in the art-historical timeline of pigment use, the “classic” palette — pre-Impressionist — is mostly mined and manufactured mineral pigments, with a few botanicals, like madder, and a few weird “bio” pigments, like Mummy brown (ground-up mummies, for reals) and India Yellow (made from the urine of cows fed on nothing but mango leaves — don’t worry, it’s been banned for ages). The Impressionists were a bridge of sorts between the old and the new, using many mineral pigments, but blasted into their new vision of color and light expressly because of the existence of the brand-new coal-tar pigments (like Manganese Violet, an essential Monet pigment). The “modern” organic pigments, in their brilliance, became themselves the visual trademark for much art that followed.
I hope these mumblings (and Vera’s brilliant insights — thank you, Vera!!) have helped clarify your thinking about colored matter. This is what I’ve been able to discern, but please do absolutely set me straight if I’m on the wrong track with any of this. I welcome your feedback wholeheartedly.
Ground Bright’s 22% of net profits is going to the just-established Wild Pigment Project Equitable Opportunity Scholarship, which provides up to $500 to any artist identifying as a member of an underinvested or marginalized community. The scholarship covers the cost of an educational opportunity like a workshop, class, or mentorship session (details at our website, under “scholarship”). If you have ideas about how to spread the word about this scholarship, I would be grateful to hear from you.
This month’s pigment (pictured above), btw, is called “Kalapuya County.” This is a nod at the place it’s from, here in Oregon, on the unceded homeland of the Kalapuya people. It’s also a reminder to go here to sign the petition to change the name of Lane County to “kalapuya County” to honor Kalapuya sovereignty.
It’s been an amazing year for Wild Pigment Project, one which has far surpassed my wildest dreams for connection, inspiration and action! I really can’t tell you enough how much I value not just your monetary support (those of you who subscribe to Ground Bright!) but also your attention, kind words, suggestions, and participation in this project, as Pigment People, fellow pigment practitioners or enthusiasts, artists, and friends.
Write to me, if you will. I love to hear from you.
Until Next Time,
Put a Pebble in Your Pocket! (it might hold you down)
Perhaps it’s our rallying cry…
<3 Tilke