Ekphrasis XIII 2024 Online Exhibition
SET 2. Writer Initiators and Their Visual Artist Responders
E. NONA SMITH, "The Name Game." Response by photographer LARRY WAGNER: Interloper and the Rhodie Show.
F. NORMA WATSON, "New Orleans," Response by photographer SHANTI BALSÉ: Regret.
G. NATY OSA, "Measuring Time with Rafi -- 2." Response by artist SHANTI BENOIT: Seasons Past
H. NOTTY BUMBO, "The Fields Grow Full with So Much Longing." Response by LYNNE ZICKERMAN OLSON: Fields Dream of Wonder.
SET 2. Writer Initiators and Their Visual Artist Responders
E. NONA SMITH, "The Name Game." Response by photographer LARRY WAGNER: Interloper and the Rhodie Show.
F. NORMA WATSON, "New Orleans," Response by photographer SHANTI BALSÉ: Regret.
G. NATY OSA, "Measuring Time with Rafi -- 2." Response by artist SHANTI BENOIT: Seasons Past
H. NOTTY BUMBO, "The Fields Grow Full with So Much Longing." Response by LYNNE ZICKERMAN OLSON: Fields Dream of Wonder.
E. The Name Game by NONA SMITH
|
The week before school starts, kindergarten teachers across the country set up their classrooms, arrange pint-sized tables and chairs, create a reading corner, and staple colorful alphabets to bulletin boards. I’m in the midst of that process when I hear a knock on my classroom door. School principal Don Herzer pokes his head in. “Got a minute? I have your class roster.” There’s a twinkle in his eye. “This year should be a challenge.” I take the paper from him, count the number of children assigned to me, and glance at their last names. I don’t find any whose older siblings or parents were difficult. I give Don a “So-what’s-the-problem?” look. “Check it again,” he says, a smile playing on his lips. This time, I read both the first and last names. Half-way down the list, I see the cause for his amusement. There are two Ryans, two Heathers, two Joshuas, a Sean and a Shawn, two Alexanders, two Taylors, and three Sarahs. There’s also one child with a name I’ll need help pronouncing: Jayaraman Raghuvanshi. On the first day of school, I call roll using the first initial of the last name of children with duplicate first names. Jayaraman helps me with the pronunciation of his name, and I practice it a few times silently. When parents come to collect their children, Jayaraman runs tearfully into his mother’s arms. “He’s had a good day,” I tell her, puzzled by his tears. “He seems to make friends easily and follows directions well.” “I’ll find out what’s going on and let you know,” she says. Early the following morning, Jayaraman and his mother appear at my door. “May I have a word with you?” she asks. She gives her son a gentle push toward the reading corner and out of earshot before she speaks. “The problem yesterday was he thinks you don’t like him.” I’m shocked. “Why would he think that?” “You’ve given the other children special letters at the end of their names, but you haven’t given him one.” It’s difficult for me to suppress a giggle. When I explain to Mrs. Raghuvanshi the reason for the extra letter, we share a laugh. “Not to worry,” I tell her. “From now on, he’ll be known as Jayaraman R.” E. Response by photographer LARRY WAGNER: Interloper and the Rhodie Show. |
Photograph collage on metal 17x20. 340.
|
F. "New Orleans: 1957"
NORMA WATKINS |
F. Regret
by responding photographer SHANTI BALSÉ |
|
Sitting at a bar on a rainy November night, I watch light dancing on the mirrored bottles. I’m nineteen, this is my first day married, and we’re honeymooning in the French Quarter. My husband, tall, freckled, and protective, wants me back in the hotel bedroom. From last night to an hour ago, he poked me until I am sore and resentful. Ecstasy for him, I can tell. Happy to be in this warm, dark room with a whiskey sour, I look around. On the barstools to my right, two attractive men, the type I’d go out with if I hadn’t gotten married yesterday. Hands in lap, I slip off the heavy gold wedding band and drop it into my purse. Smiling, I turn toward the strangers. Dimpling, I’d call it, if I had dimples. I focus on the cuter one, twinkling, charming, being funny and coy until I know he wishes I were his. Our glasses empty, the new husband tugs me back out into the wet cold. “Why did you take off your ring?” he asks. A flash of shame. I thought he hadn’t noticed. “It was itching my finger.” |
|
|
G. "Measuring Time with Rafi --2"
Today we watch airplanes crosshatch the air in a game of tic-tac-toe, fill the hours with bubbles in the swirling colors of the universe, then nestle to rest in a bed of rustling autumn leaves. And time loops like the black crows cawing inkblots on a canvas of white clouds across the Virginia sky. Naty Osa |
G. Seasons Past in response by SHANTI BENOIT
Acrylic on canvas. 225.
|
H. The Fields Grow Full with So Much Longing. by NOTTY BUMBO
|
See how the morning waits
just outside the farmhouse door, holds nothing in abeyance; golden light suffused with birdsong, the low music of cows lining up for their daily work. Later, the cicadas will thrum, roosters sing on endless repeat. Lenny fires up the combine, heads for the west fields, whistling. This is where time plays its reed flute, young oats clash with the wind, Here is where the child finds a dead rabbit, wonders who its children were: endless questions with unsatisfactory answers. |
Some days the stars seem to follow well into the afternoon, a light that barely remembers its origin. How we loved those days: corn promised for supper, Mother singing silly tunes as she hangs the laundry in the drifting sun. We want for nothing in this life except love, offered openly, honestly, hope some small amount makes long our days. Even after the front door closes on the night, The fields never stop dreaming of wonder. |
H. Fields Dream of Wonder by LYNNE ZICKERMAN OLSON
Acrylic. 24x36 300.
