Footsteps

In Spring 2010 I entered the old building downwtown, formerly known as "The Metropolitan".  Abandoned for years, it was just getting cleaned out with a bulldozer parked in the center of the 9,000 square foot main floor.  Dust and debris covered the floor, while treads from shoes of the cleaning crew left their marks.  Some of the tiles looked like abstract landscapes, but the shoe treads reminded me of my history with this building.  I photographed the drab tiles on the floor, most of which are worn, cracked and scarred from years of use, misuse and neglect.  I was getting ready for this space to made into a lively center of arts projects this summer, in which I was to be one of several studio artists.  I was reminded of the history of the many pairs of feet that had trod on this urban landscape, including mine and my mothers, years ago.

My mother, Christeen Bolt, was one of the people whose busy feet walked through the Metropolitan Store when I was young.  Later as a young mother, I brought my own children to buy trinkets and such.  It was an easy challenge to find how many things we could each buy for a quarter -- metal cricket clickers and plastic toys for party favors, plastic french fry baskets, surplus sewing notions, ribbons, bags of marbles.  It was a cavernous store full of all kinds of mostly useless and unattractive stuff.  Probably ugly shower curtains were to be found there, too.  Perhaps it was nicer in its heyday, before I was born.

Mother taught elementary school, first in California, and later in Oregon, retiring in 1986.  She passed away in 1998.  When I later had the sad chore of going through her belongings, I got to what was left at the bottom of her closet.  As I sat on the floor, I found myself eye-level with her shoes, standing straight up in the metal stand, looking ready to go for the day.  In front and center were her worn out tan, leather size 10-1/2 shoes that she had worn on playground duty.  Even after retirement, they remained her go-to ugly-but-comfortable shoes for her big, flat feet.  She used to say that her big feet gave her a "Good Understanding of Life" and always ensured she left a "Big Impression."  It took me a few years of maturity to appreciate her dry wit.

The gaping empty shoes mirrored the emptiness I felt, as I foolishly and fervently wished her feet so suddenly be back in these shoes, with all the rest of her intact and healthy.  Her shoes reflected her journey and passion in life: educating young minds.  Her feet, always so steady and strong as she watched over her students in the classroom and on the playground.  Big feet that pressed the gas pedal in the car, ferrying us kids to music lessons, the library, swimming, and the beach.  Great, beautiful solid feet that carried her as she laughed, chasing her grandchildren.

Although her feet will leave no more impressions, the places those feet took me continue to influence me, my children, and eventually their children.

Now, there are footsteps here in this art space, this Project Space.  Laughter and conversations of those creating art as well as those appreciating and supporting art being made.  Leaving their own impressions. 

Small feet, big feet
Footsteps long forgotten that left no impression
Footsteps from people no longer alive
Footsteps from those who have forgotten being here
Footsteps from some, who will remember.

I am a painter.  I make art, I create.  I photographed several of the floor tiles with the most 'character' to inspire mixed media paintings on 12 wood panels.  Applying up to 20 layers of paint with brush, rag, screens and scrapers, I added my own collaged images.  The finish looks like wax, but is actually 2-3 layers of my own recipe for faux encaustic (wax) that adds a depth and aged look.  Shown above is one of the finished wood panel pieces, showing a division of  4 tile spaces.