View allAll Photos Tagged Digging
love, love those curls, that took so long to develop in monroe's hair. everett had them before his first birthday. they were worth waiting for, though...
I have seen five sorts of pig: Digging Pig, Sleeping Pig, Eating Pig, Annoying Pig, and Contemplative Pig.
We took a ferry to this island where the old Armenia Church is located. When we reached the island, a smaller boat arrived with many local women ready to start working!
Today we were digging a trench for the fence we're putting in for the Kingdom Hall. We worked from 9am-2pm. It was hot, the ground was incredibly hard, and we had faulty tools that kept breaking. We loved it.
First we put down a string and broke through with the tools, then we moved the string and did the same on the otherside. After that, we started removing the grass from on top. After the grass was off, we softened the soil by digging into it and breaking up the clumps. The dirt was mixed with clay and rocks, so a few of the tools broke and bent. It was actually extremely hard work in the incredibly hot sun. Good news, the clouds rolled in after we were all done. Figures. :]
WInter of 1991
Illingworth, Halifax
Taken early 1991, digging out the drive, the car under the snow is a red Rover 216
Davanh Simmavong gently probes the ground where her detector has indicated the presence of metal. The majority of objects detected is scrap, but each one has to be carefully excavated and examined.
At first I thought this was a mafia turtle getting ready to dump a body in the grass. I called the police and they showed up and told me that there is no turtle mafia and that it was just getting ready to lay it's eggs.
this old lady is a part-time-gold-digger. she digs the gold traditionally, which in indonesian called mendulang.
Young Archaeologists learn the skills of the trade in the 'Little Dig' from Canterbury Archaeological Trust
DIGGING
THERE'S NO CONNESSION
BUT I WANNA TRY
TO UNDERSTAND ME
INSIDE MY FUCKIN' MIND
ALL YOUR WORDS GROW TOO FAST
FLY TO HIGH TO FOLLOW A WAY
EVERY TIME IS TOO FAR
BUT TODAY I HAVE FOUND MY DREAMPLACE
DIGGING IN DEPTH
I'LL FIND A DIMENSION
SHELTER FOR MY PAIN
REFUSE EVERY REACTION
(shandon - skamobile)
Essential Travel Only - Gimpo's M25 25 Hour Spin March 2021
“Take one day, rest a while, and pretend the world is just for you"
“They could do with a bench here” - Lewis Greifer
Sometimes I do things I don't fully understand. Gimpo's M25 25 Hour Spin remains top of the list.
Sat at a table at Thurrock Services some years ago, sometime around 5am, Gimpo couldnt work out how many years and how many M25 25 Hour spins he had done, or planned to do. I sat and listened as Tim told him to count on his fingers: 1997 was Spin year #1. Spin year #25 would be 2021. Gimpo looked utterly confused by it all.
The plan this year was to plant a bench to mark 25 years of Gimpo's M25 25 Hour Spin. “Benches are about functionality: they need to be used. Unlike a gravestone, a bench shows that somehow you’re still part of the world, you have a purpose and a function.”
But this year, like last, was a global pandemic and respect had to be shown to anyone who may have lost friends, family and loved ones. We all masked up and met outside on the tarmac in the main carpark at Thurrock Services, between J30 and J31 off the M25.
This year was assembled under the guidelines of "Essential travel, for work purposes only." There will be more spins in future to make up for lost time, but for now, the memorial bench had to be planted. On the M25 Gimpo is the artist, and he had decided the bench was going in by any means necessary, safety first, of course.
Gimpo was very excited about his new Van, it was leaking water but other than that it was in good shape. It was a classic Ford Transit panel van which he had bought online a few days ago from someone in Worcester.
Read more:
Tuan Andrew Nguyen,
The Island, 2017, single-channel video, color, 5.1 surround sound; 42:00 minutes,
Artist Tuan Andrew Nguyen creates multimedia installations that blend fact, memory, myth, and mysticism and use lush imagery to draw out these entanglements. By digging deep into archives and collaborating with communities, his projects weave together many voices to reveal other truths about — and strategies of repair from — colonial violence. In this Washington, DC debut, his video work The Island (2017) is shown for the first time with Bidong Spirit I, a sculpted headdress Nguyen created for the film. The titles of both artworks refer to the tiny Malaysian island of Pulau Bidong, a primary destination for Vietnamese escaping by boat after the collapse of South Vietnam in 1975.
While this history is ever present in Nguyen’s video, he sets his story in an imagined future. The main character has lived his entire life on the island. From the late 1970s through the early 1990s, Pulau Bidong was the largest, longest running refugee camp and, at peak population, the densest place on earth. Born to parents who hid when the camp was cleared in 1991, he has been entirely alone for many decades, tending to the spirits that remain. One day, a United Nations scientist washes ashore. She informs him that they are the only survivors of nuclear conflicts that made “refugees out of the entire world.” As they explore the island, they debate their responsibility to learn from the island's past, and whether its teachings can save the future. As viewers, we too are invited to ponder these questions. Press characterizations of refugees, found in the archival news reports and first-person testimonies woven throughout, suggest striking parallels to the forced global migrations happening today.
This focused exhibition features the video recently added to SAAM’s collection as part of a longstanding time-based media art initiative. It is presented in a dedicated gallery for immersive media art installations that opened in 2023. This forty-two minute film runs continuously and can be entered at any time.
The presentation is organized by Saisha Grayson, curator of time-based media at the Smithsonian American Art Museum.
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"Women, queer artists, and artists of color have finally become the protagonists of recent American art history rather than its supporting characters. This is the lesson to be learned from the programming at New York’s Whitney Museum of American Art since it reopened in 2015, and it is now the big takeaway in the nation’s capital, at the Smithsonian American Art Museum, whose contemporary art galleries have reopened after a two-year closure.
During that time, architect Annabelle Selldorf refurbished these galleries, which have the challenge of pushing art history’s limits without going too far. Her interventions in these spaces are fairly inoffensive. Mainly, she’s pared down some of the structural clutter, removing some walls that once broke up a long, marble-floored hallway. To the naked eye, the galleries are only slightly different.
What is contained within, however, has shifted more noticeably—and is likely to influence other museums endeavoring to diversify their galleries. For one thing, I have never encountered a permanent collection hang with more Latinx and Native American artists, who, until very recently, were severely under-represented in US museums. That unto itself is notable.
It is a joy to see, presiding over one tall gallery, three gigantic beaded tunics courtesy of Jeffrey Gibson, a Choctaw artist who will represent the US at the next Venice Biennale. Printed with bombastic patterning and hung on tipi poles, they hang over viewers’ heads and allude to the Ghost Shirts used by members of the Sioux to reach ancestral spirits. One says on it “WITHOUT YOU I’M NOTHING.” That statement can also be seen as a confession on behalf of SAAM’s curators to the artists now included in this rehang: a multiplicity of perspectives is more nourishing than having just one.
Something similar can be seen in Judith F. Baca’s Las Tres Marías (1976). The installation features a drawing of a shy-looking chola on one side and an image of Baca as a tough-as-nails Pachuca on the other. These are both Chicana personae—the former from the ’70s, the latter from the ’40s—and the third component, a long looking glass, sutures the viewer into the piece. It’s no surprise this piece is shaped like a folding mirror, an item used to examine how one may present to the outside world. Baca suggests that a single reflection isn’t enough. To truly understand one’s self, many are needed.
It is hardly as though the Smithsonian American Art Museum’s collection ever lacked diversity. Nam June Paik’s Electronic Superhighway: Continental U.S., Alaska, Hawaii (2002), a video installation featuring a map of the country with each state’s borders containing TV monitors, is a crown jewel of the collection. It has returned once more, where it now faces a 2020 Tiffany Chung piece showing a United States strung with thread. So, too, has Alma Thomas’s magnum opus, Red Azaleas Singing and Dancing Rock and Roll Music (1976), a three-part stunner showing an array of petal-like red swatches drifting across white space.
But the usual heroes of 20th century art history are notably absent. Partly, that is because the Smithsonian American Art Museum doesn’t own notable works by canonical figures like Andy Warhol, Jasper Johns, and Robert Rauschenberg. (For those artists, you’d have to head to the National Gallery of Art.) Yet it is also partly because the curators want to destabilize the accepted lineage of postwar American art, shaking things up a bit and seeing where they land.
There is, of course, the expected Abstract Expressionism gallery, and while works by Willem de Kooning and Clyfford Still are present, those two are made to share space with artists whose contributions are still being properly accounted for. The standouts here are a prismatic painting by Ojibwe artist George Morrison and a piquant hanging orb, formed from knotted steel wire, by Claire Falkenstein.
This being the nation’s capital, there is also an entire space devoted to the Washington Color School. Come for Morris Louis’s 20-foot-long Beta Upsilon (1960), on view for the first time in 30 years, now minus the pencil marks left on its vast white center by a troublemaking visitor a long time ago. Stay for Mary Pinchot Meyer’s Half Light (1964), a painting that features a circle divided into colored quadrants, one of which has two mysterious dots near one edge.
From there, the sense of chronology begins to blur. The Baca piece appears in a gallery that loosely takes stock of feminist art of the 1970s; a clear picture of the movement’s aims fails to emerge because the various artists’ goals appear so disparate. It’s followed by an even vaguer gallery whose stated focus is “Multiculturalism and Art” during the ’70s and ’80s. Beyond the fact that all five artists included are not white, the gallery doesn’t have much of a binding thesis.
This partial view of recent art history leads to gaps, which is both a good thing and a bad thing. It’s a good thing because it offers due recognition for art-historical nonpareils. Audrey Flack is represented by Queen (1976), a Photorealist painting showing a view of a sliced orange, a rose, photographs, a playing card, and trinkets blown up to a towering size. It’s both gaudy and glorious. Hats off to the curators for letting it shine.
Then there are two totem-like sculptures by the late Truman Lowe, a member of the Ho-Chunk Nation, that are allowed to command a tall space of their own. They feature sticks of peeled willow that zigzag through boxy lumber structures, and they refuse to enjoin themselves to any artistic trend. Later on, there are three deliciously odd paintings by Howard Finster, of Talking Heads album cover fame. One shows Jesus descended to a mountain range strewn with people and cars who scale the peaks. Try cramming that into the confines of an accepted art movement.
That’s just three lesser-knowns who make an impact—there are many others on hand, from Ching Ho Cheng to Ken Ohara. And yet, herein lies this hang’s big problem: its gaping omissions in between them all, which are likely to be visible not just to the literati of the art world but to the general public, too.
Despite the focus of these new galleries being the 1940s to now, Pop, Minimalism, Conceptualism, and their resultant offshoots are skipped over entirely as the curators rush through the postwar era in order to get closer to the present. The Paik installation aside, there is almost no video art in this hang (although there is a newly formed space for moving-image work where a Carrie Mae Weems installation can be found), and no digital art or performance documentation at all, which is a shame, given that the museum owns important works by the likes of Cory Arcangel and Ana Mendieta, respectively. The AIDS crisis of the 1980s and ’90s and its devastating impact on the art world isn’t mentioned a single time in the wall text for these new galleries, and queer art more broadly is a blind spot.
Protest art periodically makes the cut, but any invocation of racism, misogyny, colonialism, and the like is typically abstracted or aestheticized. That all makes a work like Frank Romero’s Death of Rubén Salazar (1986) stand out. The painting depicts the 1970 killing of a Los Angeles Times reporter in a café during an unrelated incident amid a Chicano-led protest against the high number of Latino deaths in the Vietnam War. With its vibrant explosions of tear gas (Salazar was killed when a tear gas canister shot by the LA Sheriff Department struck his head) and its intense brushwork, it is as direct as can be—a history painting for our times. So, too, in a much different way, is Consuelo Jimenez Underwood’s Run, Jane, Run! (2004), a piece that ports over the “Immigrant Crossing” sign, first installed near the US-Mexico border in Southern California in the 1990s, and remakes it as a yellow tapestry that is threaded with barbed wire.
In general, this presentation could use more art like Romero and Jimenez Underwood’s. Yet the curators at least cop to the fact they’re seeking to hold handsome craftmanship and ugly historical events in tension, and the methods on display are productive in that regard.
By way of example, there’s Firelei Báez 2022 painting Untitled (Première Carte Pour L’Introduction A L’Histoire De Monde), which features a spray of red-orange paint blooming across a page from an 18th-century atlas documenting Europe’s colonies. One could say Báez’s blast of color recalls the bloodshed of manifest destiny, but that seems like an unfair interpretation for a work that provides so much visual pleasure. Rather than re-presenting the violence of a bygone era, Báez beautifies it. The result allows history to begin anew—on Báez’s own terms."
www.artnews.com/art-news/reviews/smithsonian-american-art...
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Our yard will be undergoing great transformation over the next year. Today, E was working on digging a hole for our new Mexican Plum tree. The spot I selected, as it turns out, is directly over the root system of an old tree. The nursery said this is not only a good spot, but excellent due to the fact that, as the old roots decompose, the new roots will have an easy home.