COLLECTION NAME:
David Rumsey Historical Map Collection
mediaCollectionId
RUMSEY~8~1
David Rumsey Historical Map Collection
Collection
true
Author:
Price, Jonathan Reeve
author
Price, Jonathan Reeve
Author
false
Date:
2019
date
2019
Date
false
Short Title:
Cross Canyon
short_title
Cross Canyon
Short Title
false
Publisher:
The Communication Circle
publisher
The Communication Circle
Publisher
false
Publisher Location:
Albuquerque, NM
publisher_location
Albuquerque, NM
Publisher Location
false
Type:
Book Map
type
Book Map
Type
false
Type:
Atlas Map
type
Atlas Map
Type
false
Obj Height cm:
61
obj_height_cm
61
Obj Height cm
false
Obj Width cm:
61
obj_width_cm
61
Obj Width cm
false
Note:
(Accompanying poem by author) -
I felt nothing when I pulled
the rusty, wrinkled roof
off, tumbled it into
the ravine, onto the burnt car—
Nothing for our time together,
the wet mud, the slipping damp
walls—down they came.
So easy to get rid of a house—
The sun inside my head
led me down the trail, my bundle,
my life in a roll of cloth.
I passed the cemetery—nothing—
Our church, a shell, the padre
a disease, the cross nothing.
How vacant my village, as I
came out of the forest and slid
down the red sand, onto the two-track road,
no farewell, no sigh, nothing.
On I went, my feet finding the road
down, around the curve, past
the cliff that took Maria's life,
nothing rose out of the morning mist,
just my breath, and deep within my head,
the continuous flame.
I felt nothing when I pulled
the rusty, wrinkled roof
off, tumbled it into
the ravine, onto the burnt car—
Nothing for our time together,
the wet mud, the slipping damp
walls—down they came.
So easy to get rid of a house—
The sun inside my head
led me down the trail, my bundle,
my life in a roll of cloth.
I passed the cemetery—nothing—
Our church, a shell, the padre
a disease, the cross nothing.
How vacant my village, as I
came out of the forest and slid
down the red sand, onto the two-track road,
no farewell, no sigh, nothing.
On I went, my feet finding the road
down, around the curve, past
the cliff that took Maria's life,
nothing rose out of the morning mist,
just my breath, and deep within my head,
the continuous flame.
note
(Accompanying poem by author) -
I felt nothing when I pulled
the rusty, wrinkled roof
off, tumbled it into
the ravine, onto the burnt car—
Nothing for our time together,
the wet mud, the slipping damp
walls—down they came.
So easy to get rid of a house—
The sun inside my head
led me down the trail, my bundle,
my life in a roll of cloth.
I passed the cemetery—nothing—
Our church, a shell, the padre
a disease, the cross nothing.
How vacant my village, as I
came out of the forest and slid
down the red sand, onto the two-track road,
no farewell, no sigh, nothing.
On I went, my feet finding the road
down, around the curve, past
the cliff that took Maria's life,
nothing rose out of the morning mist,
just my breath, and deep within my head,
the continuous flame.
Note
false
Reference:
Copyright 2019 by Jonathan Reeve Price. For copies of the art work see https://www.museumz…
For copies of the printed book see The Liquid Border: The Rio Grande from El Paso to the Gulf of Mexico, 2nd edition
Copyright 2019-2020 by Jonathan Reeve Price
Publisher: The Communication Circle
4704 Mi Cordelia Drive, NW
Albuquerque, NM 87120
Second Edition: 2020
ISBN 10: 0-9719954-6-X
ISBN 13: 9780971995468
80 pages
https://www.amazon.…
For a PDF of the book see https://rumsey3.s3.…
For the Artist's Statement see https://rumsey3.s3.…
For copies of the printed book see The Liquid Border: The Rio Grande from El Paso to the Gulf of Mexico, 2nd edition
Copyright 2019-2020 by Jonathan Reeve Price
Publisher: The Communication Circle
4704 Mi Cordelia Drive, NW
Albuquerque, NM 87120
Second Edition: 2020
ISBN 10: 0-9719954-6-X
ISBN 13: 9780971995468
80 pages
https://www.amazon.…
For a PDF of the book see https://rumsey3.s3.…
For the Artist's Statement see https://rumsey3.s3.…
reference
Copyright 2019 by Jonathan Reeve Price. For copies of the art work see https://www.museumzero.art/the-liquid-border
For copies of the printed book see The Liquid Border: The Rio Grande from El Paso to the Gulf of Mexico, 2nd edition
Copyright 2019-2020 by Jonathan Reeve Price
Publisher: The Communication Circle
4704 Mi Cordelia Drive, NW
Albuquerque, NM 87120
Second Edition: 2020
ISBN 10: 0-9719954-6-X
ISBN 13: 9780971995468
80 pages
https://www.amazon.com/Liquid-Border-Grande-Paso-Mexico/dp/097199546X/ref=pd_rhf_se_p_img_4?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=WQG4EDS3E1BKX1ES2J4V
For a PDF of the book see https://rumsey3.s3.amazonaws.com/images/LiquidBorder2ndEditionB.pdf
For the Artist's Statement see https://rumsey3.s3.amazonaws.com/images/JonathanPriceArtistStatement.pdf
Reference
false
Region:
Rio Grande
region
Rio Grande
Region
false
Region:
Rio Bravo del Norte
region
Rio Bravo del Norte
Region
false
Subject:
Art
subject
Art
Subject
false
Full Title:
The Liquid Border: Cross Canyon, 2019, Aluminum Print, 24"x24" (61x61cm), Jonathan Reeve Price, 28.9927, -103.1512
full_title
The Liquid Border: Cross Canyon, 2019, Aluminum Print, 24"x24" (61x61cm), Jonathan Reeve Price, 28.9927, -103.1512
Full Title
false
List No:
10420.013
list_no
10420.013
List No
false
Series No:
13
series_no
13
Series No
false
Publication Author:
Price, Jonathan Reeve
publication_author
Price, Jonathan Reeve
Publication Author
false
Pub Date:
2019
pub_date
2019
Pub Date
false
Pub Title:
The Liquid Border. A Museum Zero Exhibition.
pub_title
The Liquid Border. A Museum Zero Exhibition.
Pub Title
false
Pub Note:
Welcome
I am exploring the liquid border—the imaginary line drawn down the middle of the Rio Grande as it passes between Texas and Mexico. Real, but invisible, the border floats away.
But what pain comes across that unmarked frontier, what desperation, what determination! Exploring the photos and satellite data of this mighty river may help us imagine the people struggling across the river, and the trackers from the Border Patrol waiting on the American side.
I live next to the Rio Grande. In summers, there are stretches of the river that go dry, drained to irrigate chile fields. But more streams pour in from Mexico, bringing the river back to life. It staggers as it gets near to the Gulf of Mexico, but persists.
In the center of the river, we have no flag, no wall, no barrier. But our Border Patrol motors through in small skiffs, deterring migrants, and, quite often, picking up the bodies of people who went into the river, but could not swim.
My neighbors go down to El Paso and cross on the Bridge of International Friendship, to buy antibiotics, get their teeth cleaned, celebrate with their cousins. Other folks came across long ago, and they are part of our community, not aliens. In fact, some families came here in the 15th century, fleeing the Spanish Inquisition, passing for Catholic conversos, hiding out along this river, so far from the capital of Mexico, and the conquistadors, with their horses and priests.
When I look at maps of the border region, I recall the stories of all these people going and coming, the voices of the young men looking for work, the cries of the families fleeing gangs in Latin America, and the children we pull away from their families to put into cages. I hear their words as I work.
When there’s peace, the border can be invisible. But artists and politicians make it visible again. One example: To make the three-hundred mile Northern Irish border visible, Suzanne Lacy persuaded several hundred people to wear yellow, run horses through yellow pigment, and paddle around in yellow boats, leaving a yellow trail across the boundary that has been the cause of so much grief. She projected satellite maps marked with the yellow line onto the front of the Ulster Museum, in Belfast.
For the stateless, the border is transcendent. Having been forced out of her homeland, Mona Hatoun says that she now feels rootless. But, she says, “The nomadic existence suits me fine, because I do not expect myself to identify completely with any one place.” Instead, she seizes on the maps that airlines use to show their routes around the world, photocopies them, and adds her own colored lines, and squiggles, emphasizing the journey, not the territory.
Working on an iMac, I use a wide range of software to dig into LandSat Orbiter images, and U.S. Geological Survey topographical studies.
I distort the original, useful, scientific images, taking them apart and rebuilding them with half a dozen applications, just to see what I can discover in the bitmaps, vectors, color palettes, and the spray of code. I struggle with the counterpoint of paint and pixel, the contrast between the prose label and the visual detail, the interaction between what we know and what we see. My prints are markers on the trail, not final destinations.
I love the data. All those stacks of zeroes and ones add up to individual pixels, like dots of paint on a canvas, ready to be manipulated, distorted, shifted, and transformed. As I explore these artificial representations of the physical world, I get to view the scene up close, then far away; I soar to 30,000 feet, and then I wade through the reeds.
As I zoom in and out through so many levels, I carve paths through the imaginary space, to lead attention on. My goal is to bring out the patterns in the natural landscape, the odd unnatural beauty of its digital representations, and the unseen souls struggling below. Compassion, then, and, yes, an odd joy. I want to give your eyes the pleasure of repeated visual tours, and, along the way, to lighten your spirits with tiny beautiful sparks.
–Jonathan Reeve Price
I am exploring the liquid border—the imaginary line drawn down the middle of the Rio Grande as it passes between Texas and Mexico. Real, but invisible, the border floats away.
But what pain comes across that unmarked frontier, what desperation, what determination! Exploring the photos and satellite data of this mighty river may help us imagine the people struggling across the river, and the trackers from the Border Patrol waiting on the American side.
I live next to the Rio Grande. In summers, there are stretches of the river that go dry, drained to irrigate chile fields. But more streams pour in from Mexico, bringing the river back to life. It staggers as it gets near to the Gulf of Mexico, but persists.
In the center of the river, we have no flag, no wall, no barrier. But our Border Patrol motors through in small skiffs, deterring migrants, and, quite often, picking up the bodies of people who went into the river, but could not swim.
My neighbors go down to El Paso and cross on the Bridge of International Friendship, to buy antibiotics, get their teeth cleaned, celebrate with their cousins. Other folks came across long ago, and they are part of our community, not aliens. In fact, some families came here in the 15th century, fleeing the Spanish Inquisition, passing for Catholic conversos, hiding out along this river, so far from the capital of Mexico, and the conquistadors, with their horses and priests.
When I look at maps of the border region, I recall the stories of all these people going and coming, the voices of the young men looking for work, the cries of the families fleeing gangs in Latin America, and the children we pull away from their families to put into cages. I hear their words as I work.
When there’s peace, the border can be invisible. But artists and politicians make it visible again. One example: To make the three-hundred mile Northern Irish border visible, Suzanne Lacy persuaded several hundred people to wear yellow, run horses through yellow pigment, and paddle around in yellow boats, leaving a yellow trail across the boundary that has been the cause of so much grief. She projected satellite maps marked with the yellow line onto the front of the Ulster Museum, in Belfast.
For the stateless, the border is transcendent. Having been forced out of her homeland, Mona Hatoun says that she now feels rootless. But, she says, “The nomadic existence suits me fine, because I do not expect myself to identify completely with any one place.” Instead, she seizes on the maps that airlines use to show their routes around the world, photocopies them, and adds her own colored lines, and squiggles, emphasizing the journey, not the territory.
Working on an iMac, I use a wide range of software to dig into LandSat Orbiter images, and U.S. Geological Survey topographical studies.
I distort the original, useful, scientific images, taking them apart and rebuilding them with half a dozen applications, just to see what I can discover in the bitmaps, vectors, color palettes, and the spray of code. I struggle with the counterpoint of paint and pixel, the contrast between the prose label and the visual detail, the interaction between what we know and what we see. My prints are markers on the trail, not final destinations.
I love the data. All those stacks of zeroes and ones add up to individual pixels, like dots of paint on a canvas, ready to be manipulated, distorted, shifted, and transformed. As I explore these artificial representations of the physical world, I get to view the scene up close, then far away; I soar to 30,000 feet, and then I wade through the reeds.
As I zoom in and out through so many levels, I carve paths through the imaginary space, to lead attention on. My goal is to bring out the patterns in the natural landscape, the odd unnatural beauty of its digital representations, and the unseen souls struggling below. Compassion, then, and, yes, an odd joy. I want to give your eyes the pleasure of repeated visual tours, and, along the way, to lighten your spirits with tiny beautiful sparks.
–Jonathan Reeve Price
pub_note
Welcome
I am exploring the liquid border—the imaginary line drawn down the middle of the Rio Grande as it passes between Texas and Mexico. Real, but invisible, the border floats away.
But what pain comes across that unmarked frontier, what desperation, what determination! Exploring the photos and satellite data of this mighty river may help us imagine the people struggling across the river, and the trackers from the Border Patrol waiting on the American side.
I live next to the Rio Grande. In summers, there are stretches of the river that go dry, drained to irrigate chile fields. But more streams pour in from Mexico, bringing the river back to life. It staggers as it gets near to the Gulf of Mexico, but persists.
In the center of the river, we have no flag, no wall, no barrier. But our Border Patrol motors through in small skiffs, deterring migrants, and, quite often, picking up the bodies of people who went into the river, but could not swim.
My neighbors go down to El Paso and cross on the Bridge of International Friendship, to buy antibiotics, get their teeth cleaned, celebrate with their cousins. Other folks came across long ago, and they are part of our community, not aliens. In fact, some families came here in the 15th century, fleeing the Spanish Inquisition, passing for Catholic conversos, hiding out along this river, so far from the capital of Mexico, and the conquistadors, with their horses and priests.
When I look at maps of the border region, I recall the stories of all these people going and coming, the voices of the young men looking for work, the cries of the families fleeing gangs in Latin America, and the children we pull away from their families to put into cages. I hear their words as I work.
When there’s peace, the border can be invisible. But artists and politicians make it visible again. One example: To make the three-hundred mile Northern Irish border visible, Suzanne Lacy persuaded several hundred people to wear yellow, run horses through yellow pigment, and paddle around in yellow boats, leaving a yellow trail across the boundary that has been the cause of so much grief. She projected satellite maps marked with the yellow line onto the front of the Ulster Museum, in Belfast.
For the stateless, the border is transcendent. Having been forced out of her homeland, Mona Hatoun says that she now feels rootless. But, she says, “The nomadic existence suits me fine, because I do not expect myself to identify completely with any one place.” Instead, she seizes on the maps that airlines use to show their routes around the world, photocopies them, and adds her own colored lines, and squiggles, emphasizing the journey, not the territory.
Working on an iMac, I use a wide range of software to dig into LandSat Orbiter images, and U.S. Geological Survey topographical studies.
I distort the original, useful, scientific images, taking them apart and rebuilding them with half a dozen applications, just to see what I can discover in the bitmaps, vectors, color palettes, and the spray of code. I struggle with the counterpoint of paint and pixel, the contrast between the prose label and the visual detail, the interaction between what we know and what we see. My prints are markers on the trail, not final destinations.
I love the data. All those stacks of zeroes and ones add up to individual pixels, like dots of paint on a canvas, ready to be manipulated, distorted, shifted, and transformed. As I explore these artificial representations of the physical world, I get to view the scene up close, then far away; I soar to 30,000 feet, and then I wade through the reeds.
As I zoom in and out through so many levels, I carve paths through the imaginary space, to lead attention on. My goal is to bring out the patterns in the natural landscape, the odd unnatural beauty of its digital representations, and the unseen souls struggling below. Compassion, then, and, yes, an odd joy. I want to give your eyes the pleasure of repeated visual tours, and, along the way, to lighten your spirits with tiny beautiful sparks.
–Jonathan Reeve Price
Pub Note
false
Pub List No:
10420.000
pub_list_no
10420.000
Pub List No
false
Pub Type:
Artist Book
pub_type
Artist Book
Pub Type
false
Pub Type:
Regional Atlas
pub_type
Regional Atlas
Pub Type
false
Pub Maps:
16
pub_maps
16
Pub Maps
false
Pub Height cm:
61
pub_height_cm
61
Pub Height cm
false
Pub Width cm:
61
pub_width_cm
61
Pub Width cm
false
Image No:
10420013.jp2
image_no
10420013.jp2
Image No
false
Authors:
Price, Jonathan Reeve
author_thumbnail_label
Price, Jonathan Reeve
Authors
false