Once upon a time, a cabin-full of girls set out on their first overnight camping trip. They were 11 and 12 and 13 years old, and crazed, and silly, and nervous, and a little wild. They hiked through the backwoods of Wisconsin, pausing to eat bagged lunches, take pee breaks, and dawdle. The day grew long, and the sun hot, the girls grew tired as their packs began weigh on them. With supplies and morale dwindling, a compass and a topographical map for guidance, they realized they were hopelessly and irredeemably lost. Apprehension prickled at the backs of their necks–perhaps they'd been wandering in circles, perhaps they were no longer in Wisconsin, perhaps they'd gotten lost before they'd ever really gotten started. Finally, out of the haze kicked up by their boots a clearing appeared beside which lay a blessed lake. Whooping and screaming with joy the girls threw off their packs and began to make camp, practicing their newly acquired outdoor skills. Some girls set to pitching tents, others to gathering water, while the final few began to lay out kindling and firewood for their campfire. Carefully constructing the Teepee wood-lay out of the abundance of dry woods and grasses around them they had forgotten their earlier trepidation, shucking it off with their backpacks. As the match was lit, a breeze began to blow, lifting the hair up off of their sweaty necks, and breathing vitality back into the ragged group. The breeze breathed vitality into the small and winking flame of the match, which in turn gave life to the campfire that would steal life from acres upon acres of forest surrounding it. Several moments passed, and several more–the girls could never know that the land they had decided to camp on was privately owned, they could never know that the forest they camped in was in the midst of one of its driest periods in 30 years, they could never know that they had mislaid their Teepee until they knew. The fire burst free from its bounds. It devoured the grasses and woods the girls had laid too large. The fire devoured, as if it could never be sated, the ground at the girls' feet, a tent, several backpacks, the clearing, and finally, 36-odd acres of protected Wisconsin forest. The girls tried to fight the fire; they tried to bring water from the lake, they tried to dump sand to suffocate it, one ran miles up the road to find a phone, they took sleeping bags, and tarps, and even the shirts they wore to the fire in a furious attempt to beat it back until it was clear there was nothing to do but stand back and gape in abject horror as the fire they had birthed consumed everything it touched. Some could not endure the sight and fell to their knees. Most cried. A few turned away and into the embraces offered up to each other. One–I–did not. I did not cry. I did not scream. I stood, trembling and soot-stained with my burned through t-shirt in my hands, and watched. 

Although we were cleared of any culpability, after all, we were just children, left neglected and unattended by our chaperones, we were forced to return to the burn site twice more. While embers still smoldered, we were made to stand and look upon the destruction we had so carelessly wrought. I grieved for what seemed to me a nearly limitless loss.

I thought the feeling, in the nearly twenty intervening years, was a memory. One rarely revisited, and rarely contemplated. When I walked into Paul Kasmin Gallery on 10th avenue in Chelsea, and into Roxy Paine's Farewell Transmission I found myself a trembling, 12 year-old again. Divided into three separate spaces were three separate scenes, the most poignant of which was entitled Desolation Row (2017). In the vein of table-top architectural models and grade-school dioramas, Paine presented a scene of complete and utter decimation that resonated deeply within my 12 year-old's heart. Spread over 13' lay a forest, burned out and devoid of any trace of life.

I was familiar with Paine's work, having interned at a gallery that hosted an exhibition of his some years back, where a swirling vortex of his "replicants" of mushrooms had been installed on a wall. As a lowly intern I was tasked with the privilege of sitting at reception, fielding questions from gallery goers, and, more often than not, castigating those who touched the uncannily life-like mushrooms sprouting from the wall. Paine is an enormously skilled craftsman, with the ability to transform inorganic materials into organic forms realistic enough to fool even the most astute observer. Indeed, I could hardly believe the mushrooms were made of polymers and paint until I held one in the palm of my hand. 

Roxy Paine's skill at recreating the natural world around us is the reason that Desolation Row delivered such a visceral blow to me as I entered the room in which it was displayed. I felt again, profoundly, the grief of having had a hand in similar, albeit real, destruction. Even though, weirdly, there was no smoke, no scent of char, nor any real consequence like those we had faced as campers. Glowing orange diodes strategically placed in felled trees gave the impression that the coals could be fanned and the fire could flare again at any moment. They frightened me. Paine's heartbreaking commentary on the perpetual struggle between man and nature, and man's drive to conquer the unconquerable left me breathless.