This semester I’m teaching a class on Literature and the Environment, and when I was reading John Muir’s descriptions of the pines in “A Wind-Storm in the Forests,” I noted the following passage: “The waving of a forest of the giant Sequoias is indescribably impressive and sublime, but the pines seem to me the best interpreters of winds. They are mighty waving goldenrods, ever in tune, singing and writing wind-music all their long century lives” and this next one shortly after:
I drifted on through the midst of this passionate music and motion, across many a glen, from ridge to ridge; often halting in the lee of a rock for shelter, or to gaze and listen. Even when the grand anthem had swelled to its highest pitch, I could distinctly hear the varying tones of individual trees,–Spruce, and Fir, and Pine, and leafless Oak,–and even the infinitely gentle rustle of the withered grasses at my feet. Each was expressing itself in its own way,–singing its own song, and making its own peculiar gestures,–manifesting a richness of variety to be found in no other forest I have yet seen.
Both passages reminded me of a trip I took to San Diego a couple of years ago, and an unusual series of artworks I encountered when I was there: Terry Allen’s TREES, a gorgeous installation at UCSD, part of the Stuart Collection. It also reminded me that I’d taken some pictures and video, which I’m sharing below.