considering pictures | sean justice > open journal

Tree Project, Winter My gingko is asleep. Last month all the leaves turned, finally, and winter crept inside. We're connected; the cycle reaches through us. At first I wondered if, somehow, my small tree was somehow exempt from the gray hibernation settling on the neighborhood. In fact, I was worried that maybe keeping a gingko in the house had somehow ripped it from the seasonal fabric that it needed in order to survive. I didn't think it could be so, but week after week the small leaves remained green, long after all the trees outside had become bare. Now the transformation is complete, finally, or nearly so. That is, the gingko leaves never dropped, though winter's desiccation appears complete. I'm watching the snow melt outside and anticipating the first new buds of spring, which I know will emerge in about a month, and I'm hoping that this small tree is, in fact, asleep, merely, and that it will awake when the cycle turns through again. For more, se...

We're moving through the fall, wondering what the next stage of this small plant's cycle will look like. Watching this Gingko sprout and grow is a metaphor for what I'm doing in my work as a teacher and artist. Autonomy is crucial to this discussion. Did you do that on purpose, with intent? Or was it an accident. Are we free to make things that can exist in and of themselves? Or does everything we make exist only and forever embedded within a vast net of other things. What is the purpose of making? Watching the Gingko, watering it, wondering if its leaves will turn with the season, I ask: what is the purpose of growing? These days I wonder if that's the wrong question. Now the fall brings wonder and expectation that perhaps the green interior light of my budding sprout will turn yellow, orange, and eventually brown. I don't know. There's a dryness on the surface of the small leaves. See my previous posts on this project: click on the topic label ...

As you know, I'm not a whiz with trees. Two starts and two failures for me. The third time might be the charm? In any case, I'm thrilled to see that my Ginkgo sprouts survived my absence. Thanks to Diana for looking after the watering in this New York City heat wave! And thanks Hiroshi for giving me yet another chance! See the keyword "Tree Project" for background posts, and Hiroshi's Hibaku site for the whole story.

June 28, 2010 Wow — perhaps? — I can't believe there's a sprout already. But here it is. I'm skeptical, however. It might not be a gingko. What is it supposed to look like? Picture from the Ginkgo Bilboa Pages I've been searching. This looks about right! And yes, now I think I've confirmed it. Here's a shot from another participant in the Tree Project: Ya-wen Chang. Ya-wen's photo of the gingko sprout. From the Tree Project. The Gingko Pages has lots of info on how to grow gingko trees from seeds. I'm sorry to say that I didn't follow any of these recommended germination methods. Yikes. I just put the seeds in the ground. But it's been so hot here lately that maybe nature is just doing what it has to do. I'm holding my breath! Hiroshi ~~ I hope it's going to work this time! I love the Tree Project ! Julie Walton Shaver kept a blog about her try at gingko too, complete with great photos and step by step instructions. Her...

I'm up again. Third try. Hiroshi's ginko seeds are in the dirt this week. A favorite project from this past year is Hiroshi Sunairi's Tree Project . I've documented two previous attempts at growing a seed from the hibaku trees in Hiroshima -- the trees that survived the atomic bomb. Unfortunately, both of those attempts ended badly (view those posts by clicking on the keyword "tree project"). But with Hiroshi's encouragement, I'm going for another attempt. This time I've planted ginko seeds. There are many reasons why this project appeals to me so much. I like the idea of new life generating from the ashes of the bomb site. I also like the idea of nurturing and relationality that is inherent to participation. As well, especially with these seeds, I like the memories that resurface and reconnect me to my South Korean childhood—in the backyard grew a centuries' old ginko that, according to legend, the young emperor played beneath. (The le...

Hiroshi gave me new seeds after my lovely persimmon went to sleep. (I'm still watering it, by the way, and keeping my fingers crossed that it will somehow come back to life; Hiroshi says nature is strong and unpredictable!) These are planatus seeds. They are fluffy and spindly, hard and soft simultaneously. The instructions are to mix the seeds with some soil, add some moisture, and then put them in a ziplock bag in the fridge. For two months. After that I'm supposed to dump the whole mixture into a small terracotta pot and keep it watered. And warm. So that'll be December in New York. I hope it'll be warm enough in the sun-room. The heat just came on last night and right now the entire apartment feels like a sauna, so presumably we'll have warmth enough to grow with. I still feel like a failure with the persimmon, but I'm happy to get another chance. The Planatus Orientalis, aka the Oriental Plane, is a fast growing deciduous flowering tree. If th...

I've arrived home to terrible news. After 12 days in China I didn't expect this. Over the summer I was away for 2 weeks at one point and my persimmon didn't look this bad. I'm very sad and disappointed. I have no idea what to do. Hiroshi wrote: If you water too much, the root can rot, so let's wait till the soil dries and hopefully the sprout can recover. Nature is strong, so let's see what will happen. Watering too much more than needed is always not a good idea. I always make sure to touch the soil before watering, so when it is completely dry, then I water. Sometimes, I dig my finger to see if there is any moisture, if inside of the soil is moist, then you do not need to water for couple of more days. Try this. I cross my fingers, HS Me too.

The persimmon sprout in my window is starting to unravel a long woody structure that has, until now, been curled and hidden beneath the leaves. For quite a while I haven't understood this twisty structure, why it had no leaves, why it was so convoluted, but now its purpose is emerging: I think it's going to be the trunk of the persimmon tree. Even though the sprout barely reaches above the tiny terracotta lip, I can see a tree taking shape. If you've been following Hiroshi Sunairi's Tree Project , either on his site or via my multiple posts about it (catch up by clicking the key word label "tree project"), then you'll applaud this development with me. If you're not up to speed yet, please take a look at Hiroshi's site to learn about this amazing, fun, and highly interactive project. My own involvement has brought me forward and taken me backward: I'm stretching my concept of the uses and possibilities of photography and, at the same time, conne...

Hiroshi wrote on his blog today that persimmon seeds are sprouting all over the place. The pictures are inspiring. Wonderful. I'm staring at my terracotta pot on the window sill and keeping my fingers crossed. Not green yet. Moist. Dark. Earth. Too moist? There are many ways to be an artist. As we wrap up the year, prepping for the exhibit and career day, framing and printing and sequencing, with acid stress so deep that you want to scream or cry or kick something...I hope there's time for a breath, someplace, a pause. You don't have to have it figured out right now. You are a work in progress. We all are. I'm writing this as much to myself as I am to you. What can it mean to be a photographer today? An artist? A journalist? A writer? A teacher? Let's try it this way: we're all photographers now. It's something we do. It's a way of knowing the world. Of knowing ourselves. Maybe, if we emphasize the conversation, we can understand both the “pictures” an...

At the Horticultural Society of New York on Friday I picked up my persimmon seed. I wrote about Hiroshi Sunairi's Tree Project back in March ( here ), and now I'm ready to start. Today it's time for the next step: Process 2: Planting the Seed Please use unglazed ceramic pots (regular terra cotta ones) so the soil can breathe and dry naturally. In plastic pots, the soil takes much longer to dry and there is a chance that the young roots can rot if watered too much. Set the pot near a window with plenty of sun. When they haven't yet sprouted, it is important to keep the soild moist all the time. Once they sprout, water only when the soil dries out, otherwise the roots can get too wet and rot. This is what Hiroshi writes on the instruction sheet that I picked up at the HSNY. I've re-typed it here to embed it in my nervous system. I've already learned something. As simple as that instruction is, I didn't know the difference between the plastic pots and the terr...

Hiroshi Sunari is giving trees to friends and artists who can engage a dream. About LEUR L'EXISTENCE * Tree Project , he says, The trees that still live from the time of the atomic bombing in Hiroshima are called, Hibaku trees (A-bombed trees). In 2009, tree doctor Riki Horiguchi gave me about 250-500 seeds of Round Leaf Holly, Persimmon, Chinaberry, Firmiana simplex, Japanese Hackberry, Jujube—trees that are the second or third generation of Hibaku Trees. I am going to give these seeds to people who are interested in planting them. These seedlings will be exhibited at The Horticultural Society of New York in Dec 2009. I'm amazed and comforted by Hiroshi's project. The idea is inspiring, literally, breath-giving. The spirit and the invitation are gently engaging, compelling, activating. The photographs are quiet, transparent, and honest. When I say that photography is a conversation, a way of knowing, a way of paying attention, I'm talking about Hiroshi's project. ...