masks
by sharon strong

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I live in the Northern California foothills. Calaveras County. Wild country whose forests of cedar, ponderosa and jack pine, manzanita and toyon have sheltered robbers and writers, men lusting for gold and the women and children who followed them. Small towns with histories linked to the California gold rush of 1849 nestle precariously here and there. The only historic remains are brick buildings with cast iron doors and shutters. Why? Because of fire. Every town from Mokelumne Hill to Murphys has its story of devastation by fire. Devastation and rebuilding. Disaster and restoration.

Summers here bring scorching heat that can hit 110 degrees. Bush lupin seed pods crackle and pop open. Soft yellow ochre dirt burns bare feet. Pine pitch oozes down parched, dry bark, filling the air with a faintly turpentine scent. On such a day, I decided to hike down the creek trail, a fire road cut during the Old Gulch fire of 1991, hoping for a trickle of water. No such luck! Even the mint that usually grows on the bank was dried up. On the return trip, sweaty shirt sticking to the skin on my back, I caught sight of a gnarled piece of manzanita, encrusted with red clay, laying by the side of the trail. I swear I could hear it calling out to me in a raspy whisper. Feeling along its surface, I could see asymmetrical antlers belonging to some mythical creature. I took it home.

Months later in my studio it called to me again. I began to scrub away a decade of dirt and ash with a wire brush, revealing a magnificent surface. This piece of wood had survived fire that reduced thousands of acres of forestland to a charred, dead, moonscape. Somehow the heat brought sap to the surface, varnishing the wood like old, fine furniture. Soft steel wool polished it to a deep purple patina.

I handled this piece of manzanita with tenderness and with tenderness affixed it to the "skull" of a deer-like animal sculpted out of papier-mache. What emerged was an ibex. My hands trembled as I held it up. Looking back at me was a spirit of survival and transformation… given life through the collaboration between nature and the creative process of mask making.

Found objects, especially those in nature, have incredible inherent power. Children know this, stuffing their pockets with smooth stones, seashells and frogs. Have you ever wondered at the communication that takes place when you reach down for one particular autumn leaf out of hundreds? Have your ever almost heard that particular leaf (or stone or shell) call to you? If you have, we are kindred spirits.

The series, "Faces of Nature," began as simply as this. A bone, bleached white, honeycomb interior exposed, became a skeletal mask of timelessness. A butterfly wing with stained glass patterns in orange, yellow and blue inspired the silken wings of a delicate filigree mask. A quirky clown face, Picassoesque, came together out of fragments of abalone shell in iridescent swirls of purple, silver, blue and green. Each found object has its own story, personal and symbolic, individual and universal, whose meaning lies waiting to be revealed through the magic of mask making.

As a people we hunger for spiritual nourishment, the "food" necessary for soul to survive and grow. Whatever one’s religious belief or unbelief, we yearn for personal meaning, an intimate experience between self and life. I have discovered in mask making spiritual practice and ritual.

Human beings forever have created meaning through ritual. Out of the stuff of everyday life, we celebrate seasons, mark passages through life, seek the favor of God, propitiate demons and give form to our deepest fears and longings.

While sharing my masks, I see that longing in people’s eyes. When I say, "Each mask has a story", often adults become like children asking, "Please… tell me the story." I can almost feel their child body snuggling into mine, becoming quiet and receptive. For me this is a sacred moment. I invite you to come close. I have more stories to share with you.

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