Thrilled that my photograph “Ice On Cooper Lake” has been included in Art Along The Hudson at Betsy Jacaruso Gallery (in the courtyard behind Bread Alone) in Rhinebeck, NY. The show runs through June 2.
Ice On Cooper Lake. Art Along The Hudson. 5.12.2013
Found Photos. Truth and Fiction. 5.12.2013
Yesterday I attended the The Woodstock Byrdcliffe Guild’s opening for “Artist Unknown,” Oliver Wasow’s exhibit of found images printed from the Internet. It’s a fascinating concept—and a must-see show. While listening to Wasow explain his process, I realized that I’d written “The Angler” story (below) without knowing anything about Wasow’s work. It’s about artists creating from a really similar concept. Check it out.
NYC Haiku. Spring. 4.25.2013
Digging up the street
all day jackhammers rumble
Angler Motel. Fiction. 4.1.2013
The painter Mary Anne Erickson and I recently exhibited work in WAAM‘s first show of the season juried by Carrie Haddad. After the show, Mary Anne invited writers to create stories based on her painting, The Angler Motel, in fewer than 250 words. Here’s the Angler and my short piece.
–Painting: Mary Anne Erickson
We’d driven 400 miles since sunrise, but he wanted to keep going. Something about the Angler—the faded sign maybe, or the way evening mist, a humidity so thick it almost hummed, dipped close to the rooftops of the low-slung buildings—unsteadied me. This was one that we needed.
Inside we settled, like you do when you’re not going to be stopping for long. He propped the door with his boot, bringing in gear.
“Look at this,” I said.
“You already found that? Here…where?”
The Polaroid’s edges were scalloped, the black and white image faded into a smoky hue almost matching the two-lane landscape outside. “In the nightstand drawer, pushed way to the back,” I said.
He was unpacking a strobe, the tripod. “Great. Add it to the Motels folder.”
Our project had reminded me of these people before I’d ever seen them. Driving with no real plan, connecting dots of research, living on borrowed money—we were trying to recreate something lost.
My camera found its focus, locking on the women in the photograph, two friends laughing, sitting on the hood of a car, some version of a 1960’s sedan, a guy’s hand on the door handle, the rest of him cropped out of the frame.
“I’m leaving the original here,” I said. “Someone else might need to find it.”
He never understood that. I heard a shutter whir, the strobe popped as he photographed me, Polaroid glistening in my hand.
Three Haiku. Cherry Blossoms. 3.22.2013
This week a friend told me about a Washington, DC, cherry blossom haiku contest sponsored by NPR. Typing at my desk in NYC, I imagined walking paths lined with blooming trees while glancing up at neon blue sky. New York was gray all week, littered with melting snow—so I wrote myself into spring.
Night’s cherry blossoms
throwing petals at the moon
–outside my window.
Through the blooming clouds
of DC cherry blossoms
–a plastic bag floats.
On windy evenings
the fallen cherry blossoms
–sparkling in her hair.
Notes From Friday. Country. 3.22.2013
Looking outside across snow fields, through tall pines unsettled by this March wind, I wait for the deer to amble over hoping for bread. They’ve been peering in windows lately, inching closer to us as we move around inside. The house is a little undone, porches pulled apart for repairs—but the deer aren’t bothered by any of it. They usually arrive at dusk after the carpenters’ saws and hammers have been put away. A winter that goes on and on. Deer giving up wildness for bread. Splintered wood replaced before spring. This is the landscape before the thaw, my notes from a Friday.