SEPTEMBER 6, 2024 – Earlier this summer I constructed two wooden ramps to provide passage over two side-by-side fallen giants of the woods, each . . . two feet in diameter. The completed project looked simple enough, but in design and construction the operation required a fair among of engineering. As with most completed cabin projects, this one brought great satisfaction, though at this stage in the life of our woods, the Björnholm Trädgård (“tree garden”), I am the sole human being to use the ramps . . . er, was—until this past weekend, when a friend spent considerable time crossing, re-crossing, and standing on those wooden inclines.
The ramp project was simply foundational to a much grander undertaking that brought infinitely greater satisfaction: the design and construction of a “signage sculpture.” This had been the objective all along—a gateway sign at the entrance of the tree garden to replace the one that had been torn asunder when the two above-referenced arboreal leviathans crashed down last spring, uprooting one of the trees that had served as one of the posts for the original sign. I’d spent all summer considering possible replacement designs, and once the ramps were in place, it was time to convert ideas, concepts, drawings into reality.
As with the boat landing design-and-build project of last spring, the “sign sculpture” was part structural engineering and part architectural—expanding into areas of pure art and whimsy. The engineering part required adherence to some basic rules of mechanics and physics (call it “gravity”), such as, how much bracing is required to stabilize a vertical pine pole four inches in diameter? What diameter and length of lag screws—and how many—are advisable? The architectural plus art and whimsy were much looser. One could argue that color, balance, proportions operate within a framework of certain conventions, but half the fun and fulfillment associated with “pure” art comes with busting those conventions and doing the unexpected.
The sign itself was straight forward. I’d fashioned it from scratch several years ago, and it survived the Crash of the Leviathans unscathed, though its framework had been destroyed. I’d drawn and cut by hand, stencils for the letters and a stylized evergreen between “BJÖRNHOLM” and “TRÄDGÅRD.” I’d then used the stencils to paint the six-foot-long sign. The rest of my sign sculpture, however, could be absolutely anything that I wanted it to be.
When pursuing whimsical “arts and crafts” projects at the cabin—gnome homes, railing supports, etc.—I like to wander the woods in search of unusually shaped tree branches and design a project around what I uncover. In the case at hand, I encountered a birch that had died not long ago so that the wood wasn’t much compromised. I found a section of a limb with an unusual set of curves, and these anomalies gave me the idea of incorporating the birch piece somehow into the architecture of the sign. This possibility, however, led to other ideas involving other birch branches that I’d collected over time.
For posts, I searched the woods for standing dead pine of a suitable height and circumference, as well as condition—dead but not “too dead” (advanced meal for insects and micro-organisms). Somewhat ironically, of the scores to choose from across many acres of land, the perfect 14-foot-tall posts were red (Norway) pine that Cory and his friend Matt had helped me plant some 33 years ago when they were in kindergarten. The two trees were among eight or 10 (out of a total of 50 we’d planted) that had succumbed to a storm two or three years ago. The wood was still in great shape, and with nominal effort I hauled the two trees (sans branches) to my work site in the front yard of the Red Cabin. There I peeled, sanded, and treated (with a totally “green” (and expensive) preservative) the pine poles, then prepared to coat them with four rounds of high-gloss varnish to bring out the beautiful grain and contrasting colors in the wood. They—and the rest of the “sculpture”—are designed to last for many years beyond my own.
When last Saturday arrived—along with our guests, Jim and Bonnie—I had expected to put the project aside for the rest of the weekend. When Jim saw my work, however, he was immediately intrigued and offered to help varnish the poles, which were lying across two widely spaced sawhorses.
For the rest of their stay, Jim and I were immersed in the “sign sculpture.” I could not have found a better collaborator—other than Jim’s equal, I told him, our family’s close friend and “non-relative relative,” Ed Nilsson of Marblehead, Massachusetts, who, like Jim, happens to be an architect.
Jim retired from his architectural firm a couple of years ago, but retirement certainly didn’t turn off Jim’s architectural skills—or his native artistic sensibilities. He is an accomplished artist, as well as an architect, and his considerable repertoire of drawings and paintings is nothing short of astonishing. Another thing to like about Jim—as well as Ed Nilsson—is that his extraordinary skill, talent, accomplishment is shared graciously without ego or fanfare. I find that this is the case with many highly accomplished people. They are stars who shine on their own, versus “gaseous” planets like Jupiter and Saturn that appear as bright stars but are in fact merely reflecting the light of the sun.
To my delight Jim joined in my enthusiasm for the project—“enthusiasm” being a euphemism for “obsession.” Even during down times—meals, walks, boat trips, visiting on the dock along with Bonnie and Beth—I found myself talking about the sign sculpture. Invariably, Jim was just as eager to discuss it.
We both recognized that in the grand scheme of things or even in the most modest scheme of life, the sculpture project was no different from what football is to other people—or perhaps our work was of even less importance, because not a soul on earth cared about it except the two of us.
This acknowledgment led us down several long trails of intermediate difficulty in the State Park of Philosophy and the adjoining State Forest of Religion. When we emerged, our project seemed all the more fulfilling, just as one feels better off after completing a long, challenging hike along a plunging stream through an old growth forest.
With Jim’s critical assistance the sign sculpture progressed far beyond my expectations. He really was the perfect collaborator, offering ideas and perspectives that I hadn’t considered; validating whimsical notions that I proposed; encouraging me to reconsider others; providing a third and fourth hand when two were inadequate.
Multiple times I told him how very much I appreciated not only his assistance but on a much deeper level, his understanding of the metaphorical significance of the project. He knew exactly what motivated my efforts, to-wit: my love for these woods, for nature, for building something that challenges the mind and pushes the boundaries of creative possibilities; that encourages a person to look at the world from various angles and perspectives; that brings palpable satisfaction against the backdrop of life’s many profound and irresolvable struggles.
On the morning of Jim and Bonnie’s departure (and my own for the day to traipse back to the cities for my second annual follow-up appointment with the transplant doc), Jim was still as absorbed in the project as I was. When a question came up just before I had to leave, he said, “Do we have time to walk to the site?”
“Sure,” I said. And off we ran to check on railing placement.
For three days now, I’ve been on my own with the project and making further progress. Today’s highlight was fitting a sprawling piece of driftwood (Norway pine naturally and beautifully polished by water and stones) under the birch railing that I connected to one of the signposts yesterday. I’ve added other flourishes that I know Jim would approve.
In the middle of our work I told Jim that then and there I was commissioning him to draw/paint the completed sign sculpture for matting and framing and hanging inside the Red Cabin. In the meantime, however, I’ll need to finish project—in time to bud-cap about 1,000 pine seedlings and saplings against browsing deer before snow flies in the tree garden.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
