St John's Bridge

When asked to weave a bridge that spans the Willamette River in Portland, it seemed my only option was the St. Johns Bridge. I had a personal relationship with it, as a young girl. I would ride with my mother to take my father dinner. He worked a late shift at the Portland Police Bureau’s North Precinct, located at the east end of the bridge. We never crossed the bridge, but each time we would approach it, it would give me an inexplicable sense of doom. I would often have nightmares of the spires falling and the bridge crumbling around our car, as we would drive across it. Although they have faded with years, I still remember those fears when I see her cathedral spires and graceful arches rising above her long span. Our artist group’s decision to choose specific colors we would all use contribute to the dark menacing childhood feeling I was trying to evoke.