Tim Scotten

Things are fucked up. Even before Covid! Get your panties untangled with some geologic time. "Realism, compassion, hostility, Mother Nature, rage, spirituality in your very unique hard working tough no apologies way making art Herstory Energystory. Really gnarly" -Chris Johanson

A swan song for the factory age. Every autumn, a South America-bound colony of Vaux’s Swifts numbering in the tens of thousands enjoy a layover in a Portland, Oregon elementary school chimney. Sunset brings a vortex of swirling shapes, whose each tiny piece combines to form a hypnotic, ever-changing pattern; an equinoctial rhythm beats in every swoop of the organic overhead spiral. The defunct industrial chimney is our own demise, and yet the relentless, fluid choreography of the tiny migrants signals a new start, the turning wheel.

The Trojan Nuclear Power Plant, with its 499-foot tall cooling tower that loomed over its otherwise bucolic Columbia river setting, is the only commercial nuclear power plant ever built in the state of Oregon, at the cost of $450 million in the 1970's economy (almost 3 trillion dollars in today’s money). [...] "Portrait #2: Trojan" is a sublime representation of the surrounding environment leading dramatically up to the moment of demolition. Sam Coomes’ flawless score provides stunning sonic context for the happy ending of the Oregon nuclear skyline. The film is an effective prescription in prevention of politically-triggered anxiety and depression in post-modern Cascadia.

NO HANDS! NO BRAKES! NO CLOTHES! The True Story of the of the Yodeling Lesson, By Moe Bowstern, bicyclist: I was recently arrived in Portland from Chicago and always on my bike, delighted by this rainy city of manageable size and climate, generous, well-paved streets and hills! After the endless flat grind of the prairie city, hills were a daily thrill. I began teasing my way no-handed down Mississippi Hill, venturing further and further before seizing my handlebars. One morning I threw my leg over my bicycle with a bad case of the f*ckits, heading to the train station to bid a dear friend farewell, and I decided I just did not care. I stuck my chin into the wind and kept my hands off the handlebars all the way down. By the time I arrived exhilarated at Union Station, I no longer cared about my departing comrade; I could ride no-handed down Mississippi Hill! I was going to be fine! ...