In January of 2023, Kevin Sharp and Julie Pierotti invited me to the Dixon and told me about a Fellowship that was being born in the farming town of Wilson, Arkansas. They wanted to know if I would be interested in taking photographs there for sixty days stretched out over seven months.
After consulting with my wife, I accepted the offer and told Kevin that I hoped to find a landmark or a symbol that I could revisit throughout the residency. A marker to help measure the light and changing seasons. It was important to me to find such a place early, and I was fortunate to find a few subjects that I had a longing to come back to whenever I returned to Mississippi County, Arkansas.
One of them was a burial mound just off Highway 61.
It belonged to a family named McFadden who built the mound around the 1870s. At first, I thought they must have been relatives of Dixon members, Jake and Harriet McFadden, but after reaching out to Harriet I discovered that they were not.
I was moved by this pair of markers that simply spelled “Husband” and “Wife”.
I thought it showed something respectful about the landowners who acquired the field from the McFadden family. It is important that the graves are still nested within the rich soil and is now within earshot away from the new gin.
I also saw it as a symbol of Delta farming, for cotton is the blood of Wilson. The mound and its markers stood as a testament for the connection between the farmer and crop.
But mostly, I liked the way it gave me something constant to stand before as the seasons progressed. From the seeding days of early May
To the lush green of July
To the beginning of the bloom in September
To the sea of white in October
To the bareness of the land after the harvest in November.
These graves and the land tell a story that repeats every year.
And together they share a strange beauty.
Across the street from the mound is the railroad.
If cotton is the blood of Wilson, then the railroad is the vein.
The railroad divides Wilson.
The presence of trains is felt by all in the town that last census counted 766 citizens.
Even if you don’t see them pass through the heart of town, you hear their roar and whistle. Even in your sleep.
Most of the box cars are tagged with graffiti.
The land is so flat that the railroad seems to vanish into the horizon.
And the rails can mirror the sky.
There are ruins of old lines.
And I found this road sign across the street from the Gin to be particularly interesting. It was weather-beaten and wind battered. I hoped to get a good shot of a train passing behind it without the blur of the machine at high speed.
I got my wish in early June after I heard a train approaching. I drove to the gin and parked my car. I hurried across the street and waited. I was surprised how long it was taking for the train to roll along the tracks.
It was like the engineer, who no doubt could see me standing so foolishly close to the train tracks, gave me the gift of a clean profile shot of a seemingly-still train. I gave the photograph the same name of the great Bob Dylan gospel album Slow Train Coming.
Another key place for me in Wilson was the former Wilson Trade School, which was constructed in 1925, a year after the original school building was burned to the ground by arsonists. Lee Wilson, namesake of the town, vowed to build the new school out of “brick and hollow tile” so it could survive another fire.
It was known as the Wilson Negro School until 1970 when it and Wilson High School both closed so that all the students in Mississippi County could attend the newly constructed Rivercrest High School.
In 1976, the property was renamed Wilson Bicentennial Park, and it still has a monument and a few benches to sit on.
I came to this park often during my sixty days in Wilson. It had a particular quiet that fed my mind and helped me regroup.
It was also a place that had its own beauty that I wanted to capture.
This photograph was taken in early June around dusk. I saw that the sun’s path to the earth was in line with an oak tree on the edge of the park. I put the 400 mm lens on my Canon, got down on my knees, and set the camera on the grass so that I could frame a bug’s-eye view of the sun and tree. I love the pinks and purples in the sky.
And there was something different in the close up. Greens haunt the foreground and clothe the tree, while the pink-orange sun looks like it is floating atop a foggy sea.
It would take me until November to get inside the building.
I was told there was a door in the back that was unlocked. Inside I found graffiti on the walls and trash and broken furniture on the floor.
Part of the auditorium stage held an array of spider-web covered trophies from nearby schools.
The other part was rotten and covered with bird droppings.
That likely came from one of the two large barn owls that were living up in the rafters.
Birds were a key subject for me during the sixty days, particularly a pair of eagles that lived on the property between The Delta School and the Tin House Golf Course. One was a mother.
The other was her juvenile.
They spent part of everyday perched on the limbs of a leafless tree that overlooked a man-made lake. It was stocked with fish.
I was surprised to consistently see smaller birds pestering the eagles like big gnats.
I first learned about the eagles my seventh day in Wilson.
I was being given a tour of Wilson by Jim Johns, who was the bridge between Lee Wilson’s family and Lawrence family, which now owns the town. I was introduced to Jim at the Wilson Café by Midge Wilson Ellison,
Who grew up in the big brown mansion, which belonged to The Delta School during my residency.
Besides giving me a tour of the hunting grounds and Golf Couse, Jim walked me into the Old Gin at the heart of Wilson.
It was fairly dangerous place to explore.
But I loved being able the walk around the space and see the discolored walls and through floors and ceilings.
There was strange and funny graffiti here and there, and a flock of birds came in and out through the holes in the roof.
I was wonderful to get a tour from someone who had seen the place and its machines in operation.
I was also grateful to meet Jim’s son, Kevin Johns, who managed much of the farmland in Wilson.
He gave me a key to the gate to the one giant cotton field in Wilson that overlooked the Mississippi River.
He also arranged for me to witness cotton being harvested by John Deere tractors.
Giant, green machines that cost over $800,000 each.
I was able to ride in the cockpit of one with an operator named Dalton Crews, who told me that the tractor did the work of twelve people
Including stripping and wrapping the freshly picked cotton with a yellow plastic that protects it in the field until it is transported to the gin. The bales weigh 500 pounds.
Despite the renaissance that is going on at the town square, with the hotel, restaurants, museums, and stores, Wilson is a farming culture first and foremost.
It is what matters most.
And makes everything else possible.
I had really never spent much time with cotton before the fellowship. When I got there in May, the fields were still mostly dirt.
In June, rows of little green plants reached across the soil.
By July, the crops had bloomed into lush, round rows that stretched across the land like giant arms.
The low sky was patrolled by crop dusters that dropped chemicals all over the county.
This one flew so low I could look the pilot in the eye.
In late August, fleshy flowers begin to sprout.
By late September, the fields are white with the fluffy crop.
In October, the first of the fields is ready to be reaped.
The burning sun bleeds an orange that coats the cotton with a glow.
In November, the tractors step into the limelight and pick the crop.
There the bales wait for their turn to be transported by truck to the gin.
Once there it is stacked, and again the cotton waits for its time to meet the machines
That swallow the bales whole.
So that their churning gears can separate the seed, lint, and trash.
These big machines are operated by people who sometimes wear Friday the 13th T-shirts
While the exhausted fields outside prepare to sleep through winter.
I am almost out of time here. I regret not being able to tell you more about the Wilson High School class reunion
Or the wedding I crashed.
I would like to tell you about this man, Pastor Anthony “A-Train” Smith, Jr.
And this boy who was blowing Wham!'s "Careless Whisper" on the saxophone for the whole neighborhood to hear.
And the nearby town of Bassett, including the people who manage the city
And those who drink at Ish’s bar.
There were many interesting Wilson associates who staffed the hotel,
restaurants,
the golf course,
and tended to the gardening,
and running of the chicken coop.
There are many subjects worth speaking about today.
Many colors
Textures
Performers
and events.
But two people need to be recognized. They are fellow Fellows, Danny Broadway and John Ruskey.
I met Danny on Mother’s Day Weekend at the Wilson Café in the bar area. At a certain point in our conversation, he saw someone in the dining room and said there’s the mayor of Memphis. I followed him and took this shot of John Strickland and Danny, my first of many over the following seven months.
Including many shots of him painting either on the lawn between The Louis Hotel and the Wilson Café
Or on the back patio of the town’s other restaurant, The Grange,
A place where Danny was so beloved by the resort staff, that this cook, Bradley Hartshorn, offered to feed the three of us a free meal every day during his break hour.
Danny was also a good person to go on an adventure with, whether it was deep in the back country to discover where Arkansas ended
Or traveling to the next town, a place called Osceola where we, and Danny’s son Joshua, explored the town square
And saw at the farmers market Charles Wicks, Jr, who worked at the Louis Hotel.
He was the person two months later who got me back inside the house the Fellows shared after I damaged the lock.
Danny was the one who told me about a bridge between the levee and the river where he and John had frequented during an earlier stay.
He mentioned that the land and water beneath it were dominated by driftwood.
I would later learn from this man, Larry Hodge, that the bridge was called The Shoot. He claimed that the bridge was built with concrete because the original wooden bridge had been burned down by gamblers hoping to separate themselves from rivals they had cheated.
I frequented The Shoot often and really loved the reflections that tall banks cast on the water.
Danny first showed me The Shoot on the 20th of July. On the way back to town we saw a family decorating a house for a birthday celebration.
The home belonged to Isiah Zeke Reed, and he was one-hundred years old on this day.
Danny and I stopped and visited with the family, some who had traveled from California to be in town for the event.
They were good people, and Isiah Zeke Reed had lived an honorable life.
I was pleased to see this beautiful drawing Danny had made of him hanging on a wall in The Delta School a month later.
This was another place Danny had opened up for the Fellowship. He had befriended the school’s Head Master, Andrew Podoll,
And told him that the house where we stayed on Adams Street did not have space to set up a painting studio.
So, Andrew gave Danny a key to the buildings, so he and John Ruskey could create work on campus while the students were away for summer break.
In the weeks that followed, Danny set up a printmaking space in a large classroom.
And Ruskey usually painted outside, between two classrooms, underneath a covered walkway.
I was pleased to see that the panting he was working on in this photo called Island 35 Pre-Dawn Fantasia was part of this exhibition.
The school was a physically beautiful space.
And it took some unique chances regarding education. There were no grades or standardized testing.
The students learned by making things like gardens and electric cars.
I am grateful that year one of the Wilson Fellowship overlapped with the last year of The Delta School’s presence in Mississippi County, Arkansas.
Interacting with the school and teachers like Cara Sullivan, who coordinated all of our events with students, were highlights of the experience.
I was able to give a presentation to the students about the differences between abstract and representational art.
Afterwards, we ventured into the garden, and I let the kids frame a flower that they wanted photographed.
First, I captured what they thought would be a good picture.
Then, I took a second photo with a distorted foreground, giving the students a different perspective of the same subject like how a bug might see the flower.
I was in Wilson for two of John Ruskey’s interactions with The Delta School.
The first was an after school watercolor class in August.
John gave a brief talk about his process of painting wildlife that he encounters along the Mississippi River and its tributaries.
John explained that some of the specimens are deceased when he comes across them,
like the dragonfly, butterfly, and turtle shell he brought for the students to use as inspiration.
I enjoyed watching John interact with the students.
They were a smart, caring, and curious bunch.
And later they got the chance to learn something very special from John. For early in the residency, Wilson was struck by a severe storm.
It flooded parts of the school property,
And it took down several, big trees.
John asked the school if he could teach the students how to carve a canoe from a fallen tree.
Head Master Andrew always seemed interested in exposing the students to creative opportunities and had some of the wood set aside for canoe carving.
John taught the kids what he learned in Washington state from Grandfather George Lagergren, who was a Chinook elder and master canoe carver.
Again, the students were impressive. They were hard and careful workers.
It was a fascinating process, and John, like all good teachers, taught by example.
He had mastered this skill. I was not surprised to later learn that he had been commissioned to construct canoes by the Carnegie Public Library and also for the Lewis & Clark Bicentennial Expedition.
I was able to go on my own expedition with John across the Mississippi River, for on August 29th, John told me he was taking his canoe called “Cricket” on the water. I met him in Osceola at Sans Souci Landing, which means something like “without worries” in French.
Mark Twain named it Plum Point in his writings, and there is a monument about the association on the grounds.
The vessel was big enough for four people, so joining us were Bradley, our favorite cook at The Grange, and his wife, Karis Mengarelli, who was also a chef at The Grange.
We launched our boat a little after six p.m. and paddled to the sandy banks on the other side of the Mississippi River.
There we watched the rare Super Blue Moon rise over the trees and waters.
This experience was a high note for me during the fellowship. I think about the colors on the water and in the sky that day often,
As well as what the cold sand on outer banks felt like to my feet.
There was also the strength and scale of the River. You feel both deeply when you cross that water in a canoe.
I am grateful to the city and people of Wilson for the opportunity to explore Mississippi County, Arkansas.
I am also grateful to Julie and Kevin and the Dixon for choosing us to pioneer the Wilson Fellowship experiment.