Rivers and Tides

Andy Goldsworthy is a taoist master of the first order, expressing the Way through his sublime ephemeral art. Indeed, time and change is what his work is fundamentally about. I bought his first book several years ago and my family has marveled at it many times. So it was a treat to get to know the artist personally through this film, he is just as patient and gentle as you would expect, and has some wonderful things to say about the natural world, the deepest of which are expressed in his occasional inability to say it in words at all. He is like most children who play in the great outdoors alone (if they do anymore), creating things from sticks and sand and mud and snow before they outgrow it. Mr. Goldsworthy was given the gift and the mission to extend that sort of play to create profound visions of nature, and to open our often weary eyes to it in brilliant new ways. And always with the utmost respect, gratitude and humor of a wandering, and wondering monk.

I admit that for the first 20 minutes or so of this film I wasn't entirely sure I was going to sit through the whole thing. Like many other people, I found it pretty boring, and I wasn't entirely looking forward to an hour and a half of watching this guy bite icicles and stick them together. However, if you sit through the creation of his first work long enough to see the finished product, you get an idea of how impressive the rest of the film is. I really think it's sad that so many people found this impossibly boring or a retread of ideas done by other artists.

Rivers and Tides is a quiet study of some of the artwork and methods of Andy Goldsworthy, who makes his art entirely out of things in nature, generally resulting in pieces that will be consumed by nature through the normal process of entropy. It is slow moving and unglamorous, but I think that a lot of the point of the movie is to show that Goldsworthy's art does not need any accompaniment in order for it to be appreciated. I've even heard people complain about how he is always talking throughout the movie, rather than just letting nature and his artwork speak for themselves, which I just think is madness.

On the other hand, lots of people complain about CDs coming with the lyrics written out inside them. A lot of musicians as well think their music should mean whatever the listener wants it to mean without the musician showing the exact lyrics, I guess I'm just the kind of person that believes that I'd like to know what the artist was trying to accomplish with his or her artwork. I can still take it how I want to even if I know what it was meant to do. I can understand not wanting to hear him talk through the movie. He does, after all, lose his train of thought and find himself unable to explain some of his work at more than one occasion, but if you don't want Goldsworthy talk about his art while you're watching the film, feel free to turn the sound off. That's like not reading the lyrics if you don't want to know what a musician is singing and would rather interpret the words yourself.

I think that Andy Goldsworthy's work, which I had no idea existed before I watched this movie, is incredibly impressive, and I'm glad that this film was made in order to showcase it. Indeed, since his work is generally not the kind that can be transported into a studio, photography is the only medium other than film that can express it, and I really appreciated being able to see the work that goes into his art, and the way that only things from nature are used. Whether or not you appreciate certain aspects of how this film is presented, Goldsworthy's work is moving enough to overlook that, because the film is not the star, Goldsworthy's art is. And given the lack of any music or even the smallest special effects and the slow-moving nature of the film, it seems to me that director Thomas Riedelsheimer knows that.

I was in 3D design class and my professor was under the weather. So, instead of trying to teach and get nothing accomplished and irritate his already hoarse throat, he rolled in a television and put this movie on. Within a couple of minutes, I was captured. It's that kind of intense focus where you totally forget where you are and who is around you. All I could think of was how brilliant Andy Goldsworthy was, and how masterfully his life and his work were captured by Reidelsheimer. I walked out of class that day just completely blown away. I think the agreement between Goldsworthy's art and the film were remarkable. I have never seen anything like it. It is such a beautiful film. As an aspiring film maker and current film student, this movie does more than address fine artists. It speaks to the artist inside of everyone. Whether you go to art school, doodle in church hymnals, or draw shapes in the dirt, Goldsworthy hits you in the creative sternum so hard, you can not help but to want to create. And the fact that that translates so well over film is a credit to Goldsworthy's passion and aura, but almost more so to the film maker himself. This is a must see for anyone. Anyone.

Greetings again from the darkness. Insight into the mind and motivation of a wonderful artist. How strange for most of us to see someone who MUST work... no matter the conditions, else his reason for living ceases. To see Goldsworthy's sculptures come alive and to see his reaction to each is extremely voyeuristic. This artist creates because he must - not for money or fame. It is his lifeforce. When you see his failures, energy seems to expel from his body like a burst hot air balloon. It is not the dread of beginning again, it is that he takes his energy from his work. Watching him create just to have nature takeover and recall his work is somewhat painful, but nonetheless, breathtaking. He discusses flow and time in the minimal dialog and there appears to be little doubt that the artist and the earth are one in the same. When he says he needs the earth, but it does not need him ... I beg to differ. Only complaint is the musical score seems to slow down further a pace that is relaxing at best.

On one level, this film can bring out the child in us that just wants to build sandcastles and throw stuff in the air just for the sake of seeing it fall down again. On a deeper level though, it explores a profound desire to reconnect with the land. I thoroughly empathized with the artist when he said, "when I'm not out here (alone) for any length of time, I feel unrooted."

I considered Andy Goldsworthy one of the great contemporary artists. I'm familiar with his works mainly through his coffee-table books and a couple art gallery installations. But to see his work in motion, captured perfectly through Riedelsheimer's lens, was a revelation. Unfrozen in time, Goldsworthy's creations come alive, swirling, flying, dissolving, crumbling, crashing.

And that's precisely what he's all about: Time. The process of creation and destruction. Of emergence and disappearing. Of coming out of the Void and becoming the Universe, and back again. There's a shamanic quality about him, verging on madness. You get the feeling, watching him at work, that his art is a lifeforce for him, that if he didn't do it, he would whither and perish.

Luckily for us, Goldsworthy is able to share his vision through the communication medium of photography. Otherwise, with the exception of a few cairns and walls, they would only exist for one person.