I was collecting fallen rose petals at sunrise one morning when a woman walking her dog stopped to talk to me, intrigued by my activity.  She mentioned that the roses would be cut back soon.  “It’ll test your faith,” she said, “but trust that they’ll be back in Spring.”  Since then I had been watching the roses fall with the impending knowledge that the bright colors and fragrance would soon be gone with the sunlight. 

I walked shoeless out of my house with a cup of water one afternoon, headed for the rose garden.  I wanted a break from the stagnant indoors.  It was a Saturday and though chilly, it was a warm enough December day that I could indulge myself in wearing as little as possible. 

I followed the path down into the garden, walking lightly on my toes.  A couple was cooing at their young toddler, trying to get him to stop crying so a photographer could take his photo.  It’s Christmas card season.  I jumped from level to level down the cascading waterfalls to the pool.  I walked its circumference, dipping my toe into the water with each right-footed step.  I noticed people smiling at my child-like act. 

 It was one of the volunteer days and the roses were being cut back, just like the woman said.  Thick green stems with deep red and green thorns lay in a pile between bushes.  A few still had rose buds on them, others, decaying flowers that had long since blossomed.  Gloveless, I delicately peeled them off of each other, an entanglement of prickles and leaves.  Stacking, leaning, and intertwining, I built a wall by the pool.  Freeing a branch from the pile, walking back and placing it on the newly erected thorn structure, then back to the pile again.  I stepped in some dog crap and wiped my foot in the wet grass to clean it, then flung it off to the side with a branch so it wouldn’t happen again. 

 The baby shoot happened to park themselves right by me.  Ignoring my unusual conduct, they continued to beg their child to smile, explaining to the photographer that he had been such a good boy all morning.  He became interested in me.  “It’s a dangerous sculpture,” I said clumsily, and continued to build up the wall between us.  The parents laughed half-heartedly and eventually took their child elsewhere.

 A young man walked toward me with a musical instrument.  I called out and asked him what he had.  Though shy, he closed his eyes and played his wooded flute as I stood there in the grass, a spiked branch in each hand.  We made quick introductions after and he walked on.

A few people stopped to ask if I was a steward of the garden.  “No,” I would reply, “I just thought I’d make something out of these left over branches.” People seemed to enjoy my antics and I felt like a bit of a performer as I played publicly. 

 A middle-aged woman came over to inquire about my undertaking.  It took but a minute before I was deep in conversation with her and suddenly I lost interest in my wall.  Before we had exchanged names, we were discussing my life dreams and how she wanted to be around more young people who weren’t so plugged into technology.  We talked about making choices in our lives to be around people and places that raised us up, instead of being part of vampiric relationships.  Her Persian accent was sweet and she had a calm and comfortable energy to her.  Deciding we should connect again but neither of us carrying our phones, we walked up to the baby photo-shoot and asked to borrow a pen.  She jotted her name and information on a scrap of paper I had in the pocket of my dress.  Manijeh, pronounced Muh-nee-juh.  After a few hugs and a plan to have tea time soon, I practically pranced home with the high of meeting a new friend.  Following my intuition to build the thorny wall was simply a step in the grander scheme, leading to another connection.  Though half the stems were still left in their original pile, my work was done in the garden for the day.   

Out at Black Rock, I was exploring the connection between the creative forces of both the desert and the symbol of a spiral.  As I went through the laborious mark-making process, I felt I was creating a home of sorts, which gave me a sense of place within the vastness of the landscape.  I invited others into my home and a temporary family was formed.

While in Reno, Nicole and I dressed up in our alter-egos to fit in better with the casino scene.  We ended up embodying Betsy (me) and Mitsy (Nicole).  I turned out to be the bossy blonde and Nicole was the slightly self-conscious backup.  We really got into it as our roles developed but were thankful that the wigs could come off at the end of the night.

Photo by Ashley Weiss

I worked for CSSSA, California State Summer School for the Arts this summer.  It’s a high school-aged program and I was fortunate enough to TA design classes and painting classes.  One of the students emailed me and sent me a photo of his last painting, which I had really liked.  Here’s the type from his email:
Hey Ashley (awesome TA)!!    I’m on the hunt for colleges that I would like to apply to…Some I’m considering are Otis, Art Center, SAIC, MICA, Cal State Fullerton and Cal State Long Beach. Do you hav any opinions on any of these or recommendations for places to look at?? Is their any advice in general that you hav for me in general?? Any help would be great! I also attached a photo of my last painting from class a.k.a the “cute plug” one :PHope to hear from you soon!Trenton