Alumni Newssummer2007

Reunions 2007
Been There, Wrote That

drawingAfter attending Reunions 2007, Anthony Dubovsky ’67 created these writings and drawings as part of his Analects project. Dubovsky is a professor of architecture at UC–Berkeley, as well as a painter (he studied with Willard Midgette at Reed and is represented in San Francisco by the George Krevsky Gallery). Dubovsky describes the Analects as a gathering of images and ideas inspired by the writings of Confucius and the poems of the T’ang Dynasty; he began creating them on a return trip from China in 2003. We have excerpted and edited several entries Dubovsky made in the days following Reunions 2007. Visit his webpage for complete versions.

. . . The stars and stripes—unexpected—high above the wide Reed College lawn. A very warm day, humid, even. . . . Eliot Circle, shaded once more in trees. A bicyclist or two, neighborhood folks, and one tall, pensive young man, stooped slightly, striding slowly in the direction of the library. Sound of piano from inside—second floor perhaps. Scales at first—soft and tentative, then something more complex, but still indistinct. Two women sitting on the steps, one with her skirt pulled up onto her knees, having a talk.


drawingThe letters of Father
when they were written.
A guest of Lloyd Reynolds,
from St. Ambrose College
in Iowa, he held the brush—
long and narrow—at a full
arm’s length, facing the stone.
Writing each character by hand
in slow, careful sweeping strokes—
later incised and painted blue.
Eliot Hall. Roman capitals
from the Trajan Column. Not
perfect—that was the aim. Human
creation—an entire past contained in
each of the forms . . . remade each
time as best we can . . .

. . . The four of us, walking alongside commons. Two penny whistles, a concertina, and Diana’s voice. . . . We reconvene—it’s just past dark, making our way across the lawn to a long rolling hillside where everyone is gathered. Small figures down below, hidden in the distance—red lamps attached to their arms. Then, all of a sudden, a first narrow trail rockets into the sky, bursting into
drawinga streaming canopy of yellow-gold.
“Ahhhhhhhhh . . .,” the response from
the crowd—primal, even—as if around
some ancient fire. . .

Bright Thursday, already warming. . .
Portland canyon, alders and willows,
tangle of unnamed grasses, all around the
edge. Proliferation of green—impossibly
green—verde que te quiero verde—the
endless rains giving way to a hot
summer afternoon. River valley—the sandy Willamette. Old smells of pulp mills and wood smoke—a working town. drawingThe Yamhill Market, horsemeat and mutton—Ginny Gilmore’s “continual” stew—we finally had to toss the entire icebox . . . Quiet now, the summer’s visitors yet to appear. Amphitheatre on a hillside—rickety wooden benches, set into the slope. Not yet refurbished—no need to, apparently—memories too strong. Like the faces—intelligent, intense—all re-seen . . .

. . . Portland again, standing under the commons eve with John. Remove of forty years. Last time was the Doyle stairwell, sometime late at night.bird Hum paper due the next morning—was it Blake? Songs of Innocence, Songs of Experience. But how does one know? His holding forth—on Leadbelly—the only true music. An adamant view . . . But again, how little
we knew. . . .