A Sundance Retreat
Cathy’s Sundance Journal 1994.
In the summer of 1994, I was invited by a friend from National Geographic to a retreat at the Sundance Institute in Utah. The area is a wilderness preserve that has been disturbed very little, with just enough development at the base of a rustic canyon for artists to nurture works in progress, explore experimental directions in film, and share the fellowship and expertise of other writers, producers, and directors in a setting that inspires creativity.
Five women came together for three days – a children’s book writer and designer, a photographer, two video producers, and a writer. We were encouraged to share our work and our personal stories, and to hike, paint, talk, eat and sleep deeply. For scheduled meetings, we were each to bring something to share with the group—an activity, a product of our work, a work in progress, or reflections. These could be written, spoken, photographed, filmed, danced or sung. In the hours between meals, we could do whatever we felt like—reading, hiking, fly-fishing, horseback riding or resting.
Sundance creates an ambiance that feeds the creative muses of diverse artists. A river runs through it with a force that can be heard above most other sounds. It is mimicked only by the aspen leaves that hang on stems so thin that their fan-shaped leaves flutter like wind chimes in a breeze – shimmering, rustling, and replying to the sounds of the river below. Like water spilling over a streambed, their sound becomes indistinguishable from that of the river. Two voices in the canyon, one of air, one of water.
We each had our own rustic cottage to which we could retreat during unscheduled hours generously built into our stay. Each morning I rose when it was barely light, built a fire in the stone fireplace to burn away the morning chill, and fixed myself a cup of chamomile tea. Then it was back under the down coverlet to read for an hour or so while morning light spread from one canyon wall to the other. Each morning, I witnessed the precise moment when the sun itself peeked down into the canyon. Dark, pre-dawn greens suddenly paled with the speed of a camera shutter’s action. At Sundance, the sun’s arrival defines east for explorers and artists alike, lost in the canyon’s beauty.
Losing oneself is allowed at Sundance. That was the point of our retreat. To let go. To be awed by the sky blue of mountain flax. To recognize the deep oranges and yellows of birds as a reflection the sun itself. On walks, I collected alpine wildflowers growing amongst tall grasses on canyon slopes and along the narrow footpath that connected my cottage to the buildings below that are the heart of the Sundance Institute. A field guide to Rocky Mountain wildflowers helped identify species unfamiliar to me. Their names are as beautiful as the flowers themselves—alpine sunflower, bristle thistle, blue columbine, sticky geranium, sweet woodruff, watercress, wild violets, treacle mustard and prairie rocket wallflowers.
When I attended this retreat, I’d just begun my writing as a newspaper columnist. Looking back now almost thirty years after leaving this peaceful canyon behind me, I can say that writing is an ever-evolving process. Each writer’s voice is different. Whether lost in thought in their own writer’s bubble or capturing a scene amidst chaos, writers arrange words in their own signature way. Like pieces of fabric hung on a clothesline, their words tell a story uniquely their own. My personal challenge as a writer has ever been to find evocative ways to give voice to the people and places that inhabit my world and fill my mind.
The five women who gathered at Sundance three decades ago have all since moved on to new chapters in their lives. Still, we remain connected by the spirit that brought us together to explore and share our inner voices in a magic place envisioned by Robert Redford called Sundance.
“The overwhelming majority of average Americans have shown a willingness and desire to experience the ideas and visions of new artists, whether in independent films, ceramics, weaving or sculpture. Our goal at Sundance has always been to make art more accessible. Locking it up in an ivory tower misses the whole point.”
— Robert Redford. Sundance 1994