I had an amazing Saturday. The marble counter is closed on the weekends for now, so I was free to follow a performance artist from the ICA to the Boston Harbor Islands. His name is Ernesto Pujols, and he has led walks from the ICA to various destinations in Boston and its Harbor Islands. I had missed the previous three walks, but I was able to be carried along to Lovell's Island on Saturday.
While we gathered outside the museum's door (the ICA doesn't open until 10:00 a.m., and our walk would begin at 9:30 a.m.), I made the decision not to take pictures during the walk. My digital camera makes "woof!" noises every time it snaps a picture. I thought it would be inappropriate and intrusive to let that happen. I only took pictures when I could get far away enough not to let it bother others.
The museum guards shepherded us up to the fourth-floor gallery before the museum opened at 9:20 a.m. The first thing I saw was a small table made out of wood barrel staves with a metal top. The top was engraved with the Boston coastline. Five glass bottles with stoppers lay on it. They were hand blown and I perceived that they must be in the shape of the five islands that were the Water Carrier's destinations. Three of the bottles were filled. One contained clear water except for a spot of green. I couldn't tell if it was a discoloration from the bottle or algae. The other two bottles carried water and sediment, each different in texture. I compared the empty bottles to the map of the islands, and tried to guess which one would be chosen.
I suddenly noticed there was a man dressed in all white standing up against the wall directly opposite of the table. He was dressed in 19th-century seaman's clothes with bare feet. His feet, hands, and face were painted white. He wore a white stocking cap on his head. The only color to be seen were the tea-tinted lenses in his spectacles; his eyes were closed. I backed up against a gallery wall myself to wait for the walk to begin. Their were seven people in our group and gallery guards blocking us from the other exhibits (museum still not open). Feet were crossed, uncrossed; some people meandered to and fro; fidgeting, coughing and sneezing were heard (much like the noises heard in a theater after the lights go down but before the play begins). Eventually, we were all up against our walls with our attention on the Water Carrier. The tension built the longer we waited. It occurred to me that we were all now islands ringed around the Water Carrier--islands calling him forth to our world. I was also tickled that we all stood there waiting for the art to come off the wall.
Eventually, the Water Carrier awoke and broke away from the wall. He selected a bottle after listening to the empty bottles. He placed the bottle in his bag and turned towards the exit. We then followed him down the stairs, out the museum, along the harbor walk, and to the ferries. As well as carrying that bottle, the Water Carrier was a vessel bearing us along and transforming us with the journey. I felt we were all taken out of the city even though we were walking its pavements and stones. Because he was barefoot, the Water Carrier was sensitive to the terrain: cool, polished concrete in the ICA; hot pavement; wooden planks along the harbor; and outbreaks of cobblestones. Because he was in a vulnerable state, I think all the walkers/followers projected themselves into him and tried to see this city and harbor with fresh eyes instead of barely taking it in as we normally do rushing through our lives.
I found myself wondering what he was seeing, if he saw anything. From my perspective behind him, he didn't seem to notice or react to the differences between his time and ours. Occasionally, he would gaze up at a tall building and seem taken by it. But, he seemed to be listening to this world more than seeing it. The Water Carrier seemed to very aware of the water and the open end of the harbor. It was if he could hear the islands or the memories left there.
I also pondered if the Water Carrier was born anew each time he woke from the wall. Was he a completely blank canvas this day, or did memories of his past walks intrude on his consciousness? (The artist comments on his performances and his experiences on his blog documenting his project: The Water Carrier's Journey.) First, he led us to Georges Island where we waited for a smaller boat to ferry us to Lovell's Island. This was where I was able to take the pictures above. The Water Carrier stayed on the dock; he was disinterested in the rest of the island. He created a lot of attention. Georges Island had more people than Boston's waterfront. I explored the perimeter of the dock and visitor's center. There was not enough time to duck up into the fort behind us, but it was tempting.
Lovell's Island is much smaller than Georges Island, whose hill and fort looms over the dock. Lovell's dock leads to a landscape more like the beach dunes seen on the Maine coast. The trees and plants are kept short and angled by salty sea winds. The Water Carrier led us down a path where the plants eventually obscured the horizon but not the sky. I saw very strange formations on the stalks. One woman kept her eyes low to pick and eat blackberries.
As we walked further from the dock and further inland, he led us to the abandoned fort on Lovell's, a huge ruin crumbling into the foliage. The landscape had changed from windswept stalks and brush to large dark conifers, some of which were upended. Up until now, the Water Carrier had been silent. We had mostly followed his lead and kept conversation to a minimum. (Can you imagine? A bunch of Americans grouped together not chatting about weather, hometowns, and sports teams!) He climbed stairs to first level rooms that had long ago lost their walls and doors; we hung back to observe his motions. Large iron rings hung from the remaining walls. The Water Carrier emphatically clanged them. I'm not sure if he was calling forth the memories and ghosts of the island, or was he creating a vibration to guide him on his way? He did the same thing in three or four of these outdoor rooms. I tried to place myself in different places each time to change my perspective. The last time, I will admit, I was concerned with the biting black flies that would descend on anything that stopped moving. (I whipped out the bug repellent and started spraying. Two of my fellow walkers shared my repellent as well.)
Since I hadn't followed the Water Carrier up to the last abandoned room, I positioned myself at the bottom of the steps where he would descend. The stairway was overgrown with vines and growth. There were white fluffs rolling about on its steps (similar to the last stages of a dandelion's life). I waited to see how the Water Carrier's movements would affect these delicate structures. He delicately picked his feet through the decayed plants causing the fluffs to roll or fly up. A white moth fluttered upwards past his feet and legs. It was quite beautiful to watch.
He led us out of the forest and we climbed up to a sunny harbor view. Below us was a typical New England beach--more rocks than sand. Three women picnicked up above the rock line in the shade of the trees. Two people were lounging by the rock line, and four women bathed sedately in the water. The Water Carrier walked down to the water's edge where the waves lapped his white feet. It was so hot and humid. I longed to roll up my pant cuffs and kick off my socks and sneakers to feel the water on my feet--just like the Water Carrier. He removed the bottle from his bag. He unstopped the vessel to begin collecting water. I crept as close as I could. I watched him position the bottle in the sand in such a way that it was not his hands or motions that guided the water into the bottle. The water came to the bottle through the rhythm of the waves. I felt that was an important part of the process, that the Water Carrier remain a conduit that joined natural elements and his followers together in a quiet place and time.
After collecting the water, he inspected it and then replaced the stopper. I was one of the three women who got to hold the bottle and view it. It had sediment, a dark-colored sand. The bottle was not overly full, and holding it above head created a glorious combination of light, glass and sand. The Water Carrier retrieved the bottle from me (that was a treat!) and then led us further down the beach.
Along the way, I collected rocks from the beach. This was also an opportunity to shield my eyes from the glare of the noonday sun. I had picked up rocks on Georges Island and had them in my bag. I thought it was fitting since I feel I'm more of the earth than the sky. I am the carrier of rocks. I kept finding beautiful, odd-shaped and unusual rocks and shells. I felt it wouldn't be right to carry off so many rocks, and I wanted to leave a mark on the island. When I saw that we would be turning off the beach and back to the ferry landing, I quickly built a cairn with my rocks and shells. I think a woman--not in our group but captivated by the Water Carrier and his followers--took a picture of it after I walked away.
Then, we retraced our steps--two ferry rides and back to the harbor walk. Boston was more populated now and the Water Carrier created quite a commotion on his return trip. "Ghost" was the most common comment. The ICA was also bustling upon our return; they were hosting a children's play date. Lots of exclamations and expressions of delight were observed. Honestly, I was gritting my teeth as we climbed up the four flights. I was a bit done in from hunger (hadn't eaten since 7:30 a.m. and it was close to 1 p.m.), the heat, and the overexposure to unfiltered light. But, it was worth it. A crowd gathered in the gallery to watch the Water Carrier return the vessel. Then, he was gone. It was over, just like that.
I feel that Bostonians are creatures of routine. Your Boston identity is so tied to your job and its demands. We scurry from home to work, and back. You know your neighborhood very well, but the grind of work and routine hampers you from breaking out of what you know. Something extraordinary or an external pressure has to cause Bostonians to go places they don't know--to break them out of their routine. It doesn't just happen to longtime residents; the scads of transitory college students stick to their campuses, or the familiar jaunt to the North End for pastries. If it's not on your T line, it doesn't really penetrate your mindset. I was very grateful that the ICA got me on a ferry to experience the Harbor Islands.
Living here for decades, I had never traveled out over the harbor. I also enjoyed the contemplative nature of the journey. I was traveling without a tangible purpose. I was not leading myself or others. I was traveling just to move and explore my surroundings with all my senses. True, I was there to follow the Water Carrier. He was the impetus for the journey. But, he acted as a focal point. In meditation, you are supposed to zero in on an image or sound so the outer world can fade into the background. I felt that this man-in-white was just that. Focusing on him, my everyday existence faded away and I became more aware. I noticed how the ground changed rapidly underfoot in the city; I delighted in watching the ferry create foam on the water; and I watched how the light and foliage changed as the Water Carrier walked under and through it.
The Water Carrier has one more performance. He'll lead people to Brewster's Island and interact with the lighthouse keeper there. The other walks, I believe, were free except for the ferry fare, $12 round trip. My walk was entirely free as the ICA popped for the tickets (heat discount) and I was appreciative of the gesture. However, the Brewster Island walk will require reservations, a $28 fee (which includes ferry fare), and if you want a packaged lunch, that's an additional $12. The marble counter will be up and running, and I'll be back to manning it on the weekends. I'm going to try to switch shifts because I think it will be a marvelous delight to experience. If you want more information for yourself, go to the ICA page with all the trip details.
While we gathered outside the museum's door (the ICA doesn't open until 10:00 a.m., and our walk would begin at 9:30 a.m.), I made the decision not to take pictures during the walk. My digital camera makes "woof!" noises every time it snaps a picture. I thought it would be inappropriate and intrusive to let that happen. I only took pictures when I could get far away enough not to let it bother others.
The museum guards shepherded us up to the fourth-floor gallery before the museum opened at 9:20 a.m. The first thing I saw was a small table made out of wood barrel staves with a metal top. The top was engraved with the Boston coastline. Five glass bottles with stoppers lay on it. They were hand blown and I perceived that they must be in the shape of the five islands that were the Water Carrier's destinations. Three of the bottles were filled. One contained clear water except for a spot of green. I couldn't tell if it was a discoloration from the bottle or algae. The other two bottles carried water and sediment, each different in texture. I compared the empty bottles to the map of the islands, and tried to guess which one would be chosen.
I suddenly noticed there was a man dressed in all white standing up against the wall directly opposite of the table. He was dressed in 19th-century seaman's clothes with bare feet. His feet, hands, and face were painted white. He wore a white stocking cap on his head. The only color to be seen were the tea-tinted lenses in his spectacles; his eyes were closed. I backed up against a gallery wall myself to wait for the walk to begin. Their were seven people in our group and gallery guards blocking us from the other exhibits (museum still not open). Feet were crossed, uncrossed; some people meandered to and fro; fidgeting, coughing and sneezing were heard (much like the noises heard in a theater after the lights go down but before the play begins). Eventually, we were all up against our walls with our attention on the Water Carrier. The tension built the longer we waited. It occurred to me that we were all now islands ringed around the Water Carrier--islands calling him forth to our world. I was also tickled that we all stood there waiting for the art to come off the wall.
Eventually, the Water Carrier awoke and broke away from the wall. He selected a bottle after listening to the empty bottles. He placed the bottle in his bag and turned towards the exit. We then followed him down the stairs, out the museum, along the harbor walk, and to the ferries. As well as carrying that bottle, the Water Carrier was a vessel bearing us along and transforming us with the journey. I felt we were all taken out of the city even though we were walking its pavements and stones. Because he was barefoot, the Water Carrier was sensitive to the terrain: cool, polished concrete in the ICA; hot pavement; wooden planks along the harbor; and outbreaks of cobblestones. Because he was in a vulnerable state, I think all the walkers/followers projected themselves into him and tried to see this city and harbor with fresh eyes instead of barely taking it in as we normally do rushing through our lives.
I found myself wondering what he was seeing, if he saw anything. From my perspective behind him, he didn't seem to notice or react to the differences between his time and ours. Occasionally, he would gaze up at a tall building and seem taken by it. But, he seemed to be listening to this world more than seeing it. The Water Carrier seemed to very aware of the water and the open end of the harbor. It was if he could hear the islands or the memories left there.
I also pondered if the Water Carrier was born anew each time he woke from the wall. Was he a completely blank canvas this day, or did memories of his past walks intrude on his consciousness? (The artist comments on his performances and his experiences on his blog documenting his project: The Water Carrier's Journey.) First, he led us to Georges Island where we waited for a smaller boat to ferry us to Lovell's Island. This was where I was able to take the pictures above. The Water Carrier stayed on the dock; he was disinterested in the rest of the island. He created a lot of attention. Georges Island had more people than Boston's waterfront. I explored the perimeter of the dock and visitor's center. There was not enough time to duck up into the fort behind us, but it was tempting.
Lovell's Island is much smaller than Georges Island, whose hill and fort looms over the dock. Lovell's dock leads to a landscape more like the beach dunes seen on the Maine coast. The trees and plants are kept short and angled by salty sea winds. The Water Carrier led us down a path where the plants eventually obscured the horizon but not the sky. I saw very strange formations on the stalks. One woman kept her eyes low to pick and eat blackberries.
As we walked further from the dock and further inland, he led us to the abandoned fort on Lovell's, a huge ruin crumbling into the foliage. The landscape had changed from windswept stalks and brush to large dark conifers, some of which were upended. Up until now, the Water Carrier had been silent. We had mostly followed his lead and kept conversation to a minimum. (Can you imagine? A bunch of Americans grouped together not chatting about weather, hometowns, and sports teams!) He climbed stairs to first level rooms that had long ago lost their walls and doors; we hung back to observe his motions. Large iron rings hung from the remaining walls. The Water Carrier emphatically clanged them. I'm not sure if he was calling forth the memories and ghosts of the island, or was he creating a vibration to guide him on his way? He did the same thing in three or four of these outdoor rooms. I tried to place myself in different places each time to change my perspective. The last time, I will admit, I was concerned with the biting black flies that would descend on anything that stopped moving. (I whipped out the bug repellent and started spraying. Two of my fellow walkers shared my repellent as well.)
Since I hadn't followed the Water Carrier up to the last abandoned room, I positioned myself at the bottom of the steps where he would descend. The stairway was overgrown with vines and growth. There were white fluffs rolling about on its steps (similar to the last stages of a dandelion's life). I waited to see how the Water Carrier's movements would affect these delicate structures. He delicately picked his feet through the decayed plants causing the fluffs to roll or fly up. A white moth fluttered upwards past his feet and legs. It was quite beautiful to watch.
He led us out of the forest and we climbed up to a sunny harbor view. Below us was a typical New England beach--more rocks than sand. Three women picnicked up above the rock line in the shade of the trees. Two people were lounging by the rock line, and four women bathed sedately in the water. The Water Carrier walked down to the water's edge where the waves lapped his white feet. It was so hot and humid. I longed to roll up my pant cuffs and kick off my socks and sneakers to feel the water on my feet--just like the Water Carrier. He removed the bottle from his bag. He unstopped the vessel to begin collecting water. I crept as close as I could. I watched him position the bottle in the sand in such a way that it was not his hands or motions that guided the water into the bottle. The water came to the bottle through the rhythm of the waves. I felt that was an important part of the process, that the Water Carrier remain a conduit that joined natural elements and his followers together in a quiet place and time.
After collecting the water, he inspected it and then replaced the stopper. I was one of the three women who got to hold the bottle and view it. It had sediment, a dark-colored sand. The bottle was not overly full, and holding it above head created a glorious combination of light, glass and sand. The Water Carrier retrieved the bottle from me (that was a treat!) and then led us further down the beach.
Along the way, I collected rocks from the beach. This was also an opportunity to shield my eyes from the glare of the noonday sun. I had picked up rocks on Georges Island and had them in my bag. I thought it was fitting since I feel I'm more of the earth than the sky. I am the carrier of rocks. I kept finding beautiful, odd-shaped and unusual rocks and shells. I felt it wouldn't be right to carry off so many rocks, and I wanted to leave a mark on the island. When I saw that we would be turning off the beach and back to the ferry landing, I quickly built a cairn with my rocks and shells. I think a woman--not in our group but captivated by the Water Carrier and his followers--took a picture of it after I walked away.
Then, we retraced our steps--two ferry rides and back to the harbor walk. Boston was more populated now and the Water Carrier created quite a commotion on his return trip. "Ghost" was the most common comment. The ICA was also bustling upon our return; they were hosting a children's play date. Lots of exclamations and expressions of delight were observed. Honestly, I was gritting my teeth as we climbed up the four flights. I was a bit done in from hunger (hadn't eaten since 7:30 a.m. and it was close to 1 p.m.), the heat, and the overexposure to unfiltered light. But, it was worth it. A crowd gathered in the gallery to watch the Water Carrier return the vessel. Then, he was gone. It was over, just like that.
I feel that Bostonians are creatures of routine. Your Boston identity is so tied to your job and its demands. We scurry from home to work, and back. You know your neighborhood very well, but the grind of work and routine hampers you from breaking out of what you know. Something extraordinary or an external pressure has to cause Bostonians to go places they don't know--to break them out of their routine. It doesn't just happen to longtime residents; the scads of transitory college students stick to their campuses, or the familiar jaunt to the North End for pastries. If it's not on your T line, it doesn't really penetrate your mindset. I was very grateful that the ICA got me on a ferry to experience the Harbor Islands.
Living here for decades, I had never traveled out over the harbor. I also enjoyed the contemplative nature of the journey. I was traveling without a tangible purpose. I was not leading myself or others. I was traveling just to move and explore my surroundings with all my senses. True, I was there to follow the Water Carrier. He was the impetus for the journey. But, he acted as a focal point. In meditation, you are supposed to zero in on an image or sound so the outer world can fade into the background. I felt that this man-in-white was just that. Focusing on him, my everyday existence faded away and I became more aware. I noticed how the ground changed rapidly underfoot in the city; I delighted in watching the ferry create foam on the water; and I watched how the light and foliage changed as the Water Carrier walked under and through it.
The Water Carrier has one more performance. He'll lead people to Brewster's Island and interact with the lighthouse keeper there. The other walks, I believe, were free except for the ferry fare, $12 round trip. My walk was entirely free as the ICA popped for the tickets (heat discount) and I was appreciative of the gesture. However, the Brewster Island walk will require reservations, a $28 fee (which includes ferry fare), and if you want a packaged lunch, that's an additional $12. The marble counter will be up and running, and I'll be back to manning it on the weekends. I'm going to try to switch shifts because I think it will be a marvelous delight to experience. If you want more information for yourself, go to the ICA page with all the trip details.
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