Interview with Patrice Vecchione

You discuss how stories and art can bring us together, how “you hand the poem to a friend…and the distance between you shortens.” That is true, and art, in all its forms, might be distinct in its power to bring us together. But can’t the exact opposite happen, too? Your friend might interpret your poem in a way you find distasteful or repugnant, or they could find it boring or even unreadable. Isn’t the fear of this very thing why it requires courage to share your art, especially with people you consider yourself close to?

PV: Even conflict is a way of getting close; it’s an experience of difficult intimacy. Say I hand that poem to a friend and she finds it repugnant (though I hope not!) that gives us something to talk about and through that process we may gain closeness. Also, if a piece of art is done skillfully and isn’t shared until it’s finished, there should be less opportunity for it to be misinterpreted, if the artist is clear in what she’s doing. (That’s, of course, not always the case.)

I have offended people in my life through sharing material they’d prefer not shared. I’m more careful about that now because though I have freedom to express whatever I like, I don’t wish to hurt those I love. But there are ways to cloak details that would embarrass. I was just at a poetry reading the other day and sat next to the poet’s girlfriend. He read a poem about what a slob she was. The woman turned so red!

Ultimately, by the time work is shared publicly there must be some distance between the experience that initiated the creating of it and the final work. Transformation occurs through making. The piece takes on its own identity, becomes itself, separate from the artist, at least to some degree. That’s part of the magic of art-making.

I liked hearing the story of how your father, after a lifetime of appreciating art, started making art in his old age. It’s a good reminder that it’s never too late. You write that, when he was younger, he “let go of art because he didn’t believe in his own possibility.” But I wondered what you meant by that. Did you think he let go of it because he didn’t believe in his ability to do it well, or was it that he didn’t believe in his ability to make a living off art?

PV: My father didn’t believe in his ability to make art; so, for the most part, he stopped himself before even putting brush to paper. Fear got the better of him. He failed himself and his dreams. Occasionally, he’d make something, especially if I asked. I’ll attach one of his bees. He died just a few months ago and his inability to create as he so desired is a big part of my feelings of loss. My father was the most creative thinker and the smartest person I’ve ever known.

When asked about writer’s block, the poet William Stafford said that he didn’t experience it because if he couldn’t think of anything to do or felt hesitant about his ability, he just lowered his expectations. I’ve followed that method. If we just get something on the paper, more will come. There is great power in beginning.

Throughout the book you take the reader to Jacks Peak Park. Since you live nearby, you are able to return again and again. It has trails rising and falling in dense woods, and vistas overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Do you find that familiarity breeds its own type of artistic inspiration? Has the inspiration you found in Jacks Peak Park changed over time, as you have grown to know it better? Do you think there is something about Jacks Peak Park, the particular form nature takes there, that speaks to you personally? Or was it just the form of nature that happened to be nearby when you fell in love with the natural world?

PV: Through knowing a place well we can relax there and the focus can come more inward. There I no longer question, “Which way?” or “What’s this plant?” Instead I can look more closely, notice more detail, more nuance. Though recently, just over the last three weeks, I’ve encountered bear scat, and not once, but several times. Most recently, last Monday, and that scat was very fresh and since I’d never heard of bears being there and had never seen their scat there previously, I got scared. The place lost some of its familiarity that day. Because of the bears’ evidence being there became new again. That was a good thing and a not so good thing—I don’t like being afraid. Now I have to work with that one, and I will.

There are a couple things about Jacks Peak Park that make it my walking place. I love the forest; the denseness of that environment, its shadows, the sense of layers all feed my imagination. Walking in a place where so little is exposed and so much is hidden allows me access to the tucked away within me.

On a more mundane level, the park is near where I live—only a ten-minute drive. I wish it was close enough that I could walk, but it’s not. A few months ago I discovered a nearer-by place, chaparral county, that I can walk to, so now I go there also, but it’s the forest that calls me most.

Your view of nature, in this book, is romantic. Nature, as you see it, is beautiful, elegant and authentic. You depict nature this away, even as you are aware of all the harm it can cause. Why do you think you are drawn to that interpretation? Does the dark side of nature—the death, the suffering, the selfishness, and the harsh indifference—not interest you? What do you think of books or art depicting the battle to survive in harsh natural conditions?

PV: Maybe I see nature romantically because I don’t live in a hut in the harsh desert. I get to go out into the forests and onto the meadows, and I return to my home with hot, running water and clean sheets on the bed. Also, nature is relatively new to me, a personal, daily relationship with the earth is; I didn’t grow up as a nature girl. My parents were city people.

The dark sides of nature, I’m not blind to them and do discuss them a bit in Step into Nature, but you’re sure right, I don’t hold my focus there. I think the difficult parts of life in both nature and the human-made worlds present themselves without out looking for them. I don’t need to shine a light on them, they do it well enough for themselves. In an effort to support readers in developing personal relationships with the earth to foster a deeper sense of self, a more holistic awareness of nature, and a strengthened imaginative life, I wanted to draw attention to the beauty and benefit, the richness of the natural world.

I’ve read plenty of the man-against-the-wilds books, they don’t hold my attention these days. I do admire those struggles and that necessary determination though.

You work in a number of mediums—you are a fine artist, poet and essayist. Do your projects complement one another, or are they separate? Do you find a single inspiration that prompts work across your various mediums? Does your work in one medium inspire changes to a way you approach another?

PV: Yes, one medium complements another. Different forms call at different time and each form—poetry, prose, collage, stitching—allows for unique ways of approaching the material. The other day I had a sense of a poem and then thought, oh, no, I want to take that into an essay instead for its broader approach. We’ll see what happens. Collage and stitchery because they are less linear allow me to explore what’s farthest below conscious thought. It’s all about translation though. How can I translate the experience I have of life—that mix of direct experience, thought, emotion, dream, body knowledge, etc—and give it form. For me, one form is not enough to hold my joy and curiosity.

What are some of your favorite works inspired by nature?

PV: I love the work of the poets I mentioned above and also James Wright, the ancient Japanese and Chinese poets, the work of Sappho and the writing of Franklin Russell. Painting is the art form that speaks to me in a more primary way than language. I love the work of O’Keeffe, Charley Harper, Emily Carr, Matisse.

Are there any natural wonders you haven’t seen yet, but imagine would be particularly inspiring to you?

PV: So many! I’m embarrassed to say, I’ve never been to the Grand Canyon, nor Alaska—two places I must go. Then there are those farther from home, like the Galapagos Islands.