Ekphrasis XII 2023 Online Exhibition
SET 1. Writer Initiators and Visual Artist Responders
A. ROBIN KOSKI, "The Pace of Grief." Response by pastel artist LAURA CORBEN: Every Morning.
B. LYNN KIESEWETTER "Let Sleeping Dogs Lie." Response by artist MARALEE GREENE: Careful Eye.
C. NANCY NELSON, "Fragrant News for Aging." Responder, painter MARY-ELLEN CAMPBELL: SpringSong.
D. CATHERINE MARSHALL, "Voices." Responder, Assemblage Artist, WENDELL RICKON: Unhinged with a Wing and a Prayer.
Intro Set 2 Set 3 Set 4 Set 5 Set 6 Afterword
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A. "The Pace of Grief"
initiated by ROBIN KOSKI |
A. Response by Laura Corben
Every Morning |
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I’m making my bed every morning,
complete with throw pillows. I make it this way so that someone I know, who knows my situation, might pass by my bedroom and say to themselves, or others who care, “Hey, look, she’s okay. That is the bed of a forward-thinking woman. There’s dignity here.” I make it this way because I’m afraid if I don’t do this simple task each morning, I will succumb to the daily desire to deliberate inaction, lock the doors to house and bedroom, fall into the sweet embrace of soft sheets, cush of topper and mattress and fade away to grey, then to black, fall away, all the way . . . home . . . for some hours of these pensive days I slog through. I make it this way because it’s a pain to remake a bed with throw pillows, even if only three. |
Pastel
Please . . . stop asking when my tears will cease. Is it not enough that I brushed my hair and teeth, I am wearing actual clothes, and willing to stumble through another day? Please . . . stop asking what I want to do. For fuck’s sake! Is it not enough that I made my bed today? |
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B. LYNN KIESEWETTER
"Let Sleeping Dogs Lie." How would it sound as a story someone wrote down in a book? How would it look as a picture somebody else took? How would it read as a poem by somebody, not me? Truth is always hard enough to take so make it clear enough to see. She says: “There are no simple words to explain things we must do,” as she walks through his life just one more time. With a mixture of madness and passion, and some leftover pride, “Oh, please,” he warns... “let sleeping dogs lie.” |
B. Response by artist MARALEE GREENE:
Careful Eye 
Mixed media, 16sx20 in.
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C. NANCY NELSON, "Fragrant News for Aging"
Mid-May each year I watch for peonies.
The day they appear in my local market, I buy three bouquets, white, pink and mauve. I fill my favorite vases. I anticipate their gentle, sweet aroma, and watch each day, as they bloom from youth to death. In youth, the petals are bound into densely packed spheres, wrapped tight, each petal clung to the next. In some blooms, the petals are so tight, so protected, they cannot open. I gently free the lowest petals from the sphere, so the petals can separate, and age normally, each petal loosening into its own spaces. The flesh of each petal grows translucent, as it ages, and stretches out in wild abandon, in its own directions, giving each bloom its own loveliness, its own story, none like its neighbor. |
In the height of peony season this year,
I attend a family birthday party. Lysette, a retired opera star, and seventy-nine. serenades her brother, the “birthday boy.” Her joyous solo resonates with love. After her performance, as I approach to compliment her, I hear her bemoaning her weak and failing voice. “Oh, Lysette, I offer you the wisdom of the peonies. No, your voice is not as clear as when you were twenty-five. Aging peonies do not stay as firm as in their youth. Their petals grow thinner and more fragile, as do our vocal chords and skin. But aging peonies spread wide their delicate, lacy petals, finding space to be wider, fuller, fleshier. Each peony grows unique in its aging. The petals of one bloom retain a loosely-cylindrical shape, while another spreads its petals like a starfish or a nova. Each elder flower grows more interesting and compelling than ever it was in its tightly-bound youth. |
C. Responder, painter MARY-ELLEN CAMPBELL: SpringSong.
Cyanotype with watercolor 12x9
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D. CATHERINE MARSHALL, "Voices"
Catherine Marshall Voices I can’t see a thing. A few moments ago, I’d been cruising in clear skies at 5,500 feet toward Red Bluff. The cockpit of the Cessna 152 I’d rented is now wrapped in a shroud of gray. Did I fly into a cloud? Before I left Santa Rosa, I’d checked the weather again. As a student pilot on her qualifying cross country solo, I made sure I left nothing to chance. My jaw tightens. I grip the wheel, maintaining altitude and keeping the wings steady. I correct the heading that drifted during my moment of panic. I recall my instructor, Don reminding me what to do if I ran into trouble. “Your reaction will be to pull back on the wheel. Resist the urge or you’ll stall.” I choke back the terror climbing up my throat. “Breathe,” I say. I take a ragged breath. My flight plan started at San Jose with stops in Santa Rosa, then Red Bluff, and back to San Jose, a three-point exercise required for my pilot’s license. When I began, perfect weather was forecast all the way. I must have missed something. The frequency for the Santa Rosa Airport is still dialed in. I identify myself and ask the controller about the local weather. “Clear all the way to Red Bluff.” he says. I sign off and scan my instruments again. This can’t be fog. I wiggle the wings to peek at the ground but see nothing but swirling dark. A tear leaks from my eye and I wipe it away. |
Two weeks ago, my instructor had me fly wearing a hood. The contraption allowed a view of the instruments but nothing else. I’d cursed under my breath as he guided me through the maneuvers, banking, climbing, all without the perspective of the sky or the ground. “Know that you’ll feel like you’re banking when you’re not,” he said. “Trust your instruments. You’re a good pilot. You can do this.”
My bowels shift. I feel sick. An unnatural calm comes over me. I hear a different voice, seductive and comforting. “It’s okay to let go. There’s no harm in that. It’ll be over in a minute.” Is this what it feels like to give up and die? I am inside time, moving in slow motion. My eyes cloud over. I consider the suggestion. Time passes, a second, maybe. Don’s last caution interrupts my thoughts. “And if you get into trouble, get some altitude, do a 180, and get the hell out of there.” I bank the plane to the left, the exact opposite of my original heading. My eyes remain glued to the instruments, a pilot’s version of don’t look down. I climb steadily another five hundred feet and hold my breath. I pray a Hail Mary and a desperate Please, God. Blue sky, sweet blue sky. I dare myself to look down and see columns of smoke dotting the fields below. A burn day. Winegrowers and farmers are ridding themselves of piles of wood debris unaware I am above, lost in smoke and panic. Relieved, I skirt the plumes and reset my heading to Red Bluff. I swallow a wave of nausea and take a deep breath. “You’re a good pilot,” I say. “You can do this.” |
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Responder, Assemblage Artist, WENDELL RICKON: Unhinged with a Wing and a Prayer
This is my reaction after rereading the writer's piece: The months of study and practice are completed, I'm on my way to get my pilots license when while on my well planned route suddenly I can see nothing. I'm starting to panic, getting ready to maybe die. I call out to GOD and remember my instructor saying when you get in trouble do a 180 and climb 500 feet. Thank you and on a Wing And A Prayer I'm above the smoke and on my way to my goal...! |
