A couple of posts ago, I was mentioning the experience so far having not been very exotic. I should be more careful when choosing my words. Today's experience was beyond exotic, beyond believable, beyond imagination. I'm so glad that David and Joe are traveling with me because they can corroborate what you're about to read. There is no exaggeration. My imagination is not sufficient to make up stuff like this.
After lunch, we met in the lobby to go over to the Xiang Sha Wan Art Palace to see where the exhibition would be and to deliver our prints. We were told it would be cold and to dress appropriately. I'm not sure it is possible to dress appropriately for -1°F.
From left to right: Yan Li, Mo Burkhart, Walt Stricklin, Joe Lipka, Chris Rauschenberg.
The hallways and lobby of the hotel are not heated. In fact, I understand the hotel is not normally even open this time of year so they've made accommodations specifically for us and this event.
I now know why I could not find Xiang Sha Wan on any map. It's not really a town, it's a tourist destination -- essentially a summer resort on the edge of the Gobi Desert. It's claim to fame are the so-called "singing sands" that make a mysterious noise when you slide down them. Based on the temperature, I won't be testing that theory.
To transport the summer tourists across the sand dunes they use four wheel drive jeeps. One of these pulled up in front of the hotel to take us to the art palace. Hmmm. . . It looked like it was something left over from perhaps the 1950s -- army surplus no doubt -- a small troop transport with rows of benches in the back to seat eight people. The windows were covered with plastic held firmly in place with duct tape, also looking like it had been applied in the 1950s. If it ever had shock absorbers, they are long since out of warranty. We piled in. I believe they took mercy on me because the floor in the back was about chest high and there was no way I was going to make it in there without the aid of the trampoline. I was awarded the front passenger seat. Good, I thought, innocently. For some reason I thought we were headed to town not out across the sand dunes for a ride that would have made Disney World proud.
For 3 miles we sped into the desert hanging on for dear life. No road, just a couple of tracks in the sand and across the frozen Yellow River. Up and down the dunes we went, bouncing and careening like Space Mountain meets the Gobi Desert. Suddenly, on the rise, we saw the mothership -- the dome of the yurt.
We all know the phrase "middle of nowhere." I can now say I've been there.
We were told this facility is a yurt -- a really big yurt. It's 100 m long and 30 m high and is essentially a giant frame covered in a vinyl- like skin. You may have noticed that in that last sentence or word "insulated" did not make an appearance. For a reason. There ain't none.
The scale of this place is difficult to comprehend. The structure to the right is a yurt within a yurt. It's actually a theater that seats 450 people. No kidding. The stage is roughly 20 m wide and maybe 25 m deep.
Notice the three rows of padded chairs in front for honored guests. All the other seats are round tubes of steel buried in the sand and then filled with sand. You sit in the sand. Sand is a big deal here.
The inside of the yurt is essentially no different from the outside except for the dome itself. Specifically, the floor is just the sand dune. Top of the yurt is translucent and allows a most wonderful soft light. I was fascinated by the beauty of this simple architecture.
Throughout the entire length of the building -- if you will allow me to use that word --were poles sticking up from the sand together with cross members tied with rope. This is where the artwork will hang. The polls themselves are some sort of juniper branch with the bark still attached. Quaint.
Speaking of sand, we early on a determined not to be too fussy about sand getting in our artwork.
Each of us had our prints with us ready to deliver. In this case, delivering them meant matting and framing them using workbenches conveniently supplied for us -- in the sand. We were each assigned a helper -- a useful member of the Chinese army who spoke no English. They do look good, however, in their white art gloves.
To make it easy for us Westerners, Chinese people often give themselves an American name which is so much easier for us to remember and pronounce. My helper (below) called himself Mark which quickly became Marko.
He was incredibly resourceful, energetic, and useful. It took about 2 1/2 hours for us to frame the show. Unfortunately, the mats for my prints had been cut to the wrong size so we affixed them to the plywood with photo corners and double-stick tape. And sand.
All in all, they turned out quite nicely -- a bit sandy -- but presentable. Once we had prepared each image, Marko ran them into the theater where the frames were finished with the installation of glass and hangers.
By the end of the day we were all tired and cold. Very cold. It was so cold inside the yurt that the water bottle in Joe's backpack froze.
A small point of pride. We few American photographers had tuckered out the Chinese army.
Needless to say, we were more than ready for the thrill ride back to the hotel. In the dark. At 30 miles an hour. Over the trackless sand dunes, and back across the frozen Yellow River. Weeeeeee!
Tomorrow we return for sequencing and final hanging. In the meantime my precious artwork will spend the night in the dark, subzero yurt. In the sand.
David and Joe can vouch for every word. You can't make this stuff up.
