Mineral Silence 

I wasn’t yet born in 1954, which is when the photographs and journals that inspired this work were created. I imagine that in 1954 a search for places so silent and still you could hear the rocks getting old was easier than it is now. I've spent years seeking places where silence radiates and presses. Terrain with vast, rocky vistas. Places with a particular clarity of light that is unlike any other. Places that hold almost unbearable silences. I lived for many years in North America’s largest caldera, where there is proximal access to terrain that is inhospitable to plant and animal life. Terrain filled with deep recesses carved by time and machinery. There I sought, and often found, what I call mineral silence. I had youth, optimism and time for exploring. On one of my excursions, I was riding through what we called the Iron Beds; tall pillars of rock outlined in jagged shapes against the sky. With little warning, a violent storm swept in. The air was charged with electricity, the rocky trail covered with hailstones. My mare turned her rump to the wind and wouldn't move. Unsure what to do and near panic, I watched as Jackpot, the little mule who often tagged along on my rides, trot towards us, turn to face down hill and picked his way down the trail. My mare and I both followed. The storm passed. I was left with exhilaration and a sense of triumph at surviving what could have been fatal. Yet also disappointment. I'd been so governed by fear and apprehension that I was unable to revel in what would surely have been a profound experience of connection with that wild turbulence. I wonder: can I, an animal with a nervous system, ever experience true silence? When all is quiet, I hear a high whine of what must by my own nerve endings. Does that which makes hearing possible have its own noise?

yakyak