open Saturdays 12/17/16- 1/14/17
the moon will come but it won’t get too dark
In this age of uncertainty, when every person we know and love is feeling depleted, do you feel a need for one of those moments where you can just be still? This year has been a constant outpour of energy / of time / of emotions / of a focus on survival. Always one to follow intuitions, what do we do about that familiar pull towards self-sabotage? The gravity of constantly confronting joy and terror and the general banalities of life takes a toll on us; where does all of that go / how do we let it go?
I feel a kinship to ginkgo trees. They’re just one of those things I find myself bowing to as I pass by (I’ve come to realize I do this a lot although i really only do it to places or plants or animals) - i think it must be that ancient calmness they exude. Their ancient lineage and longevity is documented across eras through fossils, but their strength is proven to be unparalleled, since six of them survived the atomic blast in Hiroshima in WWII and were less than a mile away from the bomb site. But when I pass by and see them changing their colour and shedding leaves, I think about how young they must feel to do this every year without fail, and how all six of those massively damaged trees grew buds from their burns, and continue to thrive.
I walk by this one most days, and each time it’s such a comfort. There’s a specific point every year where all of the golden little fan leaves fall and I have this moment of deja vu when I stand underneath and the only thing I can think is THERE’S MAGIC HERE. They have this rustling sound as they fall around you and it sounds like the murmuring of the sea on an oddly calm day, and then suddenly I’m in two places at once. It’s comfy and it reminds me of my family, and that there’s a calmness and warmth to loving someone when they’re at their most tender. Everything has to be warm like the words we use and the way we embrace one another, and how we all need to be upfront about the way we give and receive care. I think that same way trauma is passed through generations, healing is too. By caring for ourselves, we pass it to our friends and family, and our ancestors, so isn’t it our reason to be in a way?
Mel Carter (b. 1992) grew up in the Bay Area and now lives and works in Seattle. She graduated with a BFA in Photomedia from the University of Washington in 2014. She explores relationships between humor, the grotesque, whimsy, and intimacy through mixed media. She uses materials she’s comforted by in her practice; food, assortments from dollar stores, and given objects, to illustrate her want to care for people. Her heritage and childhood greatly influences her own work, as much of it is created from small memories or dreams she remembers from when she was young.
The name Project Diana comes from a 1946 NASA mission that projected radio waves into space. These waves broke through the ionosphere, echoed off the moon and then returned to Earth.