Posy Stone’s “Curious Worlds: The Art and Imagination of David Beck”

My notebooks are filled with introductions: especially during the summer months, when I welcome and introduce dozens of speakers to COA.  I spend a lot of time on such pieces.  The goal? Rather than recreate someone’s CV in oral form, I strive to say something useful about the accomplishments and interests of the guest in question and creatively link those back to the mission of the college.  I’m not always successful in doing that, but I felt particularly good about my introduction of filmmaker Olympia “Posy” Stone and her new film on the sculptor David Beck. 

Filmmaker Posy Stone and Sculptor David Back at COA, August 10, 2015

Filmmaker Posy Stone and Sculptor David Back at COA, August 10, 2015

When this college was founded we were fixated on saving the world. Today we understand that the world will outlast our existence and, over the long haul, be just fine. The question has evolved: how can we be part of a better world – one that’s more just, healthy, more thoughtful, and more beautiful?

Science is key for understanding the tradeoffs we face. Business, long considered the source of the problem, we now understand as part of the solution. Policy or government: clearly also part of the equation.   But, in my eyes, finding our place in the world begins and ends with art; it begins and ends with tapping the curiosity, motivations, priorities, and the patient observation of the artist and the lover of art.

Posy let me take a sneak peek of tonight’s film and that viewing changed the way I think about the world. Most importantly, it underscored that, in art, everything can be interesting. Everything can be interesting provided we develop the mental and the manual competence necessary to understand the world around us. David Beck and Posy Stone both exemplify people who have cultivated the sense that everything is interesting.

If we all cultivated this sense, our motivations for living and our relationship with humanity and with the planet would be realigned and would be better. It took the artist, in this case David Beck, to underscore that for me. But it also took a storyteller, and Posy Stone is one of the best storytellers I know.

Posy is a storyteller and a filmmaker. I also think of her as an archaeologist.

Imagine the world of living artists and their artistry – thousands of living artists and mountains of interesting work. Posy could have chosen anyone, but she did what archeologists call a site survey and chose to excavate on David Beck.

But once in the right trench, she faced the task of troweling through David’s life and work and likely ended up with 80 hours of raw material. She then sieved, brushed, reexamined, and analyzed the raw material to put together an amazing story.

She performed that archaeology of ideas on the sculptor Elizabeth King; and on her father, Alan Stone, in the film The Collector. Two years ago, Posy came here and screened The Cardboard Benini – a film on Jimmy Grashow.

During that showing it clicked for me that, with films about art, you’re examining the process of a storyteller —  the filmmaker — superimposed upon the process of another storyteller — the artist. If those gears aren’t synched up perfectly, the film is either terrible or it simply documents. In Posy’s films the synchronized storytelling comes together so beautifully that you get so much more than a documented story about an artist or a piece of work or a collector. You get completely new information, new insight, new ideas that neither the artist nor the filmmaker could ever have produced independently. The product is compounded.

I’m so honored to have Posy and David here and am so excited to see what new information and new ideas and new stories you see through this tremendous film. Please welcome Posy Stone who will introduce Curious Worlds: The Art and Imagination of David Beck.

40for40 Expedition: Instructions for Support Vehicle

On Thursday morning at 1:30am I’ll begin what I’ve come to call a “mission-appropriate stunt,” a trans-Mount Desert Island hike that will cover 43 miles and to the summit of 40 peaks. I’m doing it for fun, yes, but also to help inspire COA alumni to make a donation to our annual fund.  Upon hearing the idea, one generous alumna pledged $40,000 of support IF a) we pass the 40% mark and b) I complete the hike.  The walk will be supported by a vehicle and driver (COA student Ursa Beckford).  Here’s the itinerary.  I’ll be using #40for40 as a way to mark my progress.

40for40 Expedition, V.3.

Instructions for Support Vehicle

  • Wake up at 1:00am, drive to Eagle Lake Road to grab DC at 1:25am, depart for launch at 1:30
  • Drive to Seal Cove Road and take first left; at split drop DC off. He runs up to Bald Mountain-1 and back – shouldn’t take longer than 15 min.
  • At 2:15 DC back in car and drive to Western Ledge Trail, drop DC off by 2:30am. He leaves to do Bernard Mtn.-2, Knight Nubble-3, Mansell-4, Beech Mtn-5, Beech Cliffs-6.
  • 5:00am, be at end of Beech Hill Rd, Beech Hill parking area. He will be coming down from Beech Cliffs and should be at bottom by 5:15.
  • Drive with DC to Flying Mtn. drop off at end of Fernald Point Rd. Recharge watch and phone during trip. Refuel/water/food/rest.
  • 5:45am DC begins Flying Mt-7, Valley Peak-8, St Saveur-9, and Acadia Mtn.-10 stretch.
  • Be at Acadia Mt. TRAILHEAD (not Echo Lake Cliffs parking) by 7:00am.
  • DC should be down to car by 7:30. Drive from there to Norumbega Mtn. Parking area. Recharge watch and phone during trip. Refuel/water/food/rest.
  • DC scampers up goat trail to Norumbega-11 summit and back down. It should be a 45 min round trip; then drive DC to Parkman Mtn. entrance across street. DC heads off at 8:30am.
  • DC does Bald Peak-12, Parkman Mtn.-13, Gilmore Peak-14, Sargent Mtn.-15, Penobscot Mtn.-16, Cedar Swamp Mtn.,-17 and Eliot Mtn.-18
  • Pick DC up at Rt. 3. ELIOT MTN TRAILHEAD near Rales home on Rt. 3. Be there at 11:00am; this could be a point where timing is tough, DC should be there between 11:00-12:00am
  • At 11:30 take off from trailhead and drive down Rt. 3 to Day Mtn. Parking. Recharge watch and phone during trip. Refuel/water/food/rest.
  • At 12:30, DC takes off to do Day Mtn.-19, The Triad-20, Pemetic Mtn.-21, South Bubble-22, North Bubble-23, Conners Nubble-24.
  • Be at CONNERS NUBBLE TRAILHEAD W/DARRON’S BIKE by 2:00pm.
  • DC heads off by bike by 3:00 toward Breakneck Ponds, hides bike in spot, Bushwhacks Brewer Mtn.-25, and comes back, rides to Breakneck Ponds, bushwhacks McFarland Mtn.-26 and Youngs Mtn.-27, gets back on bike and rides back to Eagle Lake Parking lot.
  • Pick up DC at Eagle Lake Parking Lot at 5:30pm, and drive to foot of Great Hill.
  • DC bushwhacks up and down Great Hill-28. Pick up DC and drive to Kebo Mtn. trailhead. Drop DC off after recharge/rest/food/water by 6:30pm.
  • DC leaves car for Kebo Mtn.-29 by 7:00pm and then does Dorr Mtn.-30 and Cadillac Mtn.-31. DC drops down to Tarn.
  • Check in on DC at The Tarn Parking lot, he should be there by 9:00pm.
  • DC crosses street and does Huguenot Head-32 and Champlain Mtn.-33, Halfway Mtn.-34, Gorham Mtn.-35, and The Beehive-36,
  • It’s dark. Meet DC at The Beehive trailhead, across from San Beach with bicycle; about 11:30
  • DC rides north to head up and down Enoch Mtn.-37 then rides to ANP Entrance station.. Should be there by 12:30pm.
  • Drive DC to Great Head parking. DC does an out and back of Great Head-38; back by 1:00am
  • Drive DC to Murray Lane trailhead, DC does and out and back of Cranberry Hill-39; back by 1:20am
  • Drive to Bar Harbor. DC crosses the bar (low tide, midnight) and climbs summit of Bar Island Summit-40 by 2:00am.

My Mount Desert Island High School Commencement Address

On Sunday, June 14th, I had the privilege of giving the commencement address to the graduating seniors of MDI High School.  It was a beautiful day and a beautiful ceremony.  You should note that I did a solid job acting out the “corn planting” scene I describe as “story two!”

"May I present to you, the class of 2015!"

“May I present to you, the class of 2015!”

Hi everyone. It’s another beautiful day on the most beautiful island in the world. I won’t soon forget the moment a few weeks back when I heard David Anderson’s message on my office phone asking if I’d be up for giving this talk. I was touched and honored.

It meant so much to me personally and, institutionally, for the College of the Atlantic, because being asked says a lot about the strong and growing relationship between COA, the local schools, and MDI as a whole.

A handful of seconds after those feelings of pride and honor, a wave of panic swept over my body.

I give lots of talks, so it wasn’t about speaking in front of people. But, let’s be honest, commencement speeches most often fail miserably – I’d put the failure rate at 95%. Most fail, not because they’re rude or wrong, but because they’re forgettable. Despite weeks of deep thought by the speaker, by the time graduates toss their caps in the air everyone has completely forgotten the message delivered. Everyone.

Now, I have an eighth-grader — Maggie Collins — who will be coming to MDI High next year and when I told her this – that most speeches fail because they’re simply not memorable – she said, “Dad – please fail. Please be unmemorable. Whatever you do, do not make it so people remember your talk.” Poor Maggie.

In an effort to find my way into that small percentage of memorable, good talks, I took the anthropological approach and went to the MDI prom, you know, to try and get to know students a bit more. Maggie was of course mortified by this and, to be honest, I felt a bit creepy.

At that event I asked a few administrators, “Who gave the best MDI high school commencement address?” and the universal response was “Eddie Monet – Diver Ed.” They recalled how Eddie showed up on stage in his dry suit, which he of course inflated, and I’m guessing proceeded to deflate through the neck gasket and in the process emit the loudest, longest piece of flatulence the island has ever heard. But I’m willing to bet Eddie was also a success because he was insightful without lecturing; he didn’t patronize folks, didn’t wave fingers, didn’t pretend to have the answers to all the problems you’ll run into after high school.

Believe me, if Eddie or I had such answers we’d definitely share them. The fact is, no one knows.

There’s just not a straight line between where you are now and where you ought to be a few years from now. There’s not a clean break between success and failure, between great and mediocre. The world is a complex and confusing place and it’s becoming increasingly complex and confusing every year.

40-50 years ago, people giving commencement addresses had it easy. You graduate. Get a job. Have a family. Retire after 40 years with the same company and with savings. There, that’s success.

Perhaps the only absolute truth I can offer today is that, at 45 years old, I have absolutely no idea what the world’s going to look like 27 years from now when you’re 45. No idea.

In writing this talk I came to think there should be law banning anyone older than 25 from giving commencement speeches. At least at 25 you can say “Hey, my high school experience was X, my experience immediately thereafter was Y, and this, Z, is what I see as the causality.” I thought about ending the talk right there as a public protest: let’s STOP middle-aged and older people from giving commencement addresses. But that wouldn’t be fair.

Instead, I’m going to tell three stories.

Story number one occurs between my junior and senior year of high school, in a remote corner of Idaho. I was sixteen and I had a wicked mullet.

I was part of a group of six student volunteers and two counselors working with a program called the SCA – the Student Conservation Association. It’s a program that puts kids to work in harsh conditions and for no pay out in the national parks or national forests – kind of like a child labor camp.

It was my first experience with the open West, but it was also my first experience with work. Now, I wasn’t some spoiled rich kid, I’d done things to earn money. I worked the counter in the New Jersey Video Vault growing up. But this was different.

We were building two miles of barbed wire fence to keep cows out of a stream and we did it with hand tools. Digging post holes through rocks. Stretching chain with hand-powered come-a-longs, etc.

If the two counselors were softies, we probably could have kicked around in the dirt for a while and called it success – a day of personal, inward journeys. But Harold and Gail Lindebo were not soft. They were hard-core back to the landers from the Boundary Waters and they worked us to death. They were also very smart, very thoughtful and were two of my earliest mentors.

We finished our two miles of fence a week before schedule and were assigned to another fence-building project in a different watershed where they wanted this jackleg fence. I’d generally worked my butt off and the Lindebo’s liked me – I liked to think I was their favorite. But at one point in the jack-leg process I was standing around, just kind of scratching, and Harold came up to me and said with a verbal slap to the back of the head, “Darron – what the hell are you doing standing around – get working.”

And I said, “I don’t know what to do – you never told me what to do.”

In a way that left this deep, psychic scar Harold said to me “Darron, I thought we’d moved past that. Not everyone’s going to lay everything out for you. Sometimes you need to assess what needs to be done and give it a go without being told.”

I’ve never forgotten that ten-second snippet. Never.

Story two occurs twelve years later. I was finishing up my PhD in anthropology and my wife Karen and I were living in northern Guatemala where I was doing my dissertation fieldwork among the Q’eqchi’ Maya, a group of Mayan-speaking farmers.

Corn is the lifeblood of these folks – it’s ubiquitous in the landscape and the language. A family without a stable supply of corn is a desperate family; the yearly cycle is dominated by the preparing of fields, the planting, the weeding, the harvesting. Corn sets the pace and the direction of their lives. Those of you who participated in the Guatemalan experience here likely saw that.

Because I was interested in plants and I’d worked hard to learn the Q’eqchi’ language, and because Karen and I had spent enough time there, I got invited to plant corn.

I’d never planted corn before.

I was given a burlap sack full of seed. I was given a digging stick. I was given instruction: Take a step, drive the digging stick into the loam to open up a nice hole in the ground. Drop four seeds in – not three, not five. Kick over some soil on top, just so. Take another elongated step, repeat.

There were, I’d say, about fifty of us. All guys, because men did the planting. We’d started the day with loads and loads of coffee, tamales, some alcohol and were now perched on this great hillside in the hot April sun. I was in the middle, with planters on the downhill and uphill side of me. The patriarch of the group stood next to me and almost imperceptibly nodded his head and everyone somehow knew to begin.

I went, faltered, staggered, dropped five seeds and only one found the hole; I fell and rolled over, almost down the hill; stood up, erratic; a total disaster. The caffeine, the corn-based beer, the heat, the ineptitude all focused on me with laser-like attention and knocked years worth of chips that had accumulated on my shoulder.

After fifteen minutes of intense attention but complete failure I looked up to get my bearings and there stood fifty guys bent over with laughter – all at the other side of the field – watching as I helplessly stood there. It wasn’t a mean-spirited laughter, for the most part, and with practice and through mentoring by the community, I eventually got pretty good at the task. But that’s not the point.

The point rests in the power of experience, especially experiences where you throw yourself into some very, very uncomfortable and awkward situations, experiences that rip you out of your present body and somehow magically return you to a state of childhood. Such experiences have a tremendous impact on your make-up of as a human being – they also thicken your skin and, wow, with the way we coddle kids today, humanity needs thicker skin.

Story 3 begins in June of 1984, the summer before my freshman year at Parsippany Hills High School in New Jersey, right next to the Video Vault.

My cousin, who was the closest thing I had to a sibling, took me aside one day and, I’ll never forget it, told me explicitly, “Listen, Darron, you are going to public school, and if you want to be the first in your family to go to college, whatever you do, don’t sign up for any of those silly shop classes – they’re a waste of time and are for losers.”

Now this makes my poor cousin sound like a complete jerk; he’s a great guy and I love him to death – what did he know? But I listened to him. I listened to him with the same reverence I had for Harold and Gail Lindebo while out in Idaho.

And, from that point forward, there was this strange, powerful, and completely fictional divide between work done with your hands and work done with your mind, where the former was bad and something to be avoided and the later was the mark of success.

Fast-forward 25 years to when I decide to purchase this unbelievably beautiful truck I name Scarlett – a 1985 Toyota Land Cruiser FJ-60. She’s parked outside and you’re perfectly welcome to come grab a photo with her after the event. By then that belief in the beauty of mind work over handwork had thankfully eroded away – at least intellectually.

Not more than a month after that purchase, I’m driving through the woods of North Georgia when Scarlett gets T-boned and impaled by this enormous and very, very fast buck – literally T-boned, windows smash, doors implode, fenders crumple.

At that very moment I decided to move from an intellectual understanding of handwork to a very practical one. I embarked on the “let’s fix Scarlett and make her last for ever” project. And, when you all rush to take your graduation photos out there with Scarlett, you’ll see that my skills as a mechanic are infantile, not unlike my early corn planting skills.

But through Scarlett I’ve learned the harsh discipline of a hacksaw and the patience of drying paint and through Scarlett I now live by the tenet: If your hands aren’t dirty with the filth of practice I’m going to guess you’re wrong. Scarlett is my constant reminder that understanding the world’s complexity requires the artist, humanist, and scientist in one being; that true knowledge comes through the use of brain and body together. And because these things also define human ecology and the ethos of College of the Atlantic, Scarlett is an odd but constant reminder of why I’m here, at COA, on MDI.

Now, I could at this point say, “Graduates, the moral of these three stories is a) work hard and don’t always wait to be told what to do (Idaho); b) have experiences that are uncomfortable, push you to failure, and force you to laugh at yourself (Guatemala); and c) work with your minds and your hands (Scarlett the truck).”

I do believe those things and believe them strongly enough to feel that everyone, no matter what their long-term goals, should be required to take shop with Mr. Munger and Mr. Deans – we have two of the most dedicated, smart, thoughtful shop instructors and two of the coolest shops in the state.

But my conclusion revolves around how beliefs are formed. You’ve heard three of my stories. They tell tales of how strong beliefs were formed within me and now dictate how I move through the world. Whether you remember my stories or my beliefs doesn’t really matter.  What matters, I think, is that at this point in your lives it’s worth being aware, thoughtful, and critical of how you come to believe things.

I think if you do that you’ll come to see that your beliefs come to you through mentors (like Harold and Gail Lindebo for me) and through direct, intense, and intimate experience with the world around you (like corn planting in Guatemala).  And I think you’ll also recognize that beliefs change over time (like me with minds and hands) and that such change, not surprisingly, also comes from mentors and experiences.

Belief makes us all who we are as human beings.

The most complete human being is the one who surrounds him or herself with as many and as many diverse a group of mentors as possible, but is skeptical about self-proclaimed experts. The most complete human being is one that learns continuously, develops thick skin, and comes to love life through experience. The most complete human being is one who is aware and values how they’re shaped by their surroundings. Your experience on MDI has, whether you know it or not, baked things into your being that will be a part of you forever. We are all so privileged to have experienced this remarkable place.

If you can remember one thing from today, remember my metaphorical dry suit, remember to embrace the power of mentoring, of experience, and of place.

So, congratulations seniors, congratulations friends and family, congratulations teachers – don’t forget to turn the lights off when you leave the island.

Thanks for listening.

Commencement 2015: My Welcome

Pitcher plant at Witch Hole Pond

Pitcher plant at Witch Hole Pond

I write to you from the shores of Witch Hole Pond, 4942 paces from the podium under the tent on the North Lawn and two weeks before graduation. I’ve waited for the winds to shift for a week – they’ve been blowing from the southwest, which makes the fly-fishing cumbersome. But tonight the wind’s in the north and just strong enough to keep the black flies at bay, yet not interfere with my casting.

And that’s about as far as I got with writing out at the pond.

I wanted to do the Thoreau thing so badly, and though there was plenty of inspiration with the brook trout, the eagles, the pitcher plants, etc., it didn’t exactly translate into any great ideas for this welcome address other than:

Welcome to the 42nd College of the Atlantic Commencement.

I don’t expect you would remember this, but when I did my commencement welcome two years ago I searched for a word that characterized the senior class and the COA family as a whole. I landed on scrappy. Not in the sense of disheveled, but, as in, having the gumption to throw oneself into the mix, sometimes at great peril, in order to get things done.

At last year’s commencement, I felt scrappy overemphasized action at the expensive of thought, so I morphed the description to contemplative scrappiness.

I like that phrase. But more than liking the phrase, I really like the idea of building off of the year priors’ graduation address. So today I’m going to continue to build on the phrase and maybe in a decade or two I’ll have it nailed.

I want to be extra careful with whatever term I add this year because many of the students seated here in front began their career at COA at the same time as I began my COA experience as president four years ago. I remember vividly, for example, the first day of fall term 2011, meeting Anyuri as I sheepishly worked my way up to my office, on-the-fly working out what it means to be a new president and what it means to repatriate yourself into an institution you’re getting to know for the second time. I was trying to play to cool: I’m sure I was painfully awkward

We’ve had an amazing journey and the phrase I’m adding to the string this year is humble activists, which makes us contemplatively scrappy humble activists.

Humility is not generally the word on the tip of most college president’s tongues. We, as part of the very competitive world of higher education, tend to emphasize bold confidence. Especially when we speak to families on a day like today, the rhetoric drifts toward: “we are the best; you, students, are prepared and equipped with complete knowledge; our students solve big problems like hammering a nail; our way of teaching is the best and is unique in the world of higher education; think big, do bold, get there first; change this, save that, no fear, etc.

In this same vein, colleges promote themselves as a training ground for today’s “creative economy” and as the launching pad toward success in a “world with endless possibilities,” where choice is king and you’re meant to have the skills to pivot on any dime the world throws at you and be imbued with a confidence that will carry you over any hurdle. Again, it’s typically about bold and brash confidence.

But, here I am, saying I’m most proud of our humility; hoping that we, as a college, can continue to emphasize such humility. And that may strike you as odd.

Graduates, for your years here at the College of the Atlantic, one of the most important things I hope we’ve instilled in you as human ecologists is that the world is a complex place, that there are few easy answers out there. And, most often, just when you think you’ve got a hold of the complexity, you lose it; or, better still, you poke and prod at the question endlessly, skeptical of whether it’s even possible to achieve clarity. We’ve asked that you supplicate yourself to the complex world and, to do that effectively, you have to be humble.

I hope we’ve provided enough uncomfortable situations for you – because there’s nothing like discomfort and social and intellectual awkwardness as a way to ramp up one’s humility.

Namisha Bastedo, for example, in working with elders from a First Nations community in Northern Canada jumped into a sea of awkwardness with both feet when she worked to learn the Dene language. In learning a language, one is in a way reborn, becomes a child in an adult body, and must wade and waffle through awkward misunderstanding and opaque communications. In learning language, one supplicates oneself to complexity and becomes humble.

Casey Acklin, as another example, could very well have stayed in what to him were the intellectually cozy confines of a genetics laboratory in order to understand and explain dementia. But, as a good human ecologist, he stepped out of those confines into the world of ethnography and discarded reductionism. He ventured beyond the lab and worked with dementia caregivers all over Europe. Participation in a different world through ethnography involves a similar kind of regression to childhood; and, so, in crossing disciplines too, one supplicates oneself to complexity and becomes humble.

And there’s James Crawford, the human ecological ironworker, the builder, the craftsman. In the process of material construction, there’s no hiding behind thought. In material design, you wrestle and dance with molecules and the end product either works or it doesn’t. With plenty of trial required in creation, there comes plenty of error. In using tools and learning to manipulate the form of things, one frequently comes face to face with failure and, once again, supplicates oneself to complexity and becomes humble.

And, as a final example, there is the attentive, patient observation of the naturalist, someone like Anne Hurley. In contemplative, precise, and patient observation – whether you’re looking at the behavior of marine mammals on a rocky ledge or the human debate over how to protect them or the way the light casts shadows in an attempt to draw them, Anne experiences a deep sense of humility in observation. Most of the time in such observation there’s simply not a lot “big” happening. Whales aren’t continuously breeching; brook trout are not continuously rising to the surface. In such an absence of bigness, one begins to see differently, one begins to see and understand the smallness and pays attention to the details that otherwise may have been lost. With practice, everything can become big and interesting and, so, in such patient, attentive observation, there’s an appreciation for the small and a kind of supplication to complexity that inspires humility.

But, with all the humility, all the questioning, all the supplication, one might conclude that human ecologists prefer to sit back in a gentle, Zen-like state of stasis as we struggle with complexity.  At some point, the child that is the new language learner, the participant in new social contexts, the maker, the patient observer comes to believe something and is inspired to act on that belief.

The problem with activism is that it presupposes you know something and know it with great confidence. John Deans, a COA alumnus, is currently risking his life from the cockpit of a sea kayak protesting oil drilling in the arctic. He’s pretty darn convinced that drilling in the arctic is a really bad idea. He has come to a belief and acts on it, not for his own good, but for the benefit of others.

And though John’s is something of an extreme case, at some point Namisha, Casey, James, Annie, and everyone else sitting down here will come to believe and will act and will therefore become an activist, not always in the political sense, but as an agent of making change.

The key ingredient, though, is what I might call “the toggle” – can we balance the boldness and confidence of action with ultimate humility. This is what we teach and this, I believe, is what the world desperately needs. I’m confident that these seventy-one human ecologists have that ability to toggle, between scrappy and contemplative, between humility and bold action.

Darron Collins, Ed Kaelber, and Steve Katona: 3 COA Presidents

Darron Collins, Ed Kaelber, and Steve Katona: 3 COA Presidents

My confidence in these graduates stems from the fertile ground of support represented in this very tent. And, because the shortest path to humility is gratitude, I want to close by thanking everyone that’s helped you along your journey here. Thanks to Ed Kaelber, our grand marshal and founding president of the College of the Atlantic; thanks to the inspiration and inspirational lives of Polly Guth, Robert Kates, and Naomi Klein; thanks to the faculty, staff, and students who make up the community here at 105 Eden Street; thanks to our trustees, friends and colleagues, and, most especially, thanks to the parents, families, and loved ones of today’s graduates who have trusted COA with the care and cultivation of your contemplatively scrappy humble activists. Thank you.

What to Bring to College of the Atlantic this Fall

What should I bring to COA?

On a long, early morning run I pondered my own first days at the College of the Atlantic and was therefore well-prepared when a recently admitted student asked for a list of what things to bring.

Footwear. A strange item to list first on a list like this, perhaps, but hiking boots would be a great investment. This is a practical and philosophical recommendation that has little to do with being “outdoorsy.” Practically and philosophically, we spend more time than other people doing things and such doing will invariably bring you into Acadia National Park, a planning office, an historical society, a mine, a boat, an outcrop of granite, a restaurant, a tree, a roof, a field of grass, a field of mathematics, a business, a forest. You need footwear that can accommodate that diversity. Bare feet are great on the lawn, but they tear easily on the 600 million year old Ellsworth Schist that is our bedrock. From personal experience, if you had to have one pair of shoes, I’d recommend hiking boots.

Other clothing. I’m not the most elegant dresser (see above), but, if you had the chance to invest in one additional piece of clothing, I’d suggest an impermeable outer layer. It need not be fancy, expensive, breathable material because we’re more interested in keeping the moisture out than your perspiration in.

The practical: winter. It’s cold. But it’s absolutely beautiful. Come with the mindset of embracing winter by getting outside and you will adore the ten-week winter term. That shell layer is key, even if it’s a five-dollar nylon poncho. You can borrow layers from friends or from the Free Box; you can purchase them from Bar Harbor Barter and Swap, thrift stores, or Cadillac Mountain Sports.

The philosophical: think of this as a reminder to develop thick skin. Constructive criticism – even on the tail end of passion and hard work – is crucial for any successful human ecologist.

Cooking gadgetry. Food is a very important part of the COA experience. The food served up in TAB is excellent and thoughtful, but we’ve purposefully kept Saturdays and Sundays off the meal plan in order to force you to think about consumption, food, and community cooking on at least those two days. There will be students from approximately 35 countries and 40 states at the College next year and food is a great way to explore that geographic and cultural diversity. You don’t need to buy or bring any cooking gadgetry because the kitchens in campus housing have gear and you should be thinking about packing efficiency. That said, if there’s that special garlic press you just can’t live without, by all means bring it.

Postcards. When my mom dropped me off here in the fall of 1988 she cried like a baby and left me with several dozen self-addressed, stamped post cards. This was before the miraculous and disastrous invention of the mobile phone. In most cases the separation between the modern parental unit and child can be difficult.   Mobile phones have exacerbated the problem. There will be times where you’ll be cold, confused, hungry, scared, challenged and otherwise uncomfortable – physically and metaphysically. That’s the point. Let your folks or guardians or whomever know how you’re doing by all means, but write it down on a post card and resist the urge to call or text.

A map of MDI. You are about to embark on a collegiate adventure that is situated on one of the most beautiful places on Earth: Acadia National Park, which makes up about 65% of the 105 square mile Mt. Desert Island. Explore it. No car? There is a trailhead directly across from the Community Garden on campus and you can get everywhere from there. No excuses. Yes, many classes will get you out and about, but this is your president telling you to find time to stop thinking and stop working and just enjoy the outdoors. I feel so strongly about this that we’ve bought all of you maps, so don’t go out and buy one.

Willingness to interact with people you don’t know. I’m not saying everyone needs to be an extrovert. Introverts are great. I consider myself one. But one key element of doing human ecology is doing it with others and engaging with humanity in all of its forms. I’ll never forget the day I walked into a convenience store in New Orleans with my best friend (and later, best man in my wedding) and he started a long conversation with the cashier – a dreaded stranger, egads! – that lasted into the night, that had everyone involved rolling in delightful and illuminating laughter, and forever reshaped my conception of self and other. Human ecology is an alembic for turning strangers into colleagues. Plus, life is so much more fun when you engage.

Gumption (or, in my own parlance, scrappiness). From Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (bring the book if you have it. You can borrow my copy if you don’t): “A person filled with gumption doesn’t sit around dissipating and stewing about things. He’s at the front of the train of his own awareness, watching to see what’s up the track and meeting it when it comes. Gumption is the psychic gasoline that keeps the whole thing (a motorcycle in need of repair, for instance, or any other project) going.” Bring what gumption you have. Prepare to gain it and use it on some of the world’s most difficult challenges. That’s what we do here.

Your sense of adventure. It’s ok if you don’t have hiking boots – we’ll find a work around. It’s ok if you’re quiet – you’ll gain confidence in speaking with others. But, without a sense of adventure or at least a willingness to cultivate one, you will find it difficult to succeed here. And I’m not talking about the adrenaline junkie sense of adventure (although that can be good too), I’m talking about the passion and curiosity for pushing your understanding of yourself and the social, natural, and built environment you operate in – that’s human ecology and that requires a hunger for adventure. The adventures you’re about to embark upon are of mind and of body and, most of the time, both. Bring a sense of adventure and other things will fall into place.

See you next fall,

Darron

28 Hours of Extraordinary Human Ecology

From 4:10pm on Tuesday, November 18th to 8:10pm on Wednesday, November 19th I moved through human ecological paradise and thought a short photographic essay describing those hours would be well worth the effort.

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4:10 PM, 11/18 — The last Human Ecology Forum of Fall Term featured two of my heroes: Eric Jackson and Jessie Stone.  The combined talk spoke to extreme whitewater paddling, malaria eradication in Uganda, and living adventurous lives. Thanks to COA faculty member John Visvader for managing the Human Ecology Forum!

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6:00 PM, 11/18 — EJ and my daughter Maggie heading out to dinner at Blaze in Bar Harbor.

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8:25 AM, 11/19 — COA faculty member Dave Feldman’s Differential Equations class.  Students presented their final projects over the course of the day.  Here’s COA student Ellie Oldach discussing models of predation in salt marshes.  Stunning work.

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9:02 AM, 11/18 — Still in Dave’s class.  Here’s Will Greene, MDI High School Senior, son of the late Craig Greene, great human being.  His work examined population models of deer on MDI.

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12:00 PM, 11/19 — Lunch in TAB. Food made and consumed with love.

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1:30 PM, 11/19 — That’s COA faculty member Davis Taylor in the foreground, putting his back into it.  ACM today was dedicated to leaves.  What a day.

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2:30 PM, 11/19 — Elmer Beal!  Need I say more? Elmer’s first day on the job at COA was September 1, 1972. He’s retiring this year and gave the trimester’s final Human Ecology Core Course general lecture.

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5:00 PM, 11/19 — COA faculty member Dru Colbert’s Installation Art class finished off the term with a gallery opening at Artemis Gallery in Northeast Harbor. Spectacular.

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6:30 PM, 11/19 — My daughter Molly (on left) presented her final project, “COA’s Composting System,” at Conners-Emerson School, the culmination of an amazing farm-to-school program run by COA students and supervised by COA faculty member Bonnie Tai.

Wow. I need some shut-eye.

SHE Conference Opens at COA

The 20th Society for Human Ecology conference began last night on the College of the Atlantic campus.  The conference is named “Ecological Responsibility and Human Imagination.” These were my remarks.

Good evening everyone, my name is Darron Collins.  I am the president and an alumnus of the College of the Atlantic.  I am incredibly proud and honored to host all of you and the Society for Human Ecology here on the COA campus.  Before saying one more word, I wanted to thank Ken Hill and Rich Borden for leading from this end — I cannot believe 18 months have passed since Canberra, when we hatched this idea.  Though many dozens of people pulled together to make this happen, Ken and Rich led the charge.

College of the Atlantic is one of approximately 2500 private, non-profit, four-year colleges in the country.  It is an incredibly competitive landscape.  When we describe ourselves in this landscape — to prospective students, parents, faculty, the media, whomever — we land on three things that define us within that great amalgam of institutions:

1) Our size.  We are strategically small.  We have sought to create a community of teachers and learners here.  Being part of the community and helping to continually reinvent the community is key to the learning and teaching experience.  You will, hopefully, feel that over the next few days.  Our students — although only 350 strong — are some of the most dynamic, creative, and passionate in the world. They come from 35 different countries and carry many perspectives.  They will be joining this conference over the next several days as Thursday and Friday classes were canceled.  Better said, Thursday and Friday classes are this conference.

2) Our place.  We are who we are as a college because of where we are as a college.  Many of you have experienced this first hand in trying to get here.  At least there’s a bridge to the island.  Though we seek to take what we learn here and find relevance for it in the wider world, it is part of our mission as an organization to bring the focus and the power of the human ecological perspective to the humanity and ecology of the Maine coast.  With our front yard in the Gulf of Maine and our back yard in Acadia National Park, we are a college that has imbibed the local.

3) Our curriculum.  Our curriculum is centered on the teaching, the learning, and the practice of human ecology.  Human Ecology is what we teach; it is how we teach; and it is why we teach.  What: we seek to understand the broadest spectrum of relationships between human beings and their built, their social, and their physical environment.  How: we teach human ecologically, by affording our students the power to design their own curriculum around what interests them; by asking students to think beyond and between the narrow confines of departments; by asking students to learn actively, using a better balance between hands and mind, to learn by doing. And, finally, why: we practice human ecology because we believe that the world could be better than we currently find it.

And it is on this last note that I would like to conclude these opening remarks and leave you with a thought that might stay with you throughout this conference. When we — and I mean the collective we of the college and the participants in this conference — look at the world, we tend to see it as a world askew or broken.  We sometimes default to the position of understanding the world as a cluster of very complicated problems. Our role as human ecologists, we tell ourselves, is to fix these problems.

As human ecologists we may stretch; we my think and act from an interdisciplinary perspective; we may think holistically, long-term; we may embrace complexity.  These are good things and significant advances over reductionist times.

But I lose sleep over the thought of understanding the world as a bunch of problems.  It’s at the same time naïve and arrogant. I find myself, talking with prospective students, using the phrase — we take a “problem-solving” approach — to differentiate what we do from a classroom-centered, abstraction. Though it’s a metaphor that young students can get their mind around, it’s just not quite right.

As human ecologists, we’ve given short shrift to the “non problem-centered” or “non utilitarian approaches” within the sciences, the humanities, and the arts; short shrift to detailed, thoughtful observation as in natural history; short shrift to understanding the power of the written word to tell stories and to learn from such stories; and, most problematically, short shrift to the arts as a fundamentally unique way of interpreting the world.  I think that’s one reason we wanted to make sure that term imagination rang loudly at this conference.

I’d ask that you keep that notion in mind during this conference.  Specifically, of all the things you do here at the conference, please visit the Blum Gallery and see the work of Ashley Bryan.  Ashley Bryan — an artist, storyteller, a brilliant observer — is the type specimen human ecologist.  His work and the man himself are not to be missed.  Ashley will be in the gallery on Thursday afternoon and will be joining us for lobster dinner.  His work helps me unravel this koan of “how do we continue to reinvent and improve the world without seeing it as a cluster of problems.” I think he can do the same for all of us.

Thank you for your time.  Thank you for being here.  And welcome to the 20th annual Society for Human Ecology conference at College of the Atlantic.

My 2014 Convocation Address

On September 10th, 2014 we began the 43rd academic year at the College of the Atlantic.  The highlight of the celebration was the talk given by COA alumnus John Deans, ’07.  What follows is the original text of my own talk.  For the actual talk, I boiled this written piece down to notes and then used those notes as a guide during my improvisation.  If I had more time I would find a way to include creatively the mugs, the walking stick, and When the Levee Breaks into this blog.  You’ll have to read on to see how those things are relevant.  

***

Welcome to the 43rd academic year of the College of the Atlantic.

You saw my email message yesterday about the MAP process? We’re going to be spending time on a plan for what we want this college to look like at the start of our 50th convocation, which will be September 5th, 2021.

I’ve talked with loads of people about what the process and the product of this MAP should look like and in more than just a few of those discussions I’ve had people say to me “Darron – don’t take this the wrong way,” (you know, when anyone says such a thing, you should brace yourself) “I think one of your greatest strengths as president is that you are a good listener; but at the beginning of this process, I don’t think it would be a bad idea at all to come right out and say what you would like the college to look like in 2021.”

So, for this address, I’m taking their advice.

The hardest part of this task for me is that I look at what we have here – our teachers, staff, the incoming group of students, our balanced budget, our endowment, even the superficial but important US News rankings, the campus including farms, and islands, commitment, the passion, the news, our partners, and say, “amazing” – just think of how far we’ve come from when I was an incoming student and sat at convocation September 7th, 1988, just five years after the majority of the college burned to the ground! Why change a thing?

But there’s loads of room for improvement. Who doesn’t want to get better at what you do? There’s a whole string of obvious needs: salary increases; the need to plan ahead for retirements; how to increase our name recognition. But every college and every college president wants those tings. Without minimizing those and other key areas of improvement, I’m going to focus on eight things that I believe can uniquely bring us to a place of absolute excellence.

Number 1: Internal Communication and Language

I’m not a Luddite – I love playing with gadgets and new technologies – and I’m not being nostalgic, but the way we use email is tearing apart the very social fabric of the College of the Atlantic community.

I’m likely the worst culprit here. We are 253 days into the calendar year. I’ve written 9,752 emails since January 1. That’s unsustainable and has created more work than it has solved. I’m going to reduce my email production by half.

But it’s not just email – it’s language in general.

On Sunday I had the opportunity to welcome the new students to COA – I was allotted 15 minutes. I went on for 45. Though I was enthused, Sarah Luke was not. I had really thrown a huge wrench into her day.

And then there is the tight linkage between quantity and quality of language.

In the email I sent out on Monday afternoon, I made two typos. Neither made a material difference to the meaning of the text, but both were blatant red flags that I wasn’t paying full attention.

SO, by 2021: I want to see us individually and collectively decrease the quantity and increase the quality of language we use, both written and spoken. I want to have a higher proportion of interaction be face-to-face or voice-to-voice. That will have big consequences.

Number 2: Collectivism

(Cue the TAB flatware prop) Mugs. Bowls. Plates. Spoons. Knives. Let’s think about mugs. I’ve just corroborated this figure with the kitchen – we have 185 mugs in circulation. Let’s assume we might lose 15% to breakage. We’re going to count the mugs at the end of week five – let’s shoot for at least 150 mugs still in circulation.

Of course we are and we aren’t talking about mugs. What we’re really talking about is the struggle between living as an individual and living as part of a community.

This struggle rears its head all over the place. Think of it – smoking? My mom has battled addiction to smoking for sixty years, so I have a bias against people doing it and have thought about introducing the idea of a smoking ban. But, one could argue it’s a personal freedom. But cigarette butts? Throwing them randomly about the campus is not a personal freedom.

Art materials missing from the studio?

Paying attention to arriving on time?

And what of the basic respect between two people, either in the library or having a first intimate experience – it’s got to begin with a sense of respect and awareness of the other.

This is not meant to come off as me, the disappointed, scolding father, because I’ve left my fair share of mugs scattered over the campus. But it’s a call to become more aware – just like with language. So, by 2021: I want us to be aware of collective living and learning and spend less time thinking of ourselves as separate realities. I want to get to a point where the material nature of this campus and people’s time is sacred. With every decision we should be asking ourselves: what’s the impact on this place, other people, and other peoples’ time?

Number 3: Making

I believe very strongly that people learn about themselves and the material world around them through developing an idea in their head and making it come alive. (Cue the maple walking stick and tools prop –ad lib on design and production)

“We can achieve a more humane material life, if only we better understand the making of things.”—Richard Sennett.”

Specifically, by 2021 I would love to see an emphasis on making things and the crafting of quality reflected in the interests of the kind of students we attract, in the academic curriculum itself, in what we do outside of the classroom, and in the infrastructure of our very campus. And, whether you’re talking about making a wooden walking stick for an elderly friend, or Linux based piece of code or biodiesel or sodium pentothal, you need space to do it.

SO, by 2021: I want to see us individually and collectively making more things in workshops, studios, and labs – with brushes, hammers, soldering irons, and computers – and I’d like to see those things taking place in a newly created arts and studio center and in renovated lab spaces.

Number 4: Writing and Communicating

No Child Left Behind has had devastating consequences to the way students in the United States learn and has diminished drastically the emphasis placed on writing during high school. Don’t take this as a personal attack on your abilities as writers, but we can and must all improve our writing.

No matter what you wind up doing, I promise you that you’ll be a lot better at it if you can apply craft and quality to writing and if you can communicate your ideas orally. Writing and speaking – and the analytical thought associated with the craft of the written and spoken word – is absolutely essential. We tend to do these things well here at COA. We are a language-intensive program.

But, by 2021, I don’t think anyone should be able to graduate from this college unless they can write a well-constructed text and also demonstrate significant improvements in the ways they deliver a message in voice.

Number 5: From rules to culture

I want more people to participate in the crafting of this college – faculty, students, and staff. That’s a distinctive value proposition for us as a college, being able to shape the very nature of the school. But I do not want the leading edge of that participation to be in the creation of more rules and policies, which sometimes feels like the default mechanism here.

There are ways to engage in the creation of a culture and an institution beyond the creation of rules. In this respect, I love the four-word personnel manual – the policy manual for employees – of Nordstrom’s: use your best judgment. I realize we are not a high-end clothing store and living by judgments was a lot easier to do that with 36 students and six faculty – but I believe should do whatever we can to make that practice the default rather than a new policy.

Number 6: The Outside and coming to know Place

We spend too much time inside. We disproportionally favor the human-dominated social experience. I recognize not everyone who comes to the College of the Atlantic wants to do a record south to north hike of the Appalachian trail or climb El Capitan; I recognize that some folks actually are uncomfortable being outside. I’m not interested in creating a culture of rock jocks who climb only for adrenaline, but I am interested in promoting a culture where everyone comes to discover more about themselves and about the world around them by learning and being outside and has:

  • Overnighted on Great Duck and Mount Desert Rock;
  • Learned to tie a trucker’s hitch and row a dory or pilot a zodiac;
  • Found their way to Conners Nubble and Maple Springs on foot, bike, skis, and snowshoes;
  • Figured out how to survive the night in a snow cave, start a fire in the rain, and un-lose yourself with map and compass;
  • Discovered the difference between a Romey and Katadhin sheep; a ginger gold and honeycrisp apple; a Norway maple and a red maple; an alewife and an elver.

and has done so neither because it’s macho nor because of a belief we should all live like Neanderthals, but because the ability to do those things is a very, very strong indication that you value and you’ve come to know place. And I believe very strongly that who we are as a college has a lot to do with where we are as a college.

Being outside isn’t about recreation – this is about re-creation.

In order to help with this cause, I will be leading a north to south trans-island hike a week from today, leaving from our community garden and ending up in Seal Harbor; I’ll be joining you in the Bar Island Swim; I’d also like to establish a winter- and spring-time ritual along the lines of the Bar Island Swim. And we’re creating a College of the Atlantic Hike for Mike team in support of the Acadia Family Center.

Number 7: Field Courses

This week 16 COA students of all backgrounds will join faculty member Jay Friedlander and our Director of Energy Management Anna Demeo on Samso Island, an island about 60 miles east of Copenhagen, of about 45 square miles and 4000 people. They’ll be joined by COA alumnus David Camlin, staffers from our partner institution The Island Institute, five community members from islands peppered throughout the Gulf of Maine, and hopefully a New York Times reporter. It’s part of a monster class where the first three weeks are spent there learning how Samso moved from diesel dependence to a fossil fuel free island that exports sustainable electricity to the mainland; and the last seven weeks are spent back here implementing energy projects on MDI and the outer islands.

There are a whole slew of courses like this – let’s call them “field” or “place-based” courses. But this one is nicely emblematic. It brings faculty together who haven’t worked together in the past; taps into staff expertise as well as faculty; incorporates community members into the teaching and learning elements of the course; touches the wider world but is rooted to the right here; is project-based and the project is meaningful to the wider community; it incorporates alumni; it incorporates the expertise of partners; it utilizes the leadership and knowledge of a fourth-year student, Nick Urban in this case; it is interdisciplinary; it will spawn internships, senior projects, group studies, the students all have a firm background in either energy or entrepreneurship.

But managing a whole flight of these kinds of courses is tough: they’re expensive; faculty and staff are off campus; they’re loads of fun but loads of work. Managing the balance between these courses and foundational courses is key. But finding that balance is absolutely essential for us as a college.

Number 8: Re-invention-asking and answering; More Led Zeppelin

It was 6th grade-1981. Just finished a massive, epic Dungeons and Dragons campaign. I’ll never forget the walk to K-mart down on Rt10. I had discovered records with my buddy Brian Frumolt. He bought Magical Mystery Tour. I bought this album that didn’t have a title. I put it on the turntable and my life was changed.

(Cue Led Zeppelin, When the Levee Breaks, loudly)

This past June, there was an absolutely fantastic record review written in Slate. The review concerned the re-release of the first three Led Zeppelin albums. (Let it be known that in any course that I ever teach that review and those albums will be required material.)

The centerpiece to the story is how the band completely revolutionized rock and roll by reinventing itself, all the while remaining true at some important core. So, with each album, people said – “That’s Led Zeppelin.” But they also said, “That’s Led Zeppelin?” That pulling the rug out effect is important and by doing it again and again really changed the world. Author Jack Hamilton wrote:

“Rock didn’t start with the Beatles or Bob Dylan, it started with Led Zeppelin.”

In terms of higher education, such shaking-up and reinvention is crucial. I don’t want to coast through to our 50th this decade on this set of wheels. I want wings and I want to build them and test them out together.

That’s going to require more Led Zeppelin. More reinvention. That’s what the MAP is all about. I think these eight things will get us our wings.

Modern higher education didn’t start with Harvard or Williams; it started with College of the Atlantic. And we’re just about to release the fourth album.

With that, let the 43rd academic year begin.

Reversing Brain Drain in Maine: INBRE and the MDI Biolab

One of the strongest elements of the COA experience is in the number and kind of partners we have as an institution. Not only are we conveniently wedged between the Gulf of Maine and Acadia National Park, we are also flanked by two world-class private laboratories: the Jackson Labs and the MDI Biological Laboratory.  Last week I had the privilege to participate in a press conference at the MDIBL where we collectively celebrated the $18.4 million dollar INBRE partnership.  I also published the following Letter to the Editor in the Mount Desert Islander on August 7, 2014 and I wanted to share it with a wider audience:

To the Editor:

These days, “crisis” always seems to be attached to the words “higher education.” So it’s nice to hear about a truly exceptional, positive, and progressive educational force happening right here in Maine.

The Maine IDeA Network for Biomedical Research Excellence (INBRE), an NIH-supported network of 13 Maine institutions, strives to strengthen Maine’s capacity to do cutting-edge biomedical research. It is a perfect model for “learning by doing,” and it’s a model we need to shout from the rooftops in Maine to help our state continue on its path as not only a leader in science, but as a leader in progressive education.

INBRE is a model for the kind of learning it champions — students and researchers working in the field with muddy boots — but it’s also a model for how it’s championed partnerships between students and faculty, between public and private universities, between private laboratories and institutions of higher education. The combined intellects of College of the Atlantic, MDI Biological Laboratory, the Jackson Laboratory, and the other INBRE institutions, are a great example of a whole being much greater than the sum of parts.

INBRE is also a model because of its dedication to the long term. Immediate results for big ideas are often forced results, and too often become failures. INBRE bucks that trend, and the long-term nature of INBRE funding has been instrumental to our combined successes.

Since 2002, more than 100 College of the Atlantic students have had opportunities to work in classes and do research with investigators at MDI Biological Laboratory and the Jackson Laboratory under the INBRE program. We’re a small school — so that’s more than 5% of our entire alumni pool.

At COA, 17% of our students are from Maine, but over 30% remain in this great state. We are a perfect example of reverse brain drain and INBRE has been an important engine behind that.

We celebrated $18.4 million in new INBRE funding Monday at MDI Biological Laboratory. U.S. Sen. Susan Collins was among dozen of people lauding this proactive program that’s providing Maine’s college students with unparalleled scientific research opportunities … right here in Maine, right here on Mount Desert Island.

 

Darron Collins, Ph.D.

President, College of the Atlantic

 

Scarlet(t): A Pecha Kucha Presentation

20 Slides, 20 seconds each. Here’s the transcript:

1. Hello. My name is Darron Collins. I’m the president at College of the Atlantic. I’m a resident of MDI; husband to Karen; father to Maggie and Molly; master to my dog Lucy; and I’m hopelessly, pathetically in love with another woman named Scarlett. But let me clarify …

2. …my wife is only mildly disturbed by this because Scarlett is a 1985 Toyota Land Cruiser FJ-60; with a straight six 2F engine, 3-inch Old Man Emu spring lift, 33-inch tires, and many other modifications.

3. Scarlett is actually more orange than Scarlett. But fading paint is just one issue – she has rust, dents, bumps, bruises and warts. But this patina adds to her charm as the second most beautiful woman in the world (after Karen, not Scarlett Johansson).

4. My love for Scarlett turns to unbridled lust when she’s used for what she was built for – adventure. She’s been the platform for adventures of all kinds. Scarlett is a bedrock of my recreation – or, what I prefer to call my re-creation.

5. Keeping this to the suggested PG rating, Scarlett is also a loving member of the Collins family; a complacent dog that can be climbed on without insult or retaliation; a brute than can pull you from the thickest mud and deepest snow; a bear that can carry the world on her back.

6. My family rolls their eyes at Scarlett and her blemishes and prefer the modern conveniences of mom’s car. That is, until a “friend that is a boy” in one of my daughter’s classes shows his own affection for Scarlett with a card like this.

7. Scarlett doesn’t fit in at the parties and ceremonies I attend in my role as president. Here she is at the Pot and Kettle Club, chumming with a fancy friend. The mocking crowds only make me love her that much stronger.

8. I love people. You’ve now learned that I love inanimate objects. It’s probably no surprise that I love institutions as well. There’s no institution I love more than the College of the Atlantic. I loved it as a student in the late 80s and early 90s and love it even more today. It’s a very special place.

9. I can ignore party-goers and, to a lesser extent, my family, but I must answer my COA colleagues who question my love for a vehicle who burns 11 miles per gallon on a good day, threatening polar bears and planetary ecology in one fell swoop.

10. As president, I’m supposed to represent the ethos of the organization. The faculty say “Hey Darron, the COA president should drive a smart car.’” I think it’s funny to say “Scarlett eats smart cars for breakfast” but I have more thoughtful explanations.

11. To the artists I speak of lines, curves and colors; Or I don’t speak at all – I just ask the artists to relish in aesthetic perfection. Lets take a minute to do that ourselves.
12. To the historian, I talk of the post World War recession in Japan and its effects on the development of the Land Cruiser. Here’s the original BJ20. I describe the role the Land Cruiser played in exploring six continents.

13. To the field biologist I warn of lesser vehicles. Never ever call a Land Cruiser a Jeep or, worse, a Land Rover. Only the Land Cruiser provides the biologist with access to the most inaccessible places for research.

14. In terms of energy, a Prius’ nickel battery is mined in Canada, shipped to China, and is a disposal nightmare. The car’ll last 100,000 miles and cost three bucks a mile to build with externalities. Scarlett’ll last forever, so with mileage approaching infinity, I think of her as free.

15. The only way Scarlett will last forever is through love and a forever relationship. Ours began when we hit a stalled car on the interstate going 65, top speed. I owe my life to her. I’m not sure I would’ve survived the wreck in a Prius.

16. I’m not much of a mechanic and was born with a strange block to the practice. The accident with Scarlett coaxed the craft from the deepest recess of my being. And the importance of craft is what I speak of most often to the COA faculty and the world.

17. Through Scarlett I’ve learned the harsh discipline of a hack saw and the patience of drying paint. Through Scarlett I bridge the gap between the theoretical and the applied; I teach the knowledge in the grip of a screw and the wisdom in steel.

18. It’s been four years since that crash and I’m only a slightly better mechanic. But I’m a more patient craftsman and I evangelize about the brilliance of men like these, true masters of craft. I now live by the tenet: if your hands aren’t dirty you’re probably wrong.

19. Scarlett reminds us the world’s a more complex place than it seems; that unraveling complexity requires the artist, humanist, and scientist in one being; that true knowledge comes through the use of brain and body together. These things define human ecology and the ethos of College of the Atlantic.

20. So, in fact, there’s no better vehicle for a COA president than Scarlett. I’ll never trade her for a Prius or Smart Car. But I may add Rose to my fleet, a stunning ’64 Land Cruiser FJ-45. What a physical and intellectual mountain to climb that will be. Thank you.

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