Under the Magnifying Lens

Nitobe Memorial Garden (UBC)

I recently tasked myself with composing miniature scenes out of beeswax candles, inspired by everyday life and the aesthetics of the spaces I inhabit. Whether it be nearly forgotten memories of a large tree that sat atop the hill in my backyard or the unforgettable scenes of walking through Nitobe garden at the sun's peak with no one else around.

Without a formal art background, "daunting" is not a big enough word to describe the feelings associated with composing an artwork for a perceptive audience. However, after conceptualizing what values and messages I wanted to convey in my pieces, even without a formal art background it's as if the next steps came naturally. While I thought the difficulty would lie in working with a new medium and with an explicit artistic intent that I had not explored in this way, the true difficulty came after.

The relief I felt when I completed my miniature scenes was quickly overshadowed by the realization that there was no good way to document, or photograph, my work. It was not a painting that could be photographed head one; it was not a drawing that could be scanned; and it was not a story that could be read. While carving the beeswax and molding each scene, the candles were pressed against my cheek. One eye closed the other squinting, desperately trying to carve every minute detail. Details that cannot be captured from afar.

While I tried my best to capture every detail, every texture, and every hidden path in my photographs, I was resigned to the irony of the situation. The lens that my audience would be seeing my artworks through was the same muted lens I typically use to experience the spaces these miniature scenes were based on. I'd like to think I used nothing but a discerning eye while walking through Nitobe or re-imagining that tree in my backyard. But in truth, I have been distant in both. I could tell you the history of Nitobe; the significance and the stories of its sprawling paths; why its murky waters are by design; the reason a bridge must be arched; and the beauty of its conservation efforts.

However, I could not tell you what lies in between the moss and gravel pathway; the unseen ecosystem under the pond's surface; the animals that nest in the trees; or the bugs that maintain the soil. In general, the value of these things is diminished in the face of what can easily and obviously be observed. It was far easier to attribute a value, primarily aesthetic in this case as the observer, to the things and the image of Nitobe that I could see from afar. Maybe if I had crouched down or knelt next to the moss my perspective would have changed.

After sitting down and looking at the photographs of my work, I couldn't help but feel bittersweet. I created these scenes from up close. Closer than any camera could have gotten. Will the pathways between the trees be visible enough? Will they see every handmade detail on the tree tops and bushes? Will they understand that these scenes are more than just scenes of wax? Or will they use the same distant eye I have unconsciously used in the past?

The lesson of this experience is one that I already knew in theory. And likely one that others know as well. I've realized that not only should I take a second look when exploring a space, but I should revisit it again and again in different ways. Until I can't find a new perspective or something new to focus on. I doubt it's possible to reach that point, and couldn't be more grateful. This isn't burdensome and it doesnt require more effort than I have already been willing to give. It requires that I shift and maintain my intent. As obvious as this feels to me in hindsight, it was too easy to lose sight of with too regrettable of an outcome.

Close-up of tiny mushrooms on a log. (Vancouver)

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Commentary inspired by the OALA (Ontario Association of Landscape Architects) Seen/Unseen Winter 2023 Issue 64