Monterubio's Woods

In November, 1995, I facilitated the rambling of one quarter mile of paper through the Missouri woods, leaving it for six weeks, and documenting its change over that time. I also bandaged a circle of trees with long strips of paper handmade from junk mail. At the bases of some of those trees, I put large sheets of white paper with tempera powder sprinkled on them. During the life of the installation, the elements sculpted the paper ribbon, claimed the bandages, and painted with the pigments. Rain and sunlight created magic. Pulp dripped from the bandaged trees to form intimate unions with leaves and twigs. Tempra settled in low spots on the paper, staining it as it lay there in raindrops. Leaves got stuck on at the wet spots which were now dry.

After almost two months of visits to this place, I said goodbye to that forest for the last time. I was sad to leave the patient trees who had permitted me to hug them, to cover them with my paper. The trees had watched me walk between them and had stood alongside the visible evidence of my having been there. They were the witnesses, the papers I had placed at their feet were merely my offerings to the trees. The only thing that had changed out there in the forest was me. I had not affected the trees--they were my teachers.

Ribbon after two weeks

Paper walk becoming submerged on forest floor after six weeks. Paper is as brittle as fallen leaves and wind and rain have curled the walk as it becomes part of the the forest floor. Detail of bandaged trees after six weeks. Paper pulp has blended into the bark.

Paper pulp has fallen to the foot of the tree and forms new shapes with the leaves and twigs there.

Detail of artist's book documenting the project

The air is warm and very windy. Leaves float down in tight circles, acorns are falling from the trees as I tramp to the site. The brown paper is crisp, crisp as the leaves that had fallen on it. Wet and dried it is brittle and the edges have curled. Wind has narrowed the walk to a ribbon, sinuously winding among the rocks and laying against tree trunks, snuggled up to them.

The sound of crickets is everywhere and the wind rustles through the tall grasses in the adjacent field. I can hardly find some of the witnesses--the leaves have all but covered them. Wind and repeated rain have washed away all but he faintest red pigment and the sunlight is making them brittle as well. The path has been torn by the wind and the ends flung wildly in different directions. Pulp from the bandages has been wetted and torn from the bark. It lays in gobs on the leaves and bark and twigs at the base of the trees. One piece has draped itself over a twig and is waving in the breeze, a brave little flag. Other bandages have clung even closer to the trees, the crevices in the bark apparent in the shadows of the paper.

Pulp has dried where it fell, draped over the string binding the swaddling to the bark. Golden sunlight twinkles brightly now that so many leaves have fallen. The forest floor looks like a glowing mosaic. A puddle remains where the paper lays in a low spot. Leaves and twigs soaked on its dark surface; sunlight shines through the back of the wet section. I can see the shadows of the plants behind.