Art Prunings

There is a heap of apple prunings outside my studio door. The size of the pile might make you think that it contains all the pruned branches that came out of the orchard this winter, but it’s only a small portion. We burned a two-story tower in an intense bonfire a month ago. All that remained was a circle of charcoal. Would that it were so easy to release the debris and the clutter that accumulates year to year in our lives. As I spread these residues throughout the orchard, I imagine how it will help the soil: carbon, in the form of biochar. The no-longer-useful provides sustenance. What if our own life prunings supported our future growth? 

The tangled heap outside my studio door waits because I committed to use apple prunings to make sculpture. There is so much wood that comes off the trees every year; it astonishes me every time. I’ve tried before, a few times, making an 8-foot hanging apple ladder and a few smaller mobiles using branches, string, and bronze figures. They are good sculptures, but the branch is still a branch; I didn’t unfasten it from its normal function.

Apple Ladder (LH)

I have in mind something else for all these twigs, but what exactly I am not sure. My own life has become so connected to apples — their seasons and needs, how to grow healthier fruit, the intricacies of bud development — I want my art to also interrelate with the apple tree cycles.

When people ask me, “Are you an artist or an orchardist?” or “What is more important the orchard or your art?” I respond that it is being an artist, because that’s what informs everything I do in the orchard. And so it follows that if my life as an artist is inextricably connected to this orchard, I want to try to use the prunings as a medium. A painter uses paint to create a world of form and space, color and movement, light and dark. I wonder how and if I can do the same with these prunings?

It doesn’t hurt that I am committed to putting up an apple-themed exhibit next January in The Gallery at Villageworks in West Acton. The challenge is that the work has to hang on the walls and not extend out. And I can’t use the floor, because the space serves for movies, concerts, and performances.  So I am limited to a slightly bushy two dimensions.

My art is often following a knotted path that leads to something unknown. There is always a challenge, and moments (many) when I don’t think I can do it. I’m not actually sure I can use these prunings. They are delicate, wispy, all irregular with little side shoots, or long side shoots, buds, or tears in the bark. There are some stronger branches, too. We will see . . . but I have begun. I recognize this gnawing feeling as if the rope I am hanging onto is fraying and I have to do it before I fall.

There is that untenable, unknowable truth in all great art, the driving impetus of the artist that the viewer senses. The artist is trying to express something that is unknown, but very real. One of my favorite paintings is by Paul Gauguin and it is on view at the Museum of Fine art in Boston. 

Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going? Paul Gauguin

The entire cycle of human life is in this painting — old age, youth, middle age, the sacred, the animal, the mundane and the mystery. In the center is an androgynous figure reaching for an apple. Art that inspires me asks for a dialogue. It always leaves me with questions. Maybe that is one of its secrets; while art strives to express the unknown, it can only express a brief moment of truth. There are no definitive answers, only more questions. I’m hoping that working with the apple prunings will push me to explore in ways I haven’t done before as an artist and that working with this new challenge will be yet another gift of the orchard. 

A Few of the First Arrivals

New apple trees arrived last week in a long cardboard box; the skinny trunks tied together like stranded refugees, their bare roots dampened with shredded newspaper. I like to get them into the ground as soon as possible. Gabi White came over last Sunday and helped me dig the holes. This new collection of trees is now planted in three rows at the top of the potato field. The first row is all Honey Crisp, the apples that everyone clamors for, the next one is planted with Golden Russets alternating with red apples, and the third row, has Roxbury Russets interplanted with cider apples: Dabinett, Eliss Bitter, Kingston Black, and Foxwhelp. Blase, who grows potatoes every year in this field, has worked hard on the soil and it is beautiful. I have never planted trees with such ease, digging into actual soil, not into rocks as in the orchard. 

Looking up from our shoveling, I continuously marveled at the surrounding wetlands, the Medicine Wheel in the distance, and nearby, between the ancient willows on the edge of the pond, one of the new beehives that also arrived this week. It’s not white and it’s not square, the traditional Langstroth hive designed by Reverend Lorenzo Lorraine Langstroth (1810–1895) to facilitate beekeeping with its easily removable frames. Our hive is a Top Bar, made of western cedar, and looks more like a newborn’s cradle. 

There are some 15,000 bees and a Queen in each hive. The Queen arrives in her own little box that is plugged with candy, hardened sugar water. She is segregated from the hive because as a foreigner, the bees would otherwise throw her out. To gain their acceptance will take time. Thus the bees are prevented from getting to her for a few days while they eat through the sweet candy. In this way they get used to her pheromone and, hopefully, will accept her as their queen. 

Our beekeeper is Melissa Ljosa from Maynard, MA. Her yard is too small for her to keep bees so she is delighted to keep two hives at the farm. Melissa is a devotee of Top Bar hives. In a Top Bar hive there are no frames, only a series of wooded slats. The bees build their honeycomb down from these slats determining the shape of the comb and size of the cells, unlike the Langstroth hives with machine-made standardized frames and cells. Melissa feels this system is more natural for the bees.

Her other hive is out in the orchard behind the lightroot boxes. All day Friday with the help of two farm workers, we planted more new trees in the orchard. The hive was out of site, but in the afternoon I said let’s check on the honeybees. We saw them flying in and out of the hive and gathering nectar from dandelions and a flowering groundcover similar to ajuga. 

With all this activity, we can finally say that Spring has arrived and everyday we see new species of birds, reptiles, and amphibians, along with new artwork. On the edge of the potato field is Gabi and my newest collaboration, Temenos, Greek for sacred grove. Seven leaf-filled columns create a small sanctuary. Evoking Greek caryatids and trees, these pillars offer a poem about the sacred and mysterious life of the forest. It will be installed along the Muddy River in Brookline near the Longwood T stop as part of the Studio Without Walls exhibit, opening on April 30. Gabi and I will be there on Saturday from 11-1pm. If you live nearby please come by and say hello.

Temenos by Linda Hoffman and Gabrielle White installed at Old Frog Pond Farm with Medicine Wheel in the distance.

Melissa stopped by again and we inspected the Queen's box together. She had been liberated, a good sign.

Taste the Spirit of Sustainable Agriculture

On March 31st and April 1st,  I had the honor of presenting a paper at the Spirit of Sustainable Agriculture Conference at the Harvard Divinity School. My talk was “Feed the Body, Feed the Spirit: Agriculture, Art, and Community at Old Frog Pond Farm.” Farmers, spiritual leaders and academics from all over the country and a few from distant continents gathered. One of the many presentations I attended was about Vedic Agriculture, something I knew nothing about.

The Vedas are ancient Hindu texts of prayers, philosophy, and practices written down about 5000 years ago. Dr. Appachanda Thimmaiah, the presenter, said quoting from one of the Vedas, “The whole of existence is an interplay of matter and spirit.” I felt instantly in tune with this way of talking about the world. I believe that spiritual practice has to be grounded in the physical world. And like our approach on the farm — respect for the earth and an appreciation of life — we have to put this into practice with healthy agricultural practices.

In the Vedas there are very specific daily practices for individuals, like asking forgiveness when you wake before putting your feet on the ground of mother earth, and rubbing your hands together to evoke the seven sacred rivers of India. Three times a day, at the transitions — midday, late day (dinner time), and before going to bed — there are specific prayers to express one’s gratitude and reverence for the earth. I know how often I am swept up with the workings of daily life. I know that stopping for a few moments of conscious reflection throughout the day would be helpful.

Many Vedas also speak directly to agriculture. There is specific timing information — what to plant, when and where — and how to create rhythms on the farm for health, balance, and integration not only for plants but for livestock. There are performances to enliven the creative intelligence of both the plant and the farmer. I thought of our mid-January Wassailing of the apple trees when poets and friends of the farm gathered to ‘toast’ the trees and encourage the new crop. We weren’t reenacting a traditional ritual, but with our own new words and songs we were awakening joy.  

Lynn Horsky reading her wassail poem.

We know that food provides joy as well as nutrition. In the Vedic tradition food is our life force. Dr. Thimmaiah said that food grown following Vedic practices will nourish every level of life — body, mind, heart, and consciousness. He added that he is certain that by growing our food in the violent ways of industrial agriculture, we create the conflicts and wars that are happening around the planet. If he is right, we need to nurture the earth and make sure that all beings have good food, and only then will we create a world of peace. Our relationship with food affects the social, political, and environmental future of the earth.

Attending the conference made me more certain that this ancient knowledge can’t be lost or forgotten. It’s in our bodies and in our bones. We are of the earth. We eat from the earth. We return to the earth. It’s not necessarily about specific practices, it’s about appreciating all of life, and most importantly, our own. “When one’s food is pure, one becomes pure.” (Chandogya Upanishad 7.26.2) It’s not so different from the slogan, “You are what you eat.” What if we unconsciously absorb the emotions behind the growing and preparation of our food?  Mega tractors rip through dry, chemically destroyed soil . . . the underpaid, bitter factory worker. . .

This week, I spent Thursday and Friday in New York City. I stayed overnight near Columbia University and in the morning went inside the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. This great church has a long history of political and artistic activism. To my amazement, their exhibit, The Value of Food, had just closed, but some of the works were still up. The curators’ statement on a panel at the entrance to this glorious cathedral’s central nave said, “ The Value of Food explores the dynamic and organic materiality of food and its integral role in sustaining life. . . Pull up a seat and join us at the table. Food becomes a meal when it is shared.”

Food Altar at St John the Divine, New York, NY.

First Orchard Spray - March 22-24, 2016

I asked my partner Blase if he would hook up the sprayer to the tractor. That’s something I can’t do myself — the weight of the bars and jostling them into place. I need his hand strength and his way of banging with a hammer or whatever tool is nearby to coax the connection of the sprayer to the tractor’s power takeoff.

Blase wished me luck and then left me to go about my spraying. I filled the tank with 150 gallons of water and pulled the sprayer away from the house to test the workings. There are eight nozzles, four on each side, which each send out a fine mist of spray. Two of the eight sprayed water; the other six drizzled. I need all eight to work for good coverage. I started opening them up, removing the whorls, discs, and washers. Bits of black debris blocked their tiny holes. I cleaned them and flushed the nozzles out again, but they continued to clog. By this time it was almost 5pm.

I called my savior but he didn’t answer his phone. His name is Denis Wagner. He taught me how to prune the trees. He was my first consultant in the orchard and we have remained friends since.

Denis pruning in 2005

Denis had been the orchard manager at Nashoba Winery in Bolton for many years: he knew about apple pests, but not about growing apples organically. Denis went with me the first time I attended the annual meeting of a group of holistic apple growers in western Massachusetts. (The men outnumbered the women thirty-five to two.) At that meeting we heard about Permaculture and Biodynamics, about the organic pesticide Entrust, the organic fungicide Serenade, the names so poetic.... It was far too much information for me to absorb in one sitting.

When I was about to call it a day, Denis called back and said he would come right over. A house call — doctors don’t make them anymore, but orchardists do. He first took off the two pump filters; they needed cleaning. I had forgotten all about them — I am so not a machine person. We then proceeded to clean all the nozzles again. Finally when all was done, the sun had long since gone down, the moon was rising, and Denis headed home. I put away the tools and went in to make dinner, leaving the sprayer lounging outside to enjoy the splendid full moon.  

Before I sat down to eat, I checked the hourly weather forecast. I wanted to make sure we wouldn’t have freezing temperatures. I’d already been watching the weather for days, but I needed to be sure. Once we wake the sprayer from its winter slumber, it has to be covered with a king-sized blanket and tucked in with a light bulb for warmth if the temperature descends below 32 degrees.  

This first spray of the season is always a juggling act — warm enough to spray and yet not too warm that the buds have broken dormancy. I was planning on a couple of pounds of copper for fire blight — a bacterial infection that can travel through an orchard by way of open blossoms — and mineral oil to serve as a spreader. I thought the mineral oil might also help to control winter moth. This insect has recently moved westward from the coast and will easily defoliate a tree. In apples, the caterpillars crawl into the buds and destroy them.

To make this spray effective, the orchardist wants no rain for 24 hours following the spraying. The wind speed also needs to be low or the spray will go everywhere but where you want it. I checked the hourly weather again and watched the numbers. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day? There was wind and a low chance of rain both days, but spring had arrived, so I felt the pressure to get this spray on as soon as possible. Meanwhile, the sprayer sat connected to the tractor filled with water waiting like a patient dinosaur.

Two days later, I suited up, added the materials to the spray tank, and headed out into the orchard. The wind came up and was stronger than I liked, the sky clouded over, but I continued at my 2mph speed down and up each row and emptied the tank. In the middle of the night I woke to the sound of a good solid rain. And now there’s snow in the forecast. There’s always this unknown, and life doesn’t always turn out the way we hope. 

When I attended the holistic apple growers meeting again this year. I heard something new.

Calm the trees.

Many trees grow too many water sprouts, those upright shoots that can grow 3 feet long. Calm trees will have 6 -12” of new growth and have better fruit flavor. Calm trees need a calm orchardist. I decided not to worry about the first spray.