We continue handing out our cameras as people stop by to see what we are working on - in order to have a variety of images to draw from with the Pantograph Machine. Some of the results are really great.

This gives us a chance to see what catches people’s eye. The shot above is of a found object - a dendrite like thing that I found on a walk with my dog just after Dale Sheppard, curator of the Brain show, invited us to consider being resident artists. It was an exciting find!

This is what the top of it looks like. It’s been a reference point for us in conversation related to brain pathways, but for now, it just leans against the wall.

More photos taken by visitors of all ages.

(I love the little sandaled toe in the corner!)

A photo in relation to the drawing. I think there are about 12 photos along the length of the 20 foot drawing. We were interested in rigging up a little line, with clips, to hold the photos but there was no time before the opening. A quick solution was the green painter’s tape, which is an eyesore, but does the trick and allows people to freely position the photo where they want along the wall.

In both shots above you can see where we’ve begun darkening some of the lines, a connection with reinforcing pathways in the brain.
We’re settling in, getting a chance to talk more to gallery staff, security, and generally feeling more at ease. The check list we have made for ourselves is growing, but we accomplish a few things in the first week - including our first talk with the docents. The ideas we are working with are still new to us, so presenting them without time to reflect - especially as the actual brain content is still sinking in - makes us a bit nervous. Much of our work is about process, so the vulnerability we feel right now comes from the fact that so little of the process has actually begun, in relation to Minding. Still, it was great to gauge the docents’ interest and hear their questions.
On Tuesday, we review our contract with the gallery and the highlight is that we have 24 hour access to our space! For us, this is a gift because we often work late into the night. Actually, we often begin our work at 11pm or later, so it’s really necessary.

Our work looks mostly like this with the public - contained and clean.

This is intriguing to our visitors and they ask questions about its relationship to the brain. if you look closely, you can see that the cell-like egg cups are attached by magnets and as they are dragged into different positions on the grid, tracks are left on the paper. It’s a subtle, beautiful record of where they have crossed paths.
Much of our time is spent running around gathering supplies, and stocking the studio: tools, felt, dish soap, pencils…

Cinder blocks and a carry-all bag: this is a bit of a story.
We rely on found objects in our work and that leads to collecting things of interest* most of the year. In our respective households, no one really appreciates this, but it’s necessary because there’s rarely a budget for our own art pursuits and almost never one when we work on projects in the community, or in schools.
*This really includes everything from the mesh bags lemons come in to flattened rusty metal on the side of the road.
We decide to rig up a clothesline in the space at the gallery because we are generating a lot of felt that gets rinsed and needs to dry.
After attempts to find a sturdy pole, we eventually locate a fantastic steel pole on a sturdy base just down the street from my house. When odd things are left in front of people’s houses, they are generally up for grabs - and I have walked by this particular item for as long as I can remember. Just the same, we leave a message at the house to contact us if its removal is a problem.
It’s heavy. We load it into the back of Heather’s car, drive to the gallery, unload it and begin to install. That evening, the call comes. It belongs, in fact, to the Kings Theatre Society, it is needed, and could we please immediately return it.
Back to piecing together a stand ourselves with scrap wood and cinder blocks, sigh.




