luminous work

Image-maker. In poetry, sound art, theater, collage.

i make things from words.  things that intend towards light.  here is that round box from the attic.  inside, letters, photographs, unlabeled cassette tapes.  some embossed invitations to my imaginative parties, which are select and increasingly irregular.  like you, i grow old.  i keep my hands busy and my mind occupied.  if it would be better to hold something in your hands other than a machine send me a message and i will send you something real.

Original Her/Me Page.  Removed 2/2017

I lived in a small Georgia town.  I wanted to be Wonder Woman, then I wanted to be an opera singer,  and then I wanted to be a geneticist so I could make myself a winged horse.  I could not could not believe I could not have one.  A real one.  I collected them, in plastic, resin, china, and glass. 

By chance, I read Wallace Stevens' poem "thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird."   It was sudden a cold wind blowing open a door.  I wanted to write things like that and so, I would write poems.  I was fifteen.

Six years later writing my college thesis on Gödel's incompleteness theorems simultaneously with my first one-act play.  The poetic play was about a woman choosing between her rational, mathematical husband and her young, artistic lover.  Amusingly, remarkably, I had no idea that I was dramatizing myself, inside.  I was a math major deciding what to do with my life.

My life.  Hello I live it now.  This is my life.

I live in Brooklyn, NY and in a small cottage by a river in New York State.

I studied Roy Hart voice work for many years,

I continue to dream and to study and to make.

Browse this site there are many art projects documented, or in actual existence, here.

Very recentlyi went on a little trip to Ithaca (I will not tell you which one so you will think not of known-places, but of odyssey) and there I found an illustrated second-hand copy of Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Pegasus".   I brought this book home to my little river house and read it on a very big birthday. 

It made me cry. 

Pegasus, unmastered and unmated, swift pounder-of-earth granted wings, still it is you I love.--L

Early ABOUT ME Notes Never Published

I grow many plants.

I make an ok croissant

I like teacups with roses on them.  curtains, dresses, and tablecloths too.

In my garden there are not many roses because I try to focus on native plants.  I want to live in the middle of my natural ecosystem...to support it as everywhere else it erodes away.

I like wearing red and pink at the same time.

When I was a little girl I would scheme all night about what I would need to do to make a winged horse.  I thought I would be a molecular biologist so I could engineer one.

In school I studied math and writing.

Then I made theater.

Then I moved to New York.  I studied Roy Hart voice work and other things.

It is hard to make things in New York.

As I get older I know I have only so much energy and I want to use it making things.

So I make them and hope you will find them and like them.  I don't have time to worry about all that.  I feel happier moving on to make the next thing rather than promoting the thing I already made.

The thing I just made isn't very interesting to me.

The thing I am about to make is stupendously fascinating.

A few years ago I went to Ithaca.  Ithaca is the journeyman's home.  In the bookstore there I bought a children's book illustrating Nathanial Hawthorne's tale of Pegasus.  It made me cry.

I am the winged horse. 

I am the lioness. 

And an owl.

My imaginary friend is an odalisque who lives in an obelisk. She has a blog it is here.

 

Work that has mattered to me in chronological order (perpetual references):

Dare Wright, The Lonely Doll

Valentines

Wonder Woman

Thomas Jefferson's Monticello

Wagner's Ring Cycle

Greek Mythology

Alexandra Stoddard, The Book of Color

Tolkeinn, you know

Duran Duran

Demian, Hesse

Stevens, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird"

Richard Wilbur, "The Writer"

Kandinsky, the first abstract painting I knew how to love.

Peter Gabriel's Passion

Any Greek ruin anywhere.  Santorini.

The remnants of Frank Lloyd Wright's Imperial Hotel

Eliot's Ash Wednesday

Yeats, as a whole there is no one thing.

Geometry.  Euclidean.

Fefu and her Friends (Fornes), The Woods (Mamet), Death and the Horseman (Soyinka), Night (Pinter)

Pinter, Beckett, Maaterlinck

VIRGINIA WOOLF TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

Jekyll Island, Georgia

Klee, Runner at the Goal & Twittering Machine and An Angel Brings a small Breakfast

The Orangerie at Kew Gardens

Peter Brook, The Empty Space ("I can take any empty space and make it a stage")

Vanya on 42nd Street

The Book of Tea

Bartok's, Bluebeard's Castle, Prokofiev's piano concertoes and flute sonata!, Beethoven String Quartets & Symphony #7

Dah Teater, The End of Time

The Two Character Play, dear Tennessee

Roy Hart Voice

Elliot's Four Quartets

Surrealism, Dorothea Tanning and her interior birthday with opening and closing doors

James Hillman, The Blue Fire

Odin Teatret's Chaos

Bloomsbury, Vita Sackville-West

Manet still-lives, v/s Fantin-la-Tour

Camille Paglia, Sexual Personae

Mary Oliver

Japanese & Chinese Poetry translated by Kenneth Rexroth

David Bowie, Jimi Hendrix, Beck

Victorian scrapbooks

Sappho via Anne Carson

The Book of Time

The American desert

Native American mythology (non-linear narrative structure)

Saratoga Springs as it was and is, preferably in the off-season

Any production of Godot, even the bad ones.

Rumi

Carl Sagan's Cosmos

Keats Ode to the West Wind

Catalogs of ferns and interior plants

 

Some things made [from words]:

  • a tea party for voice and debris,
  • a power-point presentation about the abyss,
  • 3 plays for me, my roommate, a chair, and the empty house we lived in,
  • a play with static pools of light through which I moved as Medea,
  • a sea-struck cabaret of wrecked sea-shanties for a washed-up she-fish in lucite shoes. 
  • a play about standing at the top of the empire state building for myself and an empty bottle, both us stuck in a single spot of light, 
  • a web-scrollable poem about Andromeda, chained to her rock.
  • monologues.  poems.  scripts.  postcards.  collage.  croissants.  strawberry tarts.  terrariums.  a garden.  radio poems.  teatime, daily.  unholy reams of chicken-scratched trash -- paper, loose and bound in books (red, marbled, some, yes, with greek-keyed pegasus soy-inked on front)
  • dreams dreams dreams.  a windchime to be repaired.  The black snake who is also a dragon shuddering across the lawn.  a screeching fury who wants out of the playroom.  a house whose basement is the sea and all the ways a girl travels in water...on scooters and motorcycles.  There is a crumbling stone retaining wall behind it well-built wood.  Why, I wonder, am I afraid of it falling?  There is a boy who comes and comes again and a white city, rapturous and Saarinen-like, stained glass under swirling snow.  There are entire theaters to watch.  And unwritten books, cover-to-cover, I read.

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