Abandoned House #54

A week ago I left the studio and headed north into Wisconsin. I needed a break. I had just had the pleasure of having my mouth drilled by one of those vile servants of the dental arts, and it was feeling like someone was entertaining a party of tortoises wearing ice skates on my gums, so I needed to be in a place where, if I threw something, no one would get hurt. So I tried my hand at fishing for a day or two, and with a little luck was able to land a few bass and even eat a few. After several days my teeth were still sending rude little love notes to my arms with orders to cut off my head to end the pain, so I packed up the car and started to head back to the city in search of some serious medication and strong booze, possibly taken together.

As I sat in construction traffic on a backroad headed to the interstate, I had the time to take in my surroundings and, in doing so, noticed a hulking house-like shape hidden behind large spruces nestled between birch, cornrow and poison ivy. I took the next road and turned down a winding grassy lane that lead me further from the prying eyes of local farm traffic, and came to a metal gate partially overgrown with wild grapes and honeysuckle. I saw no signs suggesting I keep away, so I hopped the fence and headed towards what I hoped was an abandoned house. One hundred yards down this weedy path I came to the house; a turn of the century two story farm house, whitewashed wooden siding with a small covered porch. Near the house sat a small shed, and in the shed sat a rusting model t, which appeared to be the only thing actually holding the shed in place. Scattered around the automobile like bark falling from a dead tree were scraps of metal, pieces of old license plates, and snipped remnants of barbed wire. By the base of the shed, covered loosely by piled dirt, were a few glass gallon jugs of suspiciously clear liquid, probably old vinegar jugs, although I wanted to guess moonshine.

I headed from the shed to the house, which probably saw its last tenants sometime in the nineties, judging by a calendar hanging on the kitchen wall. However, the articles scattered around the floor told a different story. Kids coloring books suggested birthday parties where Tom Mix and Howdy Doody were the heroes, and the decomposing magazines in the upstairs bedrooms touted man’s foray into the new age of space travel. Since most of the collage materials I use come from these old abandoned houses, I gathered a few handfuls of papers and stuffed them into a backpack, waiting until I got home to sift through them. My way of gathering materials is sometimes childlike. It’s similar to what happens when a kid hits a piñata. Everyone scrambles for candy, and it doesn’t matter what you get, you just go in open handed and then pull your fingers back to inspect your claims. I like to be excited when I get back to the studio and see what my fingers have snagged. I should note here that I am always respectful of the houses while I gather materials. I don’t break windows, I don’t spray paint walls, I don’t pee on the carpet. I try to act as if I am going in to collect specimens that will help tell a larger story, and I try to leave the house with as many of its beautiful accouterments as I can. And the things I bring back with me, these aged souvenirs, are immediately turned into works of art.

Somewhere in Wisconsin, there is a white farm house that just had a shave and a haircut, and its putting on its shingles to dance around in the moonlight tonight. I can hear its piano heart playing along while the screen door slams the rhythm and the crickets spread their midnight basement gossip.

>>> Posted by Dolan <<<