Taylor Camp

Every Artist's Aim
“The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life. Since man is mortal, the only immortality possible for him is to leave something behind him that is immortal since it will always move. This is the artist's way of scribbling "Kilroy was here" on the wall of the final and irrevocable oblivion through which he must someday pass.”
William Faulkner

Once upon a time, Richard Nixon was President. Man took his first walk on the moon. Wages and prices were controlled by the government. “The Pill” changed sexual behavior. Roe v. Wade made unborn children a political fulcrum. A war was fought in far-off jungles of Vietnam, on the streets near UC Berkeley and on our black and white television consoles in our livingrooms.

Dateline: Santa Fe Springs, California. Karen Gould, Joyce Stone and Lydia Lent (that’s me) served coffee for 10 cents a cup- no charge for refills or smiles at Sambo’s Restaurant. On occasion, black sedans with plain hubcaps and government tags would pull into the parking lot. The Spanish speaking busboys would climb the ladder to the roof until the cars pulled away.

(Joyce, Karen, Lydia at screening)

Across the Pacific Ocean, life was being lived in a different dimension. The culture was being fought in a clothing optional hippie enclave at the end of the road in Kauai. At about the time the local officials were attempting to take charge of the situation by enforcing vagrancy laws, the brother of Elizabeth Taylor, Howard, and his wife, bought property adjacent to a state park. Their intent was to build a family home. When Howard went to the local officials with plans drawn for building permits, he was informed his property was going to be condemned for parkland- so forget building. Howard bailed the hippies out of jail and gave them permission to camp on their unbuildable property. Taylor Camp was born, lived and died. An experiment in living which was at the same time was idealistic and confrontational: a microcosm of what was happening Statewide, perhaps washed with serenity by the waves of the Pacific Ocean.

The trade winds of time lifted the three of us Californians along different life journeys where our paths seldom crossed. Karen married and moved to Washington State for a very long time. Joyce- I lost track of after my wedding. Joyce had a brother, Bob, whom we looked up to. Not just because he was 6’4” tall. He was just darn polite- very quiet- and so talented with a camera. Bob moved from the Westside of LA to Maui.

Fast forward to June 2009. Bob Stone was coming to Santa Monica for a special preview screening of his feature length documentary about Taylor Camp. I didn’t know what to expect. Karen from some PR gathered it might be about sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. It was more than that.

Director Bob Stone teamed with John Wehrheim to create a film with the authenticity of Ken Burns. With the opening notes of Iron Butterfly thumping In a Godda Da Vida- I was born again, seventeen. Reliving the story of my generation, as seen through the eyes of those who chose to seek their personal Eden at Taylor Camp.

(L-R John, Bob)

Bob and John captured the crossroads of innocence and tumult in photographs and interviews of both the campers and the locals: who often felt invaded by the counter culture. Bob and John thoughtfully recorded the price of free love in the death of Minka, who died of AIDS, because at 21, she had a relationship with a male who did not know he was infected.

The portrayal of life in this Eden is undeniably romantic. Children were born. They played. But there were no major injuries or deaths. Drugs appeared to be more available than clothing, particularly marijuana. But there were no major medical incidents. Probably not so much from wisdom as from the good fortune which shined on this Eden. I was a bit edgy that the resident Vietnam Vets who went there bore such bitterness towards our country. But, that is who went to Taylor Camp. So my concerns were eased by truthfulness.

Comfortable as I am in this middle-class existence, the housing appears flimsy. Dangerous, even. But to some of the campers, it was the most permanent life they had known. For some it was respite from war. For some, from drugs. For others, a place to escape abuse.

The movie transports the viewer to a time the fabric of our society needed stitching up. The preview edition transported me back to those formative years, when the world outside was ripping apart. We were a generation that hurt. We worshiped freedom, rebelled against authority and sought spiritual enlightenment, not always wisely. These were years when the Beetles Song, “Helter Skelter” inspired the infamous Manson Family Murders. The movie, by pulling me away from my comfort zone, made me confront my own prejudices. Why did a group of young families, disillusioned military veterans, surfers and candidly, druggies, converge on the paradise known as Taylor Camp. To what end?

In the end, Taylor Camp reminded me how powerful the beauty of nature is as a healer. I left with an appreciation for the continuity of people who chose to deal with life differently than I. Many people my father would have riled about as worthless hippies- grew into productive, well-adjusted citizens.

Director Robert "Bob" C. Stone didn’t understand the full scope Taylor Camp would become.”It started out as a 15 minute slide show as a fund raiser for KKCR Kauai public radio. After 1,000 people showed up at the theater for the screening and after I met some of the Taylor Campers, we decided that it might make a compelling documentary.”

It does. As with all great art, the love of the creator for the story is evident.
The soundtrack alone is worth the price of admission.
The editing- the scenic interludes: awe inspiring. When the movie is over- it will stir your soul for long after.

To learn more- Go to http://taylorcampfilm.com/

Taylor Camp Cover Images by John Wehrheim.

(Me with Bob at screening)

Bob and Karen catching up.