Around 2023, as the fall leaves turned, I was inspired to create a pop-up show in the woods. The palette of my ongoing body of work seemed to naturally belong in the autumn landscape. I imagined setting up the pieces in a nearby clearing and sharing a digital map for visitors to find the show. However, my then 18-year-old daughter, always the pragmatist, reminded me that it would be trespassing on Watershed property, with only hikers, quad riders, and bears as my audience. She urged me to find a more appropriate location, which led me to Whittemore CCC, a space where nature and art intersect perfectly.

Through Whittemore’s mission, I expanded my original concept. I decided to shift my focus and create a theme for this pop-up show that was different from my usual body of work. I wanted to address our role as custodians of the environment. Climate change has long been a topic of advocacy, but the ongoing destruction of nature, driven by both ignorance and arrogance, inspired me to communicate the urgency of this issue through my work. I turned to sign language, which allows the voiceless to speak. The gestures I depict, three phases of the one hand: open, thumb crossed over the palm, and finally the fist, is the three step gesture for people out in the public space that need to communicate they are in dire need of rescue and help. The two hands together with the flat hand under the top fist, is the sign language gesture for “Help”. The gesture done in action is a rising up motion, signifying one helping another rise up. I used reflective and brightly colored thread to catch attention, much like nature’s warning signals.

The materials I use, recycled sewing pattern paper, are delicate and disintegrate easily. This fragility adds another layer to the work: as the pieces deteriorate in nature, so too does the message. Our culture’s fleeting attention often forgets critical issues once they fade from the spotlight. The disappearance of my work mirrors how easily we let important causes slip away.

I finally settled on the title “Phase 1,” marking its first stage. The installation began on a calm October morning, just as I envisioned, but as the winds picked up, only two of the four pieces were hung for the unveiling. I’m thankful to those who joined me that day, allowing me to experience the rawness of creating art, where control slips away.

Over the following weeks, I realized wind, an element I hadn’t anticipated, became the most important force. I had expected rain to be the biggest influence, but the rare drought in New Jersey shifted that. To my surprise, the tissue paper pieces not only survived the wind but came alive, rippling, rising, or dropping in a dance. The sun cast delicate shadows, adding unexpected patterns. As it set, the pieces glowed, especially as it dipped behind the landscape. My hope for them to echo Buddhist prayer flags was realized.

As time passed, the work showed wear. The wind caused rips and tears, and the undergrowth snagged the paper. Finally, rain arrived, delivering the final blow. Yet, there was something captivating about their demise as they were shaped by the elements. Deterioration was part of my plan, and in that, my vision was realized. Their decay, leaving misshapen remnants, communicated the need to address climate issues. The work’s voice was silenced, and its message risked being forgotten. It’s a reminder to pay attention to nature’s signs—not just when it destroys, but in the aftermath.