Soft black circles this should mean something ominous, empty – not these round black spots not these warm bundles of hope how could that be.
I would like to hold them in close embrace feel their soft warmth the comfort of which you speak.
The nights are so black it’s only the season Oh there’s light in the dark think a million tiny sparks spraying the night skies strung up on Main Street.
Go ahead, laugh at the slippage and the loss Rip Van Winkle rising from his grave bemused.
Dead brown leaves one or two pressed thin against the wet cement like the ghost of a soul barely visible in the shallow pool of melting ice salt crystals scattered like a halo.
The sun is sketchy warm but weak The frenzy before a holiday Is not palpable since I won’t celebrate instead standing aside just wait.
Soft black circles this should mean something ominous, empty – not these round black spots not these warm bundles of hope how could that be.
I would like to hold them in close embrace feel their soft warmth the comfort of which you speak.
The nights are so black it’s only the season Oh there’s light in the dark think a million tiny lights spraying the night skies strung up on Main Street.
Go ahead, laugh at the slippage and the loss Rip Van Winkle rising from his grave bemused.
ReVISION: ART AT THE KENT
Vermont artists stretch the limits of ordinary perception
This group invitational exhibition, housed in the historic Kents’ Corner Museum, presented large groups of works by seventeen Vermont artists. 24 of my works were hung, included new works like Eight Bigs Scrawls and Golden Intersections (here) as well as earlier pieces such as Fekete Ország, Blue Midnight, 18 Standing Collages (here) and a pair from the Tablet Series (here).
Fekete Ország (Black Country). 2008. Poem by Hungarian poet Mihály Babits. For poem and English translation click here.
Blue Midnight 2009
Fragments and found materials have for years combined to form a compelling impulse in my work. The challenge of working within limits has always delighted me, the seductive history embedded in discarded cards, tickets, newspaper clippings and other ephemera has always intrigued and inspired. I have also used handwriting as a repurposed drawn element which reflects a duality of language – visual and literary. For more than a decade I have been stitching papers together, increasingly conscious of the cultural and physical allusions and implications of stitching, as well as the textural and linear qualities of the threads themselves.
What does the use of disparate and found materials signify in my work? Is the gathering and combining, assembling and reassembling of visual and tactile elements solely for the purpose of creating a new whole out of fragments, or conversely, is it also about the fragmentation of what was once whole?
Some kind of frozen
some kind of still – O heart be still
as sleep as death
silent as the milk of love
curdling in the black cup
drink up!
before it too is cold
as ice.