For the past ten years, I’ve experimented with gestures, crafts, and ephemeral installations in and around the intertidal zone near our cabin on Skagit Bay in the Skagit Valley, about an hour north of Seattle. I create the works on site from scavenged natural materials: rocks, shells, kelp, driftwood, dead sea life, and other things that wash up on this rocky Pacific Northwest beach. I frequently undertake these experiments within the intertidal zone so that they have to contend with the mixed semi-diurnal tidal cycle. The tides modify and revise the works in fascinating ways, ultimately reclaiming them fully.

During the lockdown, I channeled my pent-up, anxious energy into pulling out the rampant Hedera helix—commonly referred to as English Ivy—that was engulfing a large juniper shrub that plays a critical role in reducing bank erosion in front of our cabin. English Ivy is considered an invasive species, and while that may be open to debate, I admire its tenacity and ability to thrive under a variety of conditions. It certainly put me to the test; I have a scar on my hand as a souvenir of the sweat I invested in pulling out hundreds of vines.

Rather than use an herbicide or fire to destroy the ivy, I wove strands into dozens of small wreaths, set them out to dry in the sun so they would not spread again, and then combined them into what you see pictured. The tipping rock was an obvious installation site to me, for it created a profound, meditative juxtaposition between the rapidly spreading vine and this prehistoric totem that rests on bedrock of metamorphosed sedimentary rock formed during the Mesozoic Era.

The tides, winds, and waves generously allowed it to hang for three months. During this time, it gathered sea grass, was a frequent perch for birds, and served as a curious sight for kayakers. The tide also generously returned one of the small wreaths to the shore after it was destroyed—a memento I’ve held onto.