As an overthinking, under-performing perfectionist, I keep trying to turn life into an epic poem. Why is it so hard to find a nice, clean, narrative arc to make sense of everything? For now, all I can offer are disjointed notes and thoughts and images that help me focus on my priorities: to connect with good people, to protect what is vulnerable, to do something, anything, for others and to stand firm in my values but calm in my heart.
What has happened:
So many lives in Western North Carolina have been devastated by the unprecedented and catastrophic flooding that came with the Hurricane of September 2024. In 5 days of rains before and through Helene it is estimated that 40 trillion gallons of water fell west of the Mississippi, with the mountains of Appalachia functioning as funnels into the rivers and creeks, alongside which our roads and towns are built. Our little downtown on the French Broad River in Marshall, NC does not have a single ground floor business left intact from one end of town to the other. In fact, one quarter of our 4 block Main Street is just gone, ripped right from the foundations. Among the losses are the Madison County Art Center, Flow Gallery, churches, coffee shops and bars, the dentist and mechanic, 4th generation hardware and general stores, our post office and town hall and the historic depot that held local bluegrass jams.
Historically creative people have often taken over industrial areas, drawn to large spaces and cheap rents, then elevating these neglected neighborhoods into something charming and special. Unfortunately, in this part of the world, those industrial areas lie mostly along the many rivers that thread throughout the mountains. The floods that rose more than 25’ over normal depths, took a disproportionate bite out of our creative soul here in the Blue Ridge Mountains around Asheville.
An awesome new song from Asheville's River Arts District (aka RAD) from Twentythree Skidoo
While I have lost some of my own work and income, my studio and home are a mile up from the river in Marshall, and I stayed dry. Even as one of the luckier ones, I’ve lost 2/3 of the remaining shows on my calendar this year and my hometown gallery in Marshall was inundated to the rafters with foul, muddy water (taking some of my pieces along with it). In Asheville, the River Arts District, which held 26 warehouses of art space and 300 artists, was 80% destroyed. Just one of those was the fiber collective Local Cloth, where I have taught my workshops. Grovewood Gallery which carries my work in Asheville was closed temporarily. Even on areas of higher ground, Asheville is still without potable water to this day. I was among many to lose work to the river, but lucky that it was only a selection of pieces and not my entire studio and inventory. It’s hard to feel sorry for yourself, when each day fills with supportive members of a community that rallies together to help the ones who lost it all.
This “1000 Year Storm” was on no one’s radar in these small mountain towns, and I don’t know of a single artist, property owner or small businesses here that had flood insurance. In the first days after the river rose by over 25', the locals swarmed to help each other dig out, tear down and grieve. I found myself in tears often as military helicopters buzzed constantly overhead on their way to help those still isolated in the far-flung homesteads scattered throughout the county. Aid poured in and generosity overflowed, even as we struggled with the sheer logistics of the abundance of food and water, diapers and clothing. Shuttling between these hubs I would pass battalions of National Guard, Army, FEMA, Red Cross, and the like. To reach my house I was often held up at the roadblock at the edge of Marshall directing the deluge of volunteers from far and wide, bringing their time and energy and effort to our immediate problems on the ground. Once as I waited, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for everyone while watching a gaggle of teenagers cross the road. It was a Charlotte football team, returning to their bus after a long day in hazmat suits and respirators, helping with the heavy, ugly clean-up work downtown.
Six weeks after the storm, the clean-up continues. Much of the town is now boarded over and drying out (at least where the buildings still stand) but the next challenge is different. As we assess the infrastructure and needs of these historic buildings, and the businesses that had stood in them, we need new tactics. The materials and expertise required to rebuild cost money. Pure and simple. Without insurance (and the relatively meager aid of FEMA), it is up to us to find a way to bring our town back. A fear on the periphery is that many of these areas have long held big developers and franchises at bay to protect the history and character of these communities, so what will happen if we can’t find a way to replace what we’ve lost? The spirit of the community is stronger than ever, but financial help is desperately needed, so we can live and create here, and welcome visitors once again to share the culture that makes it all special.
To help in one of the only ways I know, I have started my own little fundraising initiative I call Marshall Rising. 70% of the proceeds from each piece in this series, purchased from my website, will be donated directly to those affected locally and the organizations that support them. In this way we can both be a small piece of the solution.
In the eloquent words of my favorite author (on the day after the recent election) “…We can’t save everything all at once, but it’s still worth saving something. Because there are so many of us to do it.” -Barbara Kingsolver
The arts and artists who have worked so hard to build their lives in these beautiful, historic, mountain towns need your support. I hope to greet you here someday as a visitor or maybe as a student in one of my workshops. Thank you for contributing to the revitalization of this special part of the world.
On a personal note:
Since the election it feels like another disaster has come down upon us. We are all weary and grieving, but I remind myself that resignation is not surrender.
I am resolved in my perseverance, even while feeling utter lack of control over the equitable distribution of beauty and safety and opportunity in this country. I have no answers and don’t expect any, but as I wait for the churning sediment to clear, I continue to dwell on the metaphors in this life; how nature and humanity and love resurface in even an unrecognizable landscape.
In the disorienting days following hurricane Helene, the waters of the French Broad in Marshall are still opaque with mud. Gnarled jumbles of debris from lives upstream drape against the few standing trees on what was once the riverbank. And yet, I keep scanning the aftermath for moments of poetry.
That is the power of art; the shared search for meaning and consolation when you’ve lost sight of the once familiar banks.
I hope you’ll all stay with me on this journey. Art only has the value we assign to it, not just monetarily but in the sense of a shared value, which holds little meaning unless it is shared.
Thank you for sharing that vision and value with me, I feel comforted and honored by it.
Sincerely, Jaana
ps.
As an artist I have spent years trying to capture the beauty and bounty of nature. All the while, tugging uncomfortably at my subconscious, is the truth of the changing world around us. The mixed media piece "Postmodern Landscape" refers to this collective denial of climate change, acknowledging my discomfort as well as the responsibility I feel as one who wishes I could have seen, heard and acted differently, for a different outcome.
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