Ricci Map
The month of May was spent engraving a large block (14 x 25 inches) of a section of the Matteo Ricci world map for the Associates of the James Ford Bell Library. It was a grueling 30 days of hard labor, but interesting–both the map itself and the technical problems involved. The size of the block was pushing limits. Too big for my press, it was printed at the Minnesota Center for Book Arts. The image was transferred onto the block using a heat transfer method developed by Carl Montford of Seattle. Here is a video of clearing wood from between characters. Note the red background, a suggestion from Carl that was helpful.
Back on the River
16 June 2010. 1 pm – 9:30 pm. North wind 5-10 diminishing and switching toward the east.
Three pelicans flying down river suddenly swoop and land in the path of a distant boat. The first pelicans of the year. Soon they are air borne again, crossing the river toward Point Au Sable, and turning up river toward the shallow bay above the Rush River. Even heavy-breasted pelicans impress when they turn their wings to descend, the seemingly simple shift of planes for such a clean and swift decent.
While traveling by car along the lake I had become interested in a stretch of shoreline between a scenic overlook and the rest area at the base of Bay City Hill. The overlook is atop a high cliff, and the rest area a place of short stops for travelers passing through. Looking for solitude, I thought I might find an obscure beach to comb somewhere between the two.
The beach I found was surrounded by weeds. All the better, I thought, a difficult approach from the water as well. Soon I became aware of two groups of shore fishermen, one up river, and one down. Pairs of fishermen in boats trolled by with regularity, voicing their position on the lake, and in the bigger picture. Fishing is a social sport.
A point of dense young willows separated two dank beaches. Just off the point the trunk of a great tree had snagged, wrested loose of it’s territory by recent heavy rains. Where roots swelled from the trunk a large turtle sat, timing his slide into the water with my rate of approach. He slid with a swiftness not unlike the pelican’s decent.
I moored my boat to the roots and threw in two lines: one baited with foul smelling catfish bait, and the other an Canadian night crawler that I doubt had ever crawled in the night. For an hour I watched the two lines lay limp on the water until the sun was low and it was time to move toward home.
It is interesting how often I see other fishermen landing fish. I may be developing into the worst fisherman in the history of the Mississippi River. Maybe that is the point.
At Pine Creek trolling toward the Rush
sun burns the birdless bodies of clouds.
Trains rumble longer than themselves.
Imagine either end along a lake of tears:
fore and hindsight reverberating in one direction.
On the surface of the water land and sky roll and break,
pursuit and retreat at the same time.
Abstraction is not random.
It is determined.
As I am here.