The move is all but complete, and we’re fairly close to being back to normal. The main thing needed right now is for our many fine contributors to let us know if there are formatting issues with their works. We did our best to keep the originals intact, but for some of them, especially the poems, the ride was far too bumpy and jostled them out of position, here and there. Please contact us to let us know of any typographical errors, and we’ll fix them ASAP.
Why the pout Edward Hopper? Your many self portraits interchangeable Turned down mouth Empty eyes Stoic Sour Brooding Not a hint of a punch line But always impeccably dressed What lies beneath?
Your marriage to Josephine, Jo Reads rather contentious, tumultuous Yet she was your subject Diminutive Combative muse Bedraggled nude Expressionless Perhaps eating from tin cans Transformed you both to granite
Brushstrokes of simplicity Your artistic gifts portrayed loneliness Dark shadows Deep thoughts Solitude Isolation Until you created coastal scenes Where you found light essence And release
Musings on “Little Goose Girl” by Millet
What have you seen Simple thatched house Generations of simple folk Who patched your humble walls
The geese at your doorstep Years of harvest and famine Like the seasons And phases of the moon
Within, the acrid smells of your hearth Beside you the giant tree Your sentinel Why does this interest me, you ask Oh, I feel your heartbeat
(Poetry Workshop at Boston Museum of Fine Arts, French Pastels, with Regie Gibson)
The American West of our imaginations, back in the day. Back in the days of cowboys and gold rushes, San Fran brothels and deadly coal mines, horse thieves and mountain men. The American West of our rather limited imaginations, if we grew up with a certain kind of preset range of ideas, photos, movies, stories and dreams in our heads; which, of course, to one degree or another, means pretty much all of us.
The Tempest before the storm. Rocky shores, an island, a remote, semi-protected place for women alone. But they aren’t. And they know it. They know what awaits them offshore. They know what surrounds them, has always surrounded them. They know the countless obstacles in their way. Not just being young women. But being young women in love. Being jeune filles who love each other in 18th century France. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
It was never the case, at least not in the modern world. Outside a few. Outside a few lone souls, able to live on grass and berries. Able to hunt and gather, make their own shelters, their own clothes, treat themselves when they got sick. Pull their own teeth. Make and fix their own modest tools. Having next to no layers between themselves and the earth. Right there. Being there always. Right on top of the earth, like mother and child.