A couple of years ago I began making 3-D collage art, otherwise known as shadowboxes, in order to… hell, I have no idea why I started doing it.  Part of it was inspired by a visit to the San Jose Museum of Art where they had an exhibit of the drawings of M. C. Escher.  Another part was the character of the “boxmaker” computer in William Gibson’s Count Zero, who made boxes with bits of junk artfully arranged in the fashion of American assemblage artist Joseph Cornell (1903-1972).  But that never really quite explains it all.  I have always liked art and enjoyed the thought of making it.  I am only a marginal hand with pencil or charcoal, and with watercolors even less than that.  But the idea of making a statement or narrative by assembling things in a box was something I knew intuitively that I could do well enough to create something pleasing (at least to me).

So, I began assembling boxes.  Some were more elaborate in their planning and execution than others, but they were all a lot of fun.  I enjoy seeing them hanging in our living room.  Then I had a visit from my friend Lee, a very gifted artist in his own right.  Lee has a little art boutique in Frisco, TX, as does his partner Sandra.  Lee saw my stuff and liked it.  I sent photos so he and Sandra could both see them, and the result was an offer for them to display my boxes in Lee’s boutique to see if they sell.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around the notion of me…me… being an “artist” in the sense of someone actually buying my stuff.  But there it is.  So, before I box up my boxes and ship them to the state I associate least with things artistic, a gallery of images (the photos are rather marginal, for which I apologize in advance).

“Habitat.” 3-D collage with dollhouse furnishings and added objects. Click to enlarge. Photo by the author.

The first of these is called “Habitat.”  It was directly inspired by that visit to the San Jose Art Museum.  The Escher drawings on display were not his finished ones, but the planning drawings, the studies that showed how he approached his works.  I love these kinds of displays, that show the creative process in action, complete with eraser marks, as it were.  I wanted to somehow replicate the topsy-turvy feel of an Escher mindscape, so I created a miniature interior using dollhouse furniture and features, like the staircase and window frame.  The eye peeking through the window is mine.

“Untitled.” Click to enlarge. Photo by the author.

The second is called “Untitled” for obvious reasons.  It was based on a kind of family prank we did when I was young.  Somehow, for some reason we acquired an emptied eggshell and decided it would be great fun to hang it on the wall.  We did so in a way that made it look like it was stuck there, as if by gravity.  It was placed in a corner of the living room where it was visible, but not blatantly so.  Guests would furrow their brows at it and ask “Uh… is that an egg on your wall?”  We’d reply in the affirmative and leave it at that.  Jokes that leave people perplexed are nearly as much fun as the kind that make them laugh, although the truly enlightened guests did.

“The Great Game.” Assemblage made of found game parts and foam-core board. Click to enlarge. Photo by the author.

“The Great Game” is rather political.  It uses parts of various recognized games (Chess, Monopoly, Checkers, Magic, The Gathering, Backgammon, Panzer Blitz, etc.) to make create a landscape of confused, warring ambitions and cross-purposes.  For those of you not familiar with the reference in the title, “The Great Game” was a popular phrase in the latter part of the British Empire used to describe the constant thrust and parry of colonial warfare and politics, pitting one great power against another, the ever-present challenge of local insurgency.  When used ironically, it also includes the plight of all the locals caught in the middle.

“Tree of Knowledge” Assemblage made of found objects and clipped printed and written documents. Click to enlarge. Photo by the author.

“Tree of Knowledge” plays on the archetypal theme of the tree of life. I have always been impressed that in Genesis there is a tree of knowledge of good
and evil as well as a tree of life.  Even though it is “forbidden”, it is also necessary.  When humans eat its fruit, God observes, “See, the man has become as one of us, knowing good from evil.”  So the “tree” is just a twig from our yard, but its “leaves” are cut from various pages of printed materials, as well as some old scholar’s notes written in fountain pen that I found in an 1880 edition of The Annals of Sennacherib I acquired some years ago.  Other items are added and arranged to give a chaotic blend of themes and ideas, some of which may or may not be oblivious to the central theme.  Anyone who has done intellectual work will understand the way the universe of knowledge and fancy does not order itself for us willingly.

“High Tide.” Click to enlarge. Photo by the author.

The last one is my most recent box: “High Tide.”  This is just a simple display of some stones, a mussel shell (Mytilus californianus), and the carapace of a small crab, assembled together and suspended over a background of beach sand glued to the background.  I used golf tees to support the objects so that they seem to be floating, inviting closer inspection.  Even though it is one of the less elaborate pieces, it’s one of my favorites; very simple, uncomplicated, inviting and quiet.

So now, by an odd chain of circumstances, I am packing up these boxes and sending them out into the world, perhaps one day to adorn someone else’s home.  Although I’ve grown attached to them, I frankly need the money and perhaps it’s for the best.  I would like to make more boxes.  Perhaps this will help me start putting some more ideas together.  I have been jobless for nearly a year, but I have never gotten used to the sense of dislocation that settled over me when I was laid off.  Putting stuff together into its own unique arrangement is remarkably affirming.  It is putting yourself together when you are in pieces.  Arguably it is even an act of defiance.  Now that there might even be a modest dribble of income should these pieces sell, I have even more incentive to explore this and perhaps other media as an artist.

Perhaps commerce, rather than necessity, is the true mother of invention.