A conversation with Spokane artist and dancer Ildikó Kalapács about a sculpture that calls us to look at the human experience in the wake of warfare.
Ildikó Kalapács’ vision for “Bearing,” a life-sized sculpture that gives form to the human burden of warfare, does not arise from a single moment, or memory, or place within her consciousness. Yet it does carry some weight of her history.
Ildikó Kalapács
“I grew up in Hungary during the Cold War era. My grandparents were in the Second World War. And they experienced the German takeover, and then the Russian takeover, and then the socialist era. So they, especially the women, were very, very tough. Under the harshest conditions women always had to figure out how to get what they wanted, for themselves, but mostly for their families.”
She had been “brooding” about this phenomenon, and its extrapolation to the aftermath of armed conflicts globally, when she walked into her back yard in Spokane, Washington, and began molding a figure out of wax. From there it evolved to a table-top sculpture, a tenth the scale of the full-size bronze that will be cast and then unveiled for public display on a bluff overlooking the Spokane River. Continue reading The Birth of “Bearing”→
Frameless prints ready for wall placement are available on either 3/16 inch Gatorboard, or on thinner (but very sturdy) aluminum. Aluminum costs a little more but makes for a more radiant presentation. Although sizes up to 30″ x 40″ (aluminum) and 44″ x 96″ (Gatorboard) are available, the suggested options listed are intended to keep prices at or below $130 for aluminum prints and $100 for Gatorboards. Reasonable efforts will be made to provide free, local delivery but otherwise expect an additional shipping fee in the $8 to $10 range. Send orders, or deliver questions via email to tjccamas@comcast.net.
Latah SilverSteamboat Rock, Take 2On the road to Mt. HopeColor in the CanyonThe January GalaxyThe gold in Rock CreekThe Winter Dreams of Wild FlowersThe bend in the gapAbyssal TerrainThe Falls at Hawk CreekA crow in its canyonWater and the Willow #1Sunset on the high roadWhere Charley found the lightMy ValentineFlight at first lightFarewellLichens of Marlin HollowWater and the Willow #4EntropyWallula Gap sunriseWoman on the edge of The FeathersVelocityUpper Clear Creek fallsUntil the next floodEpiphanyPalouse River near Hooper JunctionThe sky you and I shareThe Sisters before breakfastThe paints in Martin HollowRaindrops on lupinePrecariousParamountSwimming with JoyHeart of Dry CouleeFluctuationSpring storm at Dry CouleeTranquility, (now)Desert dreams #8Dancefloor above Crab CreekCamas comes and goesHighway 231 revisitedBoth sides of the fallsBalsamroot riotVulcanologyAnother way to leaveSeventeen ways to blueSquash galaxyRainbow at Sunset JunctionThe kids at Trestle CreekBackwaterIgnitionTreelineOctoberThe Meadow off Elder RoadSunrise at Fish LakeDesert Dream #3Mists at Coyote RocksNew Year’s DayLatah au laitSteamboat Rock, Take 3
No doubt there are sentient beings more miserable than a writer unable to write. I just happen to be a writer, so it’s this cubicle of despair that’s most familiar to me. Writer’s block is usually transient. What I tumbled into three years ago was quite different—a prolonged period of depression and grief that left me at a loss for words. Any story, even a modest act of journalism, requires an energy and a confidence that I didn’t have and didn’t feel inclined to fake.
“Little Bear” beetle in desert gold wildflowers, near Dry Falls, spring 2015
I still can’t watch the Tom Hanks movie “Castaway” without dissolving into tears at his rain-drenched scene with Helen Hunt. It’s just so heartbreaking. But the film is also about perseverance and flotation. Somewhere in my dark night of the soul my camera became the paddle for my life raft, so to speak. Continue reading Sharing the Light→
One of the larger reasons I’m a Spokanite is because of our stunning inventory of trees. It’s hard to leave them behind for very long. I remember, as a kid, family car rides from Pasco, and how I felt when we reached the tree line near Sprague, and there began to absorb the enveloping greenness and the smell of pines. After the November storm that brought so many of them down, I’ve wanted to frame an homage to trees from photos I’ve taken the past few years. This is that. Treeshine.
Stories, dreams, and landscapes from the Inland Northwest
