The “Art” of Dedication

First—let it be understood quite clearly that this old farm of mine is not the locale of a nudist colony. No way!

On the other hand, if I may be so bold as to bare a long concealed secret, there was a time … . Oh well—I might as well tell you about it.

Several years ago a fairly large contingent of art students here at Ohio University found this hilly acreage of mine a rich and challenging site for “on location” sculptures.

Scores of pliable trees and shrubs were available for carving, bark weaving, group planting or whatever. Fences of braided vines wandered from ridge line to hollows, from pond edges to cliff faces, with no purpose other than to corral an artistic idea or two.

One student, encouraged by the entire class, dug a full-sized grave along the edge of the open power line right-of-way. From the pile of scrap lumber stacked in untidy fashion behind my work shop, he lined the dark hole with a mock casket, complete with floor and lid.

Then, with rather uncertain reactions from his audience of classmates, he climbed down into the “grave” after instructing his friends to lower the lid in place and top it off with several shovels of dirt from the pile of excavation.

Five minutes were to be the burial limit!

The other students could not wait. Three minutes later they removed the mound of soil, lifted off the lid of the wooden box and yelled with delight when their brave friend “arose from the dead” with a big grin on his somewhat grimy face.
No one else volunteered for subsequent burial.

In seasons that followed, these old ragged fields and valleys embraced scores of impromptu, on-site works of student art. To this day I relish the memories. Let me count the ways.

From the University molten glass shop came a strange and wonderful collection of faces and masks, blown or molded from the melted stew of broken fragments brought here from the factories along the old Ohio River. The creative student laid them carefully along one of the winding ravines here on the farm, giving all of us observers a chance to enjoy the somewhat bizarre effect of the shining masks.

But overnight, nature added the final artistic touch. A heavy rainstorm washed a wave of old leaves and soil down that little ravine in the dark hours of night. The result was remarkable. Each mask lay half hidden; strange peaceful faces, staring up through their cover into the morning sun and shadow.

In another tangled grove, where small saplings grew in profusion, three older students pulled enough of these volunteer junior trees together to form a tent, held together by wild grape and honeysuckle vines. Only the small trees growing inside the structure were removed.

In subsequent years the growth continued, of course, despite its unnatural entwinement. Ultimately, a few of the framework trees grew with far more vigor than others and “broke up” the pre-arranged housekeeping.

The entire class joined in some major sculptural projects—sometimes with the enthusiastic help of the instructor.

For instance, there was the bridge to nowhere.

My largest pond, close to an acre in size, offered up an engineering challenge. A number of tall, slender trees were cut, mostly white pine. Trimmed of their branches, the resultant logs were to be used as floating bases for the narrow walk-way across the calm water. The span was about eighty feet wide.

But this was to be no ordinary bridge. No way.

Designed and built in two floating sections, each anchored to a single post at the opposite shores of the pond, they featured two major handicaps. First, the sections were cut deliberately short—in fact, they were six feet apart in mid pond.

Second, as the two walkways approached the area where they could expect to meet and form a complete bridge, their contour slowly changed from flat to perpendicular.

In other words, at mid-pond the two sections not only didn’t meet, they stood on their sides, somewhat like a board fence.

Of course, every member of the class tried, without success to walk across the pond on this unorthodox structure. It was a splashing success—but not an engineering model.

There were other masterpieces, of course, including the buried drums that played only flat notes; the glass windows that were laid flat with the water surface; and the saplings that were bound together with banjo strings to form a one-of-a-kind musical instrument for passing breezes to play.

And then, there was the Indian mound.

Perhaps fifty feet from the pond edge, a somewhat solid round wooden hut was constructed, its interior cavity 8 feet across, its height about 6 feet. A small entrance was kept open until all the “native” students could bring a collection of “treasures” to store in the interior. Anything was admissible.

Then the entrance was closed, and the work of covering the wooden structure began. Using buckets, baskets, and a few wheelbarrows, soil was dug from the surrounding area and tossed or dumped on the growing mound where it was packed down by hand or the pounding of shovels.

The day was hot. This was an art forum that involved pure, unadulterated manual labor.

Finally, the job was complete. The Anderson farm had its first and only Indian mound. A tiny American flag was stuck atop the rounded structure.

However, the ending was even more dramatic. All the students—and the head-honcho instructor—formed a hand-held circle and began a dance around the mound, chanting some very strange Indian songs.

Suddenly, the scene changed.

Remember, the day was hot. The work had been real laborous.

So, as if on signal, clothes were discarded and scattered around the newly-built mound, and every student dived, completely naked, into the cool and welcoming waters of the nearby pond. They made quite a splash.

Oh yes, the distinguished professor and I “barely” made the plunge also. I remember it well.

Read Another One Of Ora’s Unpublished Print Essays

About Ora Anderson