Cessation of Breath: A Mechanical Meditation on the Moment Before Death
Finke, Steven. Cessation of Breath, detail.
I visited Steven Finke on his 38 Acres in Felicity, Ohio, where he has built his sculptural installation Cessation of Breath: A Mechanical Meditation on the Moment Before Death. He has been working on this piece for 13 years and, although still unfinished, he considers it his life work. He only allows a few to experience it, and the experience is not easily grasped or comprehended. The installation's meaning is largely what is revealed within each viewer. While Finke has labored to produce some impeccable sculptural works, his goal is to set the stage for viewers to experience their own meditation, and ultimately transformation.
Steven Finke is the Chair of the Sculpture Department at NKU. We met through a mutual friend; he later served on an artist panel for the Artisan's Enterprise Center in Covington, of which I am Director, where I became familiar with his work. After the panel, I received a card from him with the most intriguing images of his work; inside the card read, "An active meditation, experienced in solitude, The Cessation of Breath was created with the intention of providing a place for reflection on mortality, loss, and grief in the hope that this will lead to greater insight into the nature of life, connection with the environment, and inner peace." I promptly called him and asked if I would be able to come to see the work; he said that I could but that I would have to come alone, as it was a solitary experience. He also told me that I would have to bring a small offering to burn; whatever I chose was OK, but it had to have special meaning for me. I agreed and we set a date.
The experience began with Steven escorting me to a polygonal cabin he built by hand that was constructed of a lovely smelling wood and a metal frame that was painted dark green. There were multiple circular mariner windows on the cabin's walls. Steven said he would meet me again at the last stop and left me there. Once inside the cabin, I was alone. My senses were alight with new stimulation and a new consciousness grew out of the anticipation of my new surroundings. The first understanding of the work comes via the senses. The lovely wood smell was clean and my lungs opened willingly to the scene. I noticed there were ledges and handles affixed to the walls which were meant as pedestals for peering out of the higher windows, and there was also a free standing ladder against one of the walls. It could be moved to the center where it would meet another affixed ladder that seemed to afford access to an opening in the roof, secured by a metal latch. These appurtenances appeal to the child in us all.
Finke, Steven. Cessation of Breath, detail.
I hoisted myself on one of the pedestals and peered through one of the windows to see a framed view of the quiet forest. I felt encapsulated and secure in the cabin and this allowed for my movements to be thoughtful and deliberate; I quickly realized that my being was thrust wholly in the present moment. This realization gave me both joy and anxiety; it was a powerful feeling of awareness that washed over me and my emotions. The light was beautiful in the forest and my solitude provided an opportunity to see the most beautiful details, such as the magnificent texture of the trunks. The cabin in the forest brought to mind numerous children's fairy tales. My depth perception flattened, and the slopes of the land within the view of this rounded window, dotted with naked trunks, become gentle and still, almost as if the scene was allowing itself to be fully revealed to me, its stillness heightening the awareness of how perception develops. The dead leaves on the ground also captured my attention: their shapes, colors, and textures echoed the variety seen in the trunks. I was creating a landscape painting. Some of the fallen trunks were blanketed by these leaves in a deep slumber underneath their texture and only their forms could be detected, reminiscent of how art itself is created. This was a visually abundant feast, and I was moved, aware how beautiful life can be in death, on the cycles of life from the live foliage to the dead leaves.
I was saddened to think about my own mortality: I saddened as I thought about leaving this safe place, the cycle of life, yet aware of how much there is to experience, see, process, and perceive, yet these fearful thoughts were comforted in the surroundings that Steven had constructed. Each angle in the cabin placated the anxieties passing through my mind, and seemed to re-focus my energy to the beauty beyond the glass panels, to an awareness of the nature of Beauty itself. I kept this awareness of my thoughts conscious as I took turns peering out of the different windows, fascinated by each view, and of how Finke and Nature collaborated in this installation. I preferred the higher views as they seemed more pleasing to my eye, and so I dislodged one of the latches of the window and opened it (opening windows equated with opening consciousness). The most gentle and refreshing forest breeze entered the cabin. I noticed there were some dead and perfectly preserved moths on the window ledge as I opened it, marveling at their skeletal remains. In observing death in a quiet setting without bombardment of stimuli, we are able to see things that life's business prevents us from noticing. One particular moth had such a complex head and wing structure that I was able to see from its underbelly a truthful beauty in its corpulent decay, an important dialect within the work. I felt grateful to have the presence to spend time on these satisfying details.
I shut the window and looked around again; this time I looked up and thought to climb to the portal in the roof, anticipating the view. But as I reached the top, the latch was stuck and so I was disappointed for a brief moment. My disappointment was eclipsed when I saw the smallest of the windows offering beautiful views of the tree canopy from every angle. I stayed up there looking for a while, excited by the height. The changes and shifts in scale and perspective opening into different views strikes at the heart of the creative process—Nature's and Art's.
Finke, Steven. Cessation of Breath, detail.
I came down and inspected the items on the lower shelf; they seemed to be laid out for me. There was one small sculpture of a skeleton head attached to a handle and holding in its mouth (or protruding from its forehead) were three spindles with scribbly wire balls at the end. I later discovered that this skeletal shape is repeated in a lot of Steven's work. Without knowing its purpose, I accepted its mystery and picked up the other piece that looked to me as the perfectly preserved white-veined inner skin of Clementine or Mandarin orange. I marveled at the veins, delicate as they were. I then left the cabin and walked towards the path, letting Steven know I was on my way with a yell.
I walked over an unfinished bridge that crossed a dry stream path. It was constructed of metal and wood—another part of the experience that Steven is amazingly building by hand. I walked towards the second installation towards a higher area, wondering where the metaphor of higher ground might lead. The sculptural piece located there was stunning in its surroundings. Constructed of layered glass with a rough texture and encapsulated with a metal vine of thorns and a crown of skeleton heads, its color and construction contrasted starkly with the surrounding forest. A metal form that resembled a meaty flower or starfish had some message pressed into its surface; a message for the visitor, and it spoke to my experience exactly, of the visitor's 'naked awareness' and also promised to communicate something additional when relevant. I read it twice and took great comfort in its words. They somehow encapsulated my experience so far, and at the same time provided more space for reflection than I had yet acknowledged. I stayed beside this sculpture and looked out into the trees again. I was sure I saw an owl perched on a branch in the distance; but I do remember a feeling of connection in that space, coming from both the artist and surrounding nature. I then looked towards the third destination, the 'breathing machine' and saw Steven waiting there and began to walk in that direction.
The Breathing Machine was, upon first inspection, an impressive capsule. A lot of work went into this piece, and I was impressed with its craft. However, I was not able to wholly focus on this appreciation, because I was very excited and intrigued to see what it held inside. Steven, upon greeting me at this last stop, explained that I would be able to burn an offering by controlling the speed of the machine's breathing by turning a handle. When he unlocked the capsule, inside was a pair of iron lungs, a small furnace, and the handle that I would be using to control the speed. He also provided a box of matches and then left me with the machine.
Finke, Steven. Cessation of Breath, detail.
I reached inside my purse and took out my offering. I placed it in the furnace, then struck the match and lit the kindle. As I stoked the fire, I turned the handle, slowly, and began to hear the machine inhale and exhale. The sound echoed a human slumber, calming and soothing my ears. As the kindle caught fire, there was smoke generated and its smell also soothed me. I was wholly engaged in this process of turning the handle and managing the fire. There was something poignant in having control over the speed of the breath. Somehow the boundary between visitor and sculpture melted and I felt very much part of the piece, integrated with machine and nature, and now part of the act of creation. This unifying aspect of the participation was very satisfying and I felt connected and empowered, as if I were part of something much larger than myself. As my offering burned, in its death there was a feeling of renewal. This breath continues although my offering had long been consumed. The fire continued and then slowly faded. Even though I did not want the fire to go out, as it did, I felt a sense of completion and renewal.
As I walked away, I was without anxiety and instead of focusing on fear, my energy was directed towards inspiration and acceptance. Ascension and transcendence had been achieved through completion of this experience. To be invited to embrace death rather than fear it is an enabling process indeed. I am truly impressed by Steven's work and his sensitive awareness of these perspectives. His ability to communicate through sculpture is a testament to his skill, his awareness, and his understanding of the interactions between nature and art. In such a setting they provide a personal awareness of complex processes and metaphysics. The Brothers Grimm meet Zen Buddhism. These connections are sophisticated, reminiscent of the acts of creation and destruction underlying most eastern religion and philosophy.
Few contemporary artists are so wholly aware of their viewers whilst simultaneously reducing the visible presence of self in their work. In a world preoccupied with the solitary journey, it is comforting to be reminded of our commonalities. These are brilliantly truths in Steven's solitary sculptural installation, a journey filled with epiphanies.
Finke, Steven. Cessation of Breath, detail.
I visited Steven Finke on his 38 Acres in Felicity, Ohio, where he has built his sculptural installation Cessation of Breath: A Mechanical Meditation on the Moment Before Death. He has been working on this piece for 13 years and, although still unfinished, he considers it his life work. He only allows a few to experience it, and the experience is not easily grasped or comprehended. The installation's meaning is largely what is revealed within each viewer. While Finke has labored to produce some impeccable sculptural works, his goal is to set the stage for viewers to experience their own meditation, and ultimately transformation.
Steven Finke is the Chair of the Sculpture Department at NKU. We met through a mutual friend; he later served on an artist panel for the Artisan's Enterprise Center in Covington, of which I am Director, where I became familiar with his work. After the panel, I received a card from him with the most intriguing images of his work; inside the card read, "An active meditation, experienced in solitude, The Cessation of Breath was created with the intention of providing a place for reflection on mortality, loss, and grief in the hope that this will lead to greater insight into the nature of life, connection with the environment, and inner peace." I promptly called him and asked if I would be able to come to see the work; he said that I could but that I would have to come alone, as it was a solitary experience. He also told me that I would have to bring a small offering to burn; whatever I chose was OK, but it had to have special meaning for me. I agreed and we set a date.
The experience began with Steven escorting me to a polygonal cabin he built by hand that was constructed of a lovely smelling wood and a metal frame that was painted dark green. There were multiple circular mariner windows on the cabin's walls. Steven said he would meet me again at the last stop and left me there. Once inside the cabin, I was alone. My senses were alight with new stimulation and a new consciousness grew out of the anticipation of my new surroundings. The first understanding of the work comes via the senses. The lovely wood smell was clean and my lungs opened willingly to the scene. I noticed there were ledges and handles affixed to the walls which were meant as pedestals for peering out of the higher windows, and there was also a free standing ladder against one of the walls. It could be moved to the center where it would meet another affixed ladder that seemed to afford access to an opening in the roof, secured by a metal latch. These appurtenances appeal to the child in us all.
Finke, Steven. Cessation of Breath, detail.
I hoisted myself on one of the pedestals and peered through one of the windows to see a framed view of the quiet forest. I felt encapsulated and secure in the cabin and this allowed for my movements to be thoughtful and deliberate; I quickly realized that my being was thrust wholly in the present moment. This realization gave me both joy and anxiety; it was a powerful feeling of awareness that washed over me and my emotions. The light was beautiful in the forest and my solitude provided an opportunity to see the most beautiful details, such as the magnificent texture of the trunks. The cabin in the forest brought to mind numerous children's fairy tales. My depth perception flattened, and the slopes of the land within the view of this rounded window, dotted with naked trunks, become gentle and still, almost as if the scene was allowing itself to be fully revealed to me, its stillness heightening the awareness of how perception develops. The dead leaves on the ground also captured my attention: their shapes, colors, and textures echoed the variety seen in the trunks. I was creating a landscape painting. Some of the fallen trunks were blanketed by these leaves in a deep slumber underneath their texture and only their forms could be detected, reminiscent of how art itself is created. This was a visually abundant feast, and I was moved, aware how beautiful life can be in death, on the cycles of life from the live foliage to the dead leaves.
I was saddened to think about my own mortality: I saddened as I thought about leaving this safe place, the cycle of life, yet aware of how much there is to experience, see, process, and perceive, yet these fearful thoughts were comforted in the surroundings that Steven had constructed. Each angle in the cabin placated the anxieties passing through my mind, and seemed to re-focus my energy to the beauty beyond the glass panels, to an awareness of the nature of Beauty itself. I kept this awareness of my thoughts conscious as I took turns peering out of the different windows, fascinated by each view, and of how Finke and Nature collaborated in this installation. I preferred the higher views as they seemed more pleasing to my eye, and so I dislodged one of the latches of the window and opened it (opening windows equated with opening consciousness). The most gentle and refreshing forest breeze entered the cabin. I noticed there were some dead and perfectly preserved moths on the window ledge as I opened it, marveling at their skeletal remains. In observing death in a quiet setting without bombardment of stimuli, we are able to see things that life's business prevents us from noticing. One particular moth had such a complex head and wing structure that I was able to see from its underbelly a truthful beauty in its corpulent decay, an important dialect within the work. I felt grateful to have the presence to spend time on these satisfying details.
I shut the window and looked around again; this time I looked up and thought to climb to the portal in the roof, anticipating the view. But as I reached the top, the latch was stuck and so I was disappointed for a brief moment. My disappointment was eclipsed when I saw the smallest of the windows offering beautiful views of the tree canopy from every angle. I stayed up there looking for a while, excited by the height. The changes and shifts in scale and perspective opening into different views strikes at the heart of the creative process—Nature's and Art's.
Finke, Steven. Cessation of Breath, detail.
I came down and inspected the items on the lower shelf; they seemed to be laid out for me. There was one small sculpture of a skeleton head attached to a handle and holding in its mouth (or protruding from its forehead) were three spindles with scribbly wire balls at the end. I later discovered that this skeletal shape is repeated in a lot of Steven's work. Without knowing its purpose, I accepted its mystery and picked up the other piece that looked to me as the perfectly preserved white-veined inner skin of Clementine or Mandarin orange. I marveled at the veins, delicate as they were. I then left the cabin and walked towards the path, letting Steven know I was on my way with a yell.
I walked over an unfinished bridge that crossed a dry stream path. It was constructed of metal and wood—another part of the experience that Steven is amazingly building by hand. I walked towards the second installation towards a higher area, wondering where the metaphor of higher ground might lead. The sculptural piece located there was stunning in its surroundings. Constructed of layered glass with a rough texture and encapsulated with a metal vine of thorns and a crown of skeleton heads, its color and construction contrasted starkly with the surrounding forest. A metal form that resembled a meaty flower or starfish had some message pressed into its surface; a message for the visitor, and it spoke to my experience exactly, of the visitor's 'naked awareness' and also promised to communicate something additional when relevant. I read it twice and took great comfort in its words. They somehow encapsulated my experience so far, and at the same time provided more space for reflection than I had yet acknowledged. I stayed beside this sculpture and looked out into the trees again. I was sure I saw an owl perched on a branch in the distance; but I do remember a feeling of connection in that space, coming from both the artist and surrounding nature. I then looked towards the third destination, the 'breathing machine' and saw Steven waiting there and began to walk in that direction.
The Breathing Machine was, upon first inspection, an impressive capsule. A lot of work went into this piece, and I was impressed with its craft. However, I was not able to wholly focus on this appreciation, because I was very excited and intrigued to see what it held inside. Steven, upon greeting me at this last stop, explained that I would be able to burn an offering by controlling the speed of the machine's breathing by turning a handle. When he unlocked the capsule, inside was a pair of iron lungs, a small furnace, and the handle that I would be using to control the speed. He also provided a box of matches and then left me with the machine.
Finke, Steven. Cessation of Breath, detail.
I reached inside my purse and took out my offering. I placed it in the furnace, then struck the match and lit the kindle. As I stoked the fire, I turned the handle, slowly, and began to hear the machine inhale and exhale. The sound echoed a human slumber, calming and soothing my ears. As the kindle caught fire, there was smoke generated and its smell also soothed me. I was wholly engaged in this process of turning the handle and managing the fire. There was something poignant in having control over the speed of the breath. Somehow the boundary between visitor and sculpture melted and I felt very much part of the piece, integrated with machine and nature, and now part of the act of creation. This unifying aspect of the participation was very satisfying and I felt connected and empowered, as if I were part of something much larger than myself. As my offering burned, in its death there was a feeling of renewal. This breath continues although my offering had long been consumed. The fire continued and then slowly faded. Even though I did not want the fire to go out, as it did, I felt a sense of completion and renewal.
As I walked away, I was without anxiety and instead of focusing on fear, my energy was directed towards inspiration and acceptance. Ascension and transcendence had been achieved through completion of this experience. To be invited to embrace death rather than fear it is an enabling process indeed. I am truly impressed by Steven's work and his sensitive awareness of these perspectives. His ability to communicate through sculpture is a testament to his skill, his awareness, and his understanding of the interactions between nature and art. In such a setting they provide a personal awareness of complex processes and metaphysics. The Brothers Grimm meet Zen Buddhism. These connections are sophisticated, reminiscent of the acts of creation and destruction underlying most eastern religion and philosophy.
Few contemporary artists are so wholly aware of their viewers whilst simultaneously reducing the visible presence of self in their work. In a world preoccupied with the solitary journey, it is comforting to be reminded of our commonalities. These are brilliantly truths in Steven's solitary sculptural installation, a journey filled with epiphanies.
