Hand
Papermaking Summer
2001
Wondering
Out
Loud
by
Michelle
Samour
I
wonder
about
the
stars
in
the
sky,
an
egg
in
a
nest,
the
cells
of
my
body.
I
wonder
about
the
space
around
the
stars,
the
shell
around
the
egg,
the
skin
around
me.
How
does
it
all
begin?
What
holds
onto
what?
Always
moving
or
about
to
move,
never
still,
never
completely
understood.
I
wonder
when
the
sun
goes
down
and
the
stars
emerge,
whether
I
am
on
the
inside
looking
out
or
on
the
outside
looking
in.
Microscopes,
telescopes,
biology,
cosmology.
I
am
lost
in
a
meditation
between
earth
and
sky,
looking
for
answers
and
finding
only
questions...I
wonder.
Nothingness
Among
the
great
things
that
are
found
among
us,
the
existence
of
Nothing
is
the
greatest.
Leonardo
da
Vinci
I
am
interested
in
making
work
that
offers
the
viewer
a
passage
into
contemplation
(the
empty
space).
Scientists
refer
to
this
space
as
a
vacuum;
philosophers
refer
to
it
as
nothingness.
The
imagery
that
I
use
in
my
work
is
only
a
vehicle
for
asking
questions
and
entering
into
that
space.
Lao-tzu,
the
founder
of
Daoism,
compares
the
Dao
to
the
empty
space
within
a
pot,
without
which
the
clay
would
have
no
function.
I
often
ask
myself
what
it
means
to
be
a
Westerner,
working
with
materials
and
processes
indigenous
to
the
East
and
using
imagery
that
is
not
iconographic
but
which
references
Eastern
philosophy.
I
think
of
the
irony
of
having
Korean
and
Japanese
students
take
my
papermaking
classes
because
they
want
to
learn
Eastern
sheet
forming.
Many
have
told
me
that
because
paper
is
so
much
a
part
of
their
culture,
they
have
taken
it
for
granted.
It
seems
that
many
of
these
students
have
learned
Western
papermaking
in
their
own
countries.
What
kind
of
assumptions
do
we
make
about
one
another's
cultures?
Do
we
desire
more
what
we
do
not
have?
The
Japanese
word
for
handmade
paper
is
washi.
Wa
translates
as
Japan,
and
shi
as
paper.
Wa
can
also
refer
to
harmony
between
humans
and
nature,
a
desirable
state
of
being.
Some
Japanese
papermakers
say
that
making
good
paper
depends
directly
on
this
harmony.
This
dependency
between
one's
inner
spirit
and
the
formation
of
good
paper
relates
to
my
imagery
and
the
intention
of
my
work.
My
drawings
and
the
journey
begin
when
I
make
the
paper.
Process:
Chaos
and
Control,
or
Order
and
Disorder
To
be
ignorant
of
motion
is
to
be
ignorant
of
Nature.
Aristotle
I
make
my
sheets
on
a
4
ft.
x
8
ft.
vacuum
table,
which
is
edged
with
a
5
inch
lip.
After
pigmenting
several
different
batches
of
gampi,
I
mix
them
together
with
a
coagulant
so
that
the
fibers
maintain
their
distinct
colors
(a
process
I
learned
from
Donna
Koretsky).
I
fill
the
table
with
water,
then
pour
in
the
gampi
and
disperse
it
with
my
hands.
In
this
process
of
making
my
sheets
in
the
vacuum
table,
where
the
fibers
float
in
a
sea
of
water,
I
am
forced
to
let
go
of
some
control
over
their
formation.
When
I
drain
the
water,
a
moment
of
time
is
captured
as
the
fibers
settle
themselves
into
a
modulated,
tweedy
sheet.
After
drying
the
sheets
on
boards
and
sizing
them
with
gelatin,
I
am
ready
to
work
into
them
with
paint
or
Cray-Pas.
Each
drawing
is
different,
a
response
to
the
individual
sheet.
The
drawing,
in
part,
illustrates
and
magnifies
the
sheet
forming
process.
Recently,
I
have
begun
to
place
strained,
pigmented
pulp
directly
onto
sealed,
wooden
stretchers
or
shallow
boxes.
I
refer
to
these
pieces
as
paintings.
Because
I
am
working
with
less
water,
I
have
slightly
more
control
over
the
placement
of
the
fiber.
My
intention
remains
to
create
an
amorphous
field
that
I
can
work
back
into
with
drawing
materials
and
paint.
Beginnings.
There
ought
to
exist
a
painting
totally
free
of
dependence
on
the
figure-on
the
object
which,
like
music,
represents
nothing
at
all,
tells
no
story
and
propounds
no
myth.
Such
a
painting
limits
itself
to
evoking
the
incommunicable
realms
of
the
spirit,
where
dream
becomes
thought,
where
trace
becomes
existence.
Michel
Seuphor
Before
I
began
working
with
handmade
paper,
I
was
making
collages
with
sticks,
stones,
and
other
found
materials.
I
used
glue
and
tape
to
attach
these
materials
to
the
paper
but
it
began
to
buckle
under
their
weight.
I
wanted
more
integration
between
the
paper
and
the
materials,
so
I
began
as
many
do,
recycling
papers
in
a
blender
and
embedding
my
materials
during
sheet
forming.
I
moved
from
recycled
drawing
paper
to
linters,
and
proceeded
over
the
next
twenty
years
to
use
pulp
in
a
variety
of
ways
to
support
my
imagery.
I
began
using
pulp
in
1975
during
the
beginning
of
the
revival
of
hand
papermaking
in
this
country.
Much
of
what
I
learned
came
from
workshops,
and
from
consultations
with
and
phone
calls
to
other
artists
around
the
country
who
used
handmade
paper.
As
I
lived
in
Boston,
I
drew
upon
its
rich
resources.
I
first
learned
how
to
make
Eastern
sheets
from
Elaine
and
Donna
Koretsky
at
Carriage
House
Paper
in
Brookline.
Until
that
time
I
had
been
working
with
recycled
papers
and
cotton
linters.
Not
only
were
the
method
and
the
fibers
new,
they
also
gave
me
a
deeper
understanding
of
the
process
of
making
paper.
I
consulted
often
with
Lee
MacDonald.
When
Lee
wanted
to
carry
a
line
of
pigments,
he
asked
me
to
test
them
for
him.
I
did
a
series
of
color
tests
using
pigments
from
different
manufacturers
and
experimented
with
retention
agents
and
other
additives.
Much
of
what
I
learned
from
this
investigation
had
a
direct
impact
on
how
I
used
color
in
my
work.
My
palette
expanded
from
the
earth
tones
of
powdered
pigments
to
the
more
intense
and
much
larger
range
of
the
aqueous
dispersed
pigments
that
I
now
had
access
to.
My
pieces
became
louder
and
more
active,
partly
because
the
image
was
responding
to
the
color.
I
was
invited
to
make
some
large
pieces
at
Rugg
Road
Paper
Works,
where
I
had
the
support
of
Joe
Zina
and
Bernie
Toale.
What
a
luxury
it
was
to
work
in
such
a
well-equipped
studio
and
benefit
from
their
expertise.
I
first
learned
how
to
use
a
vacuum
table
there.
Teaching
at
the
School
of
the
Museum
of
Fine
Arts,
Boston,
has
also
had
a
significant
impact
on
my
work.
The
school
does
not
require
students
to
choose
a
major;
instead
it
encourages
an
interdisciplinary
approach
to
art
making.
This
approach
supports
my
belief
that
paper
and
pulp
should
be
used
as
a
means
to
an
end,
and
that
the
concept
or
intention
of
the
work
is
paramount.
The
use
of
paper
or
pulp
should
support
that.
Teaching
has
also
challenged
me
to
learn
new
processes.
My
students
and
I
have
experimented
together
and
learned
from
one
another.
This
shared
investigation
has
been
stimulating
for
me
as
both
a
teacher
and
an
artist.
Closer
Investigations:
Microscope
and
Telescope
I
render
infinite
thanks
to
God,
for
being
so
kind
as
to
make
me
alone
the
first
observer
of
marvels
kept
hidden
in
obscurity
for
all
previous
centuries.
Galileo
Galilei
After
viewing
the
night
sky
through
his
telescope
Twenty-five
years
ago
I
was
building
sculptures
of
lath
and
used
lumber.
They
referenced
rural
structures
and
housed
materials
(sticks,
eggs,
hay,
broom
corn)
that
juxtaposed
the
natural
world
with
the
man-made.
These
pieces
also
spoke
about
gathering,
collecting,
and
protecting.
I
went
on
to
further
explore
these
materials
through
drawings
and
castings
in
paper.
This
work
was
in
progress
when
my
family
and
I
moved
from
Boston
to
a
rural
suburb
several
years
ago.
My
walks
in
the
city's
arboretum
were
replaced
by
walks
in
our
country
woods.
Paved
paths
gave
way
to
dirt,
pine
needles,
and
stones.
As
I
walked
through
these
paths,
often
cut
out
of
dense
brush,
I
would
stop
periodically
to
look
at
a
branch,
a
leaf,
something
up
close.
The
rhythm
of
walking,
moving
quickly
through
this
space,
was
interrupted
by
these
stops
to
investigate.
This
distinction
between
the
peripheral
chaos
of
what
I
saw
while
in
motion
and
the
ordered
or
focused
viewing
when
I
stopped
to
observe
intrigued
me.
I
chose
to
leave
the
peripheral
information
off
of
the
drawing
surface.
The
formation
of
the
sheet
and
the
actual
drawing
became
the
focused
investigation.
In
the
earth-related
drawings
that
resulted,
I
attempted
to
enlarge
a
piece
of
nature
the
way
the
lens
of
a
microscope
might
capture
and
reveal
a
piece
of
a
larger
whole.
The
microscope
gives
us
an
opportunity
to
go
deeper
into
this
world.
Just
as
the
microscope
is
a
vehicle
for
deeper
understanding,
the
telescope
magnifies
and
isolates
distant
objects.
In
junior
high
school,
my
science
class
made
stargazers
using
protractors.
I
remember
my
mother
driving
me
around
late
one
night.
I
stood
on
the
back
seat
with
my
head
and
upper
body
emerging
through
the
sunroof
of
our
car,
my
stargazer
in
hand,
finding
constellations
and
marking
locations,
marking
time.
A
Dialogue
Between
Earth
and
Sky
At
one
end
of
the
size
spectrum
there
is
the
inner
space
of
the
most
elementary
particles
of
matter
and
the
perplexing
puzzle
of
space
and
time
itself;
at
the
other
end
lies
the
outer
space
of
stars
and
galaxies
which
constantly
surprise
us
with
the
drama
of
their
cataclysmic
evolution...
John
D.
Barrow
As
I
worked,
the
images
that
referenced
nature
and
the
earth
began
to
reference
the
body.
The
sticks
and
eggs
became
veins
and
cells.
While
my
earlier
drawing
was
dense
and
covered
much
of
the
surface
area,
in
the
new
work
my
drawing
became
sparser.
As
more
of
the
paper
was
exposed,
the
space
around
the
drawing
became
at
least
as
important
as
the
drawing
itself.
I
was
now
in
a
dialogue
between
earth
and
sky.
Nick
Capasso
has
described
these
works
as
circles,
ovals,
sinuous
lines,
and
points
of
light
embedded
within
dark,
textured
grounds.
These
intuitively
derived
images
simultaneously
suggest
stars
and
atoms,
galaxies
and
microbes:
constituent
elements
of
the
infinite
and
the
infinitesimal.
1
My
interest
in
outer
space
has
coincided
with
the
recent
popularization
of
science.
John
D.
Barrow
writes
in
Between
Inner
Space
and
Outer
Space:
...ultimate
questions
about
the
origins
of
life,
intelligence,
human
behavior,
the
Universe
and
everything
else,
have
ceased
to
be
solely
matters
of
speculative
philosophy
and
theology.
Scientists
have
found
new
things
to
say
about
these
problems
that
are
not
merely
restirrings
of
the
brew
of
philosophical
opinions
we
have
inherited
from
thinkers
of
the
past.
2
While
I
had
felt
emotionally
grounded
in
my
use
of
images
that
referenced
the
earth,
I
felt
that
now
I
was
throwing
myself
into
a
place
of
disequilibrium.
Raised
as
a
Unitarian
Universalist,
I
was
always
encouraged
to
live
in
the
question.
However,
as
I
like
to
feel
the
ground
beneath
my
feet,
this
was
often
disconcerting
and
became
even
more
so.
My
recent
images,
which
simultaneously
reference
fossils
(sea
urchins
and
barnacles),
stars,
and
planets,
attempt
to
link
earth
and
sky.
Reconfiguring,
Not
Reinventing
Sure
there
is
music
even
in
the
beauty,
and
the
silent
note
which
cupid
strikes,
far
sweeter
than
the
sound
of
an
instrument.
For
there
is
music
wherever
there
is
a
harmony,
order
or
proportion;
and
thus
far
we
may
maintain
the
music
of
the
spheres;
for
those
well-ordered
motions
and
regular
paces,
though
they
give
no
sound
unto
the
ear,
yet
to
the
understanding
they
strike
a
note
most
full
of
harmony.
Sir
Thomas
Browne
The
piece
that
evolved
from
this
questioning
was
Hours
of
Night.
I
made
it,
in
part,
in
response
to
Diane
Katsiaficas's
visit
to
the
School
of
the
Museum
of
Fine
Arts
in
the
fall
of
1997.
I
had
met
Diane
when
we
were
in
a
show
at
The
American
Craft
Museum
and
International
Paper
Headquarters
in
New
York
in
1982.
She
was
working
with
handmade
paper
and
mixed
media
then.
Although
handmade
paper
is
not
as
much
a
part
of
her
current
work,
what
I
had
always
responded
to
was
her
ability
to
reconfigure
her
ideas
and
her
imagery.
After
working
with
Diane
and
the
students
for
several
days
on
an
installation,
I
went
back
to
my
studio
and
asked
myself
how
I,
too,
might
expand
my
work,
by
reconfiguring
but
not
reinventing.
How
else
could
I
tell
my
story?
I
decided
to
make
the
eggs
that
I
had
drawn.
I
carved
them
out
of
dense,
closed-cell
foam,
which
I
had
used
in
earlier
work.
During
the
process
of
carving
these
forms,
I
read
that
the
Egyptians
were
the
first
to
divide
the
day
into
twenty-four
hours.
The
hours
of
night
were
marked
by
the
emergence
of
decans,
stars
or
groupings
of
stars
that
appeared
on
the
hour
on
the
eastern
horizon.
Hours
of
Night
grew
out
of
this
investigation.
It
became
a
piece
about
marking
time,
the
night
sky,
creation,
reversals,
balance,
inside/outside,
and
revelation.
I
have,
in
effect,
taken
the
drawings
off
the
wall
and
wrapped
them
with
themselves.
Sometimes
the
drawings
bring
attention
to
the
surface
or
shell,
while
in
other
instances
the
drawing
defies
the
surface
and
becomes
the
night
sky,
stars
or
constellations
floating
on
its
surface.
In
1999
I
reconfigured
this
piece
for
an
exhibition
at
the
DeCordova
Museum
in
Lincoln,
Massachusetts.
The
two-
and
three-dimensional
work
was
presented
as
an
encompassing
installation.
The
formality
of
Hours
of
Night
gave
way
to
a
more
random
presentation
of
the
work,
allowing
for
broader
interpretation.
Still
Surprises
The
universe
is
real
but
you
can't
see
it.
You
have
to
imagine
it.
Alexander
Calder
After
all
of
these
years
of
working
with
paper,
there
are
still
surprises.
Papermaking
continues
to
take
me
to
places
I
have
never
been.
It
satisfies
my
love
of
being
physically
immersed
in
process
with
my
love
of
creating
illusion.
It
informs
my
work.
It
constantly
reminds
me
to
be
respectful
of
nature
and
of
my
desire
to
understand
and
reveal
mysteries
that
can
only
be
imagined.
1.
Nick
Capasso,
The
1999
DeCordova
Annual
Exhibition
catalog
(DeCordova
Museum
and
Sculpture
Garden,
Lincoln,
Massachusetts),
21.
2.
John
D.
Barrow,
Between
Inner
and
Outer
Space,
(Oxford
University
Press,
New
York,
1999),
1.
Quotations
from
each
section,
in
order:
Leonardo
da
Vinci:
quoted
in
John
D.
Barrow,
Between
Inner
and
Outer
Space,
(Oxford
University
Press,
New
York,
1999),
202.
Aristotle:
quoted
in
Dava
Sobel,
Galileo's
Daughter,
(Walker & Company,
New
York,
1999),
30.
Michel
Seuphor:
title,
publisher,
city,
year,
page
#
Galileo
Galilei:
quoted
in
Galileo's
Daughter,
6.
John
D.
Barrow:
Between
Inner
and
Outer
Space,
1.
Sir
Thomas
Browne:
Religio
Medici,
1643,
part
2,
section
9.
Alexander
Calder:
quoted
in
Between
Inner
and
Outer
Space,
260.
