Spirit of the Wild Things, the Art of Sandy Scott

Summer is over, and I have time to return to the book I most enjoyed reading at camp. As I have noted before, I invested in some art this summer,two moose head book ends by Sandy Scott. I found them at the Wilcox Gallery in Jackson Hole. When I bought them, Jeff Wilcox, acting as his father’s manager, called Ms. Scott on the phone to get me a discount; how kind. He also gave me Sandy Scott’s autobiography. I have enjoyed it immensely.

Here are some highlights.

1. Sculpture is an experience rather than an object. p26

2. Style is personal truth. p26

3. Artist is seeing, feeling, understanding, expressing. p26

4. CUSS -- Clarify, unify, simplify, and solidify. p30

Sandy Scott writes of how her life is recorded in work books and journals – they are the source of her commentary – she believes she has a compulsion to write it down. So do I!!!

5. Drawing is the foundation of all art, and in a drawing the artiest defines something that cannot be described in words. . . it would be like describing the taste of gooseberry pie. p62

6. On page 64 she describes using a Stevens Shot gun. The first thing of material value I ever saved money to buy was my Stevens Savage shot gun. I worked all my last summer at home picking fruit to earn the $78.00 it cost me. Today, it hangs in my “Art Room” across from Scotts sculptures. As a girl she had gone hunting with her father and his friends, but she did not have a gun. A fellow lent her one.

“He offered to let me use his old Stevens 12-gage double-barrel with slugs for shells. I was in heaven, so I polished the shotgun and lined it up next to the rifles.”

7. Her first adventure with nature – like my perpetual one – was tied to Yellowstone. I remember visiting Yellowstone as a boy; in some ways I am always a boy there and in some ways I am always there. She recounts her first visit on pg 70:

“The first great event of my life was a summer vacation to Wyoming in 1958 with my parents and sister Nancy. I was fourteen years of age and spending tow weeks camping below the wild peaks of the Grand Tetons and in the geyser basins of Yellowstone plunged me into a rich adventure that changed my life forever. It was the beginning of a spell that the West has had on me to this day.”
Having never traveled beyond Oklahoma or northwestern Arkansas, this event presented many “firsts” in my young life:
Dear Diary: Slept in a bedroll under a starry sky for the first time; first time in a boat; caught my first fish, a cutthroat trout; saw my first antelope, bear, buffalo, elk, golden eagle and moose.
Pretty heady stuff in retrospect. The experience was of incalculable value because it revealed the treasure and possibilities that lay ahead of me in life.”

8. I have written before of the humming bird feeders outside my office window at camp, and have often thought of that broad porch on the second story of the lodge as the deck of a ship that plows through giant green waves of fir and spruce. It was a great pleasure to find Ms. Scott also shares these pleasures with me. On page 78 she writes:

“I had a deck built onto the front of my cabin, which sits on a point and is close to the water. When I’m on the deck, I feel as though I’, on the flying bridge of a ship.
When I arrive to open up in May, I can’t wait to put geraniums on the deck, and since springtime is for planting, I se tout tomatoes in a sunny spot on the south corner.
I place red sugar-water feeders under the eaves and watch ruby-throated humming-birds as they dart from feeder to birch branch then to their wee nest, high in a big poplar tree. They look like jewels flashing in the sun with their red bibs and brilliant metallic sheen.
How I love the deck! Dazzling with splashes of color: cadmium red geraniums, hearty bright tomatoes and sparkling ruby-throated hummers against the complementary greens of summer.
When snow blankets my home in Colorado, I think of summertime at the cabin on Lake of the Woods, and I see red.”

My lake is also called Lake of the Woods, and my memories of copper and ruby ruffas hummers fill my winter dreams with red summer fire.

9. The moment we think of animals as human, we are lost. p86

10. Tolstoy’s definition of Art:

“Art is a human activity, whose purpose is the transmission of the highest and best feelings to which human being have attained.” p94

11. A quote from Robert Henri on following rules to be made free:

“Take any man and develop his mind and soul and heart to the fullest by the right work and right study and then let him find through his training the utmost freedom of expression. For a man ceases to imitate when he has achieved the power to express fully and freely his own ideas.” P97

Robert Henri was a “great American artiest” and admirer of Thomas Ekins.

12. On following the examples of the past, and learning the Truths about art:

“It is inexcusable for any artist working today not to know and study the finest examples of sculpture handed down through the ages – to be aware of what was done before. Basic and time-honored artistic principles will always stand up as the taste of the times and look of the day change.” P104

13. On anatomy for [drawing] and sculpting:

“There is nothing random in nature; everything is structured. Though an animal sculptor does not need to be a scientist he must know and understand the important bones, joints and muscles, not only where they attach but how they articulate, In addition to this knowledge the bird sculptor must know the major feather groups, individual feather construction and the mechanics of flight. Birds in flight don’t pose, therefore this understanding is a must” p112

14. On the need to have a knowledge of the subject:

“The sculptor’s knowledge of their subjects is more important than the technical ability to mold clay.” p126

15. On medium:

“The medium is an extension of the artist’s personality, the channel through which the mind connects to the fingers.” p135

16. On the connection between spontaneity and structure:

“Spontaneity is not possible with out planning and structure. . . There must be meaningful strong and understood structure and shape – only then can one edit and simplify. The more that is know, the more that can be eliminated” p140

17. On the simple shapes:

“Simple shapes are the foundation of all drawing, and to drawing, and to draw accurately we must use all these shapes – circles, squares, triangles, rectangles, ovals, etc. – in correct relation to each other.” p144

18. Three rule of composition from Mrs. DuCoin:

“1. Composition is a harmonious arrangement of two or more elements, one of which dominates all others in interest. The dominate element becomes the focal point or center of interest.

2. There should be as few secondary elements as possible and these should be arranged to support the man interest.

3. The position of the center of interest depends upon the feeling of balance created by the distribution of the different elements in the composition.” p146

19. A definition of Art by Sandy Scott:

“Art is not an imitation of nature. Art is surrounded by the artist’s personal evaluation and response to nature, and great art has an eternal and universal appeal.” p146

20. On the Academy and the master:

“In years past, art students learned in academies and continued their education under the direction of a master in ateliers and working studios. In the academic tradition the student would assist the master by making plaster casts fro life, taking endless measurements and making accurate drawing. He would learn mold-making, resizing, point-up, and carving. His responsibilities would surely include keeping the clay models covered and moist as well as sweeping the floors, watering the plants and looking after the studio cats.
In exchange, the apprentice received a small amount of money, if any, and an occasional critique of his own work by the master. Most would advance no further than a technician and would have to be content with their lot in the studio.
The Italian Renaissance masters encouraged their students to “Imparp l’arte e mettila da parte.” (Learn you art and then put it aside.) The artist should know sound technique but never stop experimenting, seeking and taking chances.” p158

21. On my living with her art:

“When I sign my work and send it out into the world, I think of a bird leaving the nest or perhaps a child leaving home. I wonder how what I saw, felt, understood and expressed will affect the viewer. The most profound realization of my life is that there are people I have never met who live with my art, and therefore I share with them a personal, if not intimate relationship." p166

Sandy, thank you for sharing.

We're All Together Again

A Bridge to Somewhere

Brandon, our Forest Range, wanted a new Bridge at Camp Loll. Now we have one.

Lynn Hinrich's design for the bridge by the Blackfoot Teepee.

The Crew unloads the timbers.

Lumber in place.

The beams rest on rocks gathered from the forest and the Grassy Lake quarrey.

Bill Wangsgard at work.

Such craft!

Paint to keep it safe.

Planks in place.

From dream to reality in two days of service. This view is looking in toward the heart of the camp.

From the Blackfoot side.

All we need is a troll.

Sardine Sandwiches and the Music of the Ainur

This past summer, my son Lafe directed Camp Cherry Valley and did a wonderful job; this in spite of enormous challenges. It is a fact that one cannot be jealous of one’s children, for one can expropriate all their accomplishments. This past weekend we were moving Lafe and his family toward their new home in Provo where he is involved in a PHD program at BYU. As we worked, our conversation naturally turned to camp directing. He told me that a running joke at Cherry Valley was that while with me the “please is always implied”, with him, “it is the command that is implied”.

Lafe described taking his crew out on Lion’s Head and telling to them about Aslan’s music; how Lewis’ lion king had made the music of the universe and thus set in motion the creation of the world. Lafe told his crew that this summer he had a tune in his heart and how their work together would make it real. I am more of a Tolkien fan, I think of the Music of the Ainur, by which Iluvatar created the world from music, first outlining it in his own thoughts, then allowing the Valar to perform it, until at last it became the world in fact. I have long maintained that a Summer Camp must exist in the mind of its Director, and that it will be a success based on, how true the vision of its Camp Director is and how capably the staff performs in making the dream of their Director into the world in fact.

Now to sardine sandwiches. I am not a great musician, and it is not in the composition of music I see the image of my efforts. I like sardine sandwiches. My Scout Master, Vern Spence, made them for us when we were kids, and so hungry that we would have eaten anything, and so happy that anything associated with our joy was made wonderful. I like the ones packed in ketchup, and although I admit they do not travel well, and that even I like to shield the bread from too much juice with leaves of lettuce; in the world of sandwiches there is nothing to compare with one made of sardines.

When I came to a position that allowed me to pick food for my employees, I made, and made them eat, sardine sandwiches. The picture above, taken in 1983, shows Dave Kirkham’s feelings about the opportunity, but surely this was before he ate one. I had brought the Treasure Mountain Staff for a visit to Loll and perhaps you can see how much I enjoyed giving my crew the chance to taste my youth. For years afterward, I provided sardine sandwiches and Camp Loll to all I could. They became a mandatory part of every road trip schedule, and although Doug Hopper was known to buy peanut butter and jam at Flag Ranch, I will always believe that those who gave the sardines a try were glad of the experience. I did not relent in providing them for many years; in fact, it was expense and convenience that led me to abandon my determination to foist my childhood pleasures on all I love.

When I was a boy, I also dined on a delicious concoction of scout camp activities. I have held the memory of that feast close to my heart these many years. I would not abandon the pleasures they promise to those I love for any cost or for any convenience. Folks who have never tasted my recipe might balk at trying it, but I have found that those who take a taste find it most delicious.

Wild Flowers

In Memoriam

My Bishop died last Sunday. I have lived in many LDS wards, but only one was ever “my ward”. I have known many fine men who have presided over them, but only one who was my shepherd. Charles Morgan Hawkes was the bishop of my youth and he will always be “The Bishop” in my mind and heart.

His son and his grand daughter were at Loll when Bishop Hawkes passed. Leonard and Kathy heard the news over the camp phone late Sunday night, and left early in the morning, while the boys were packing for the Tetons.

The viewing was in the Felt Mortuary – the name has changed but it is the same. I even whispered, “My doesn’t he look nice.” to Leonard as I passed the casket. I noted the flowers, carefully arranged, and realized that we had not sent a tribute.

Flowers appeared again the next day as Bishop Hawkes son, Bishop Hawkes, spoke at the funeral in the “old ward house” in Brigham City. I sat with my friends, and marveled at the life of service recalled. I will quote Leonard a bit about flowers here. I will place his entire speech after the pictures.

From Leonard’s funeral oration:

“There are many more places I could speak of, but one more place I’m going to mention, and that’s the cemetery. As a family we’ve always celebrated a reverent, commemorative Memorial Day, but in Dad’s later years, that type of remembrance became even more important. I don’t remember when it was that Dad started caring for the graves in Logan, but it’s something that we’ve done for decades. And like his parents before him, raising flowers for use on Memorial Day was an important first harvest of the season. A poet once wrote:

The Flowers too sing out:
What we select,
Where we gather them,
How we bring them;
Even placement's gesture
Attests the Memory.

And let them be real,
Those that will lie
Some May upon me:
For honest weeds far
Surpass this purchase
Of Plastic, Paper and Silk.

L. M. Hawkes

And now as those left behind, if nothing better let us at least be “honest weeds,” may we appropriately remember.” (End quote)

I am not a poet like my friend. My words, like my plants, refuse to obay the rules. I do not hope for tended blossoms on some future Momorial Day; rather let my dust feed the roots of summer flowers, wild grown, on some lonely mountain top. May my ashes, like Wild Flowers, be scattered through the wilderness.

I do not raise flowers; I am not a gardener like the bishops Hawkes, but my flowers are wild, and beautiful, and I hope honest weeds at least. Let me give these pictures, gathered by our staff this summer from the mountains of Loll, as tribute to the man who tended me until I found the wilderness.

Funeral Talk 20 August 2009
C. Morgan Hawkes
Brigham City 15th Ward

I was at Camp Loll when I heard of Dad’s passing. I’d seen him the morning before, but I went up to camp to bring home my daughter Cathy and to help with the closing of camp. I remember well that Dad was with us that first time we went to Loll. We went up on Saturdays in those days, and Dad officiated at the Sunday services the next day. I remember feeling very proud and thankful for my father on that occasion, and I’ll never forget the spirit I felt in that sacrament meeting held on that big rock on the north side of Lake of the Woods, nor the opportunity I had to pass the sacrament in that meeting. As proud as I was of my father that day, I think I was equally proud to be a deacon, and to have had the opportunity to serve.

Speaking now after many years of Scouting service, one of the greatest legacies of Dad’s long term as bishop, is no doubt the many well-experienced youth leaders who are the result of Vern and Winston’s long tenure as scoutmasters. What a blessing to have had a bishop who cared enough about the youth, to have called and left two of the ward’s best in Scouting.

Here in the 15th Ward we have this beautiful reminder of the miracle of the restoration of the gospel (stained glass window). At Loll, however, the trees are real, our Heavenly Father, himself, created and decorated our chapel there, and I testify to you of his reality, and of his love for us.

My memories of my father are of course tied to this chapel where he served so many years as bishop, but equally they are tied to the old 7th Ward. In my early youth, Grandma and Grandpa Hawkes were the custodians of that building, and because there was more work to be done than they could do in a week, my dad, his brothers, and some of the cousins would help with the cleaning on Saturday mornings. It was a great family gathering; we would all work. We younger ones would usually polish glass and mirrors and wash sinks. Grandpa and the uncles would do the heavier work, and this weekly event, was to me, what it meant to be a Hawkes. We were entrusted with the sacred duty of preparing the building for Sabbath worship, and we did it as a family; enjoying each other’s company and learning along the way.

We cousins also did a lot of playing on those occasions which always seemed to include running around the outside of the building. But in those days, instead of having the extensive parking on the west side, that back side of the building was a bit gravely and well shaded with trees, and over that back fence, we could see Great-Grandma Wight’s House—to this day a shrine to our family pioneer heritage. She was a Wight, our bishop was a Wight, Aunt Barbara’s mother who lived next door was a Wight. In those years in the old 7th Ward, the family seemed particularly well rooted and eternal.

Another place I always felt very proud to be my father’s son was up to the Court House. During much of his career, that was where the School Board Office was, and that was where he worked—another Brigham City landmark that we got to know intimately. We knew that, within limits, we were always welcome at Dad’s work. For several years, the access to the Court House dome was through Dad’s office, and many times we’d climb the steps and ladders and look at the clock works, and even peek out the trap door on the back side that gave access to the flag pole. When your father works at the Court House, there’s no doubt that you and your family, are a part of the community, and of course the reach of his job extended throughout the entire county. The people of western Box Elder County were always especially dear and important to Dad, and I’ve seen that love he had for them reflected back to me many times, even in my own years of teaching the next generation.

There’s a mountain top south of Mantua where I also loved being my father’s son. My father was not a camper. He got cold easily, and he always said that camping out in a foxhole for a winter in Europe was enough camping for him for a lifetime. But we did go deer hunting. Usually we went with Winston and some of the neighbors, and because Winston was oriented to the Nelson family property, we’d usually go south and west of Dock Flat—sometimes high, sometimes low, sometimes it was wintery with snow, sometimes it was almost like summer. In later years, “the hunt” got to be an excuse for camping there, enjoying the fall weather, and eating chili and apple dessert. And it was there that I first heard my father talk about the War. As I was growing up, it seemed that most kids dads were some kind of veteran. World War II was a reality that my mother often spoke of. We knew how they had lived in various parts of the country while Dad was training and going to school, and how she had lived in an apartment made from a chicken coop. But in those years, Dad, himself, didn’t talk much about the war. I remember so clearly standing around that camp fire and being in awe as he spoke first-hand about some of his European-front experiences. I don’t remember the details, but I’ll never forget how I felt.

And not too many years later, I was transferred from the northern most city of the Netherlands, to the southern most city, and while I was there in the South, in Limburg, through the weekly letters from home, I came to realize that that battle front my father had maintained in the Winter of 1944-1945 was there. Not Germany at all, but mostly there in the southern Netherlands where I was working. Those coal mine buildings that I passed every day in Heerlen were where he had showered and rested every so many days during that legendarily cold winter. Those shops in the neighboring city of Maastricht were where he had done his “Christmas shopping.” --A chilling irony that his battlefield was a quarter century later, my mission field.

Some years after that, I had the opportunity to visit that place again with Mom and Dad. A professor from the plant ecology department at the University of Utrecht, whose life and freedom were preserved by those American rescuers of the Netherlands took us there, somewhat as a gesture of thanks. And we stood on a quiet hill overlooking the Ruur River. And Dad told how the blood flowed in the mud of that spring day of 1945, and of the shock of the artillery, and how the shrapnel flew, and how they were cut off there on that hill beyond the river.

Another place where I spent a lot of time with my father was the garden. Even in those busiest years when Dad was both bishop and Assistant School Superintendant, we had a fairly large garden. He spent countless hours there; I think he found refuge there, and from it he provided for us, and not just in fruits and vegetables. Much of what I learned about nature, work, and the law of the harvest came from that time in the garden. And last year, even when many things were no longer a concern for Dad, we still had to have some extra tomatoes in that northern patch, to share with the cousins in Idaho. In his heart, Uncle Bill, and the family in Idaho were never very far away.

And in recent years as I’ve taken over much of the planting and pruning and watering, I’ve often thought of the planting, and pruning and watering that we did in Grandpa Hawkes’ garden over there on First West. I also loved to go with Dad at breakfast time to give Grandpa Hawkes his insulin shot. Again, at Grandma Hawkes house, there was no doubt about our importance and obligation to one another as a family.

There are many more places I could speak of, but one more place I’m going to mention, and that’s the cemetery. As a family we’ve always celebrated a reverent, commemorative Memorial Day, but in Dad’s later years, that type of remembrance became even more important. I don’t remember when it was that Dad started caring for the graves in Logan, but it’s something that we’ve done for decades. And like his parents before him, raising flowers for use on Memorial Day was an important first harvest of the season. A poet once wrote:

The Flowers too sing out:

What we select,

Where we gather them,

How we bring them;

Even placement's gesture

Attests the Memory.

And let them be real,

Those that will lie

Some May upon me:

For honest weeds far

Surpass this purchase

Of Plastic, Paper and Silk.

L. M. Hawkes

And now as those left behind, if nothing better let us at least be “honest weeds,” may we appropriately remember. Remembrance is an admonition we receive again and again in our religion. May we remember Dad and what he stood for; may we remember the values and virtues and covenants that we should live according to; may we always remember this day, what we’ve thought and what we’ve felt in our hearts. And may we always remember Him, even Jesus Christ, hope and author of our eternal life, of whom I testify, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.