I’m sitting in “my” studio at
Vermont Studio Center, a snug room in a sturdy, no-nonsense building that will,
for me, always “mean Vermont.” Through the ample window—about six feet tall,
four feet wide—I look out on a view of a determined ice-rimmed river; on the
other side, on the broad swath of lawn between a building that houses the
studios of artists (not writers), a group of five hale and hearty writers and
artists are grappling with an enormous snowball. Another artist, the one who
has set all this in motion, circles this endeavor taking photos.
I am waiting for the moment
when the snowball succumbs to the pull of gravity and tumbles down the slope of
the lawn into the river. From here, this seems an inevitable thing, though I
cannot be certain. Some of the snowballers kneel in the snow that has grown
wetter and heavier in the January thaw that has set this part of the world
dripping. The others lean into the work of pushing and, together, they all move
the snowball (growing bigger with every rotation) a few inches then regroup and
approach it in different configurations. In the last two days of (relative)
warmth, some of what had been a lid of thick ice—marbled, translucent,
beautiful—has broken free and been carried along the surface of the narrow of
open water. There is a point where the river curves and narrows; these ice
floes are trapped by some coincidence of shallows and more adamant ice. Below
this winter-made dam, the river water has been freed by the warmth and I can
see it’s rocky bed.
Through the window I hear the shout I’ve been anticipating—triumph! I look out in time to see the snow boulder teeter then speed down the small hill and I think, “Oh, it will splash! It will break that ice dam!” At the bottom of the hill, though, is a plateau and the snow boulder halts abruptly.
The workers rush down the
slope and begin grooming their creation, patting and smoothing it as if it were
an animal for which they have been caring. Then they climb back up the hill and
a few—the men—begin to pelt the boulder with snowballs. The artist who
conceived of this project, hands off the camera, slides down the hill and poses
with the boulder, fending off, then trying to catch some of the snow balls.
Everyone loiters, pushing snow with their booted feet, peering down toward the
snow boulder that is now planted in a spot that would, in summer, probably be
ideal for a picnic.
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| The snow boulder with "my" studio (second window on the first floor) in the background—courtesy of the artist, Anneke Muijlwijk. |
I can’t wait to see how this
thing, this shared act of art, turns up in the work.
