Ekphrasis XIV 2025 Online Exhibition
SET 4. Artist Initiators and their Writer Responders
SET 4
K. SHARON GARNER, The Streets of San Francisco. Response by author PRISCILLA COMEN: Betrayed,.
L.Initiating artist SHANTI BALSÉ, Jodhpur Sunset, photograph. Response by poet MAUREEN EPPSTEIN: Blue City Blues.
M. KAREN E REYNOLDS, Street Lights. reverse perspective digital painting. Response by SUSAN FISHER: A Life of Love.
SET 4. Artist Initiators and their Writer Responders
SET 4
K. SHARON GARNER, The Streets of San Francisco. Response by author PRISCILLA COMEN: Betrayed,.
L.Initiating artist SHANTI BALSÉ, Jodhpur Sunset, photograph. Response by poet MAUREEN EPPSTEIN: Blue City Blues.
M. KAREN E REYNOLDS, Street Lights. reverse perspective digital painting. Response by SUSAN FISHER: A Life of Love.
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K. The Streets of San Francisco, by initiating artist SHARON GARNER
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K. Betrayed by Writer Responder PRISCILLA COMEN:
This is Joe. He could be Jose or Juan or Ian. He’s handsome, hard-working, and honest. This is an ancient story; it happens often. Joe’s pants are the colour of the blood pooled under his girlfrien d’s head in their apartment kitchen. He’d only meant to shove her a little when she told him she was leaving him for his best friend. They’d slept together in Joe’s bed when he was in the garage working on his car. He’s humiliated, betrayed. Bells clang in his head; he called her a slut, a whore. How many others had she slept with while they dated? He walks away to a bar he hopes to find on the busy street. He doesn’t notice people on the sidewalk staring at him. Tourists on the cable car point at him. He stops at The Pub, tosses down a whiskey, and goes home. A crowd is there, an ambulance, and a police car. She is on a stretcher smiling and flirting with the EMTs. Joe’s relieved she’s alive. His friend’s car is in the driveway. He walks away to the pier where the ferry is leaving for the mainland. He gets on board and makes plans. He’ll get a job, find a small place to live, and a woman who is loyal and honest. The fog is lifting from the Bay. It’s going to be a clear evening, filled with stars and promise for Joe. |
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L..Initiating artist SHANTI BALSÉ, Jodhpur Sunset, photograph. 
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L. Response by poet MAUREEN EPPSTEIN: Blue City Blues. I’m standing alone at a weather-worn window,
gazing down at a city of blue-painted houses, sun going down, going down. Spent my whole life taking care of my Momma, felt stuck at home taking good care of Momma, had no life of my own, of my own. Dreamed of going to faraway places with strange-sounding names. Like that Vera Lynn song, they were calling, calling to me. Momma died. I sold the house and spent all the money traveling ’round. Now I’m weary and lonely. No home to go home to now. Dreams die slow like this crumbling tower, windowsill cracked and shutters worn down, humming its blue city blues, those old blue city blues. |
M. Initiating artist KAREN E REYNOLDS: Street Lights. reverse perspective digital painting. Response by SUSAN FISHER: A Life of Love.
M. Initiating artist KAREN E REYNOLDS: Street Lights. reverse perspective digital painting.
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M. Response by SUSAN FISHER: A Life of Love.
Katherine was disappointed. So much had changed. Access to their favorite cove should be right here, but instead, there was a tall stone barrier with shrubbery, cutting the street off from the ocean. The urn was getting heavy; she’d had to park blocks away and walk.
“Bob, why did you have to pick this spot? Our backyard would have been so much easier. I could have put you next to the pet cemetery. You loved all those guys.”
There was no bench anywhere, and her painful and elderly body was getting tired. “I’ll just sit down on the grass for a bit.” She snuggled onto a spot of clover between two bushes, her back up against the stone barricade. The sun was warm, the sky a bright robin’s egg blue. Sleep snuck up on her.
When she woke up, it was after sunset. The Victorian-style streetlamps had turned on; the block was completely still. Katherine used the rough boulders of the wall to claw herself to a standing position. She brushed off her slacks and thought, “Good thing I was wearing pants, long sleeves and a bucket hat, otherwise I’d be a crispy critter by now.” She turned slightly, and to her surprise, the stone wall was gone. “What the . . . ” She laughed a raspy laugh. “Magic is alive and well. ”
The waves sparkled, a full moon was becoming visible. “Oh, Bob, now I can bring you to exactly where you wanted to end up. Are you happy?” She rolled up her pants legs and took off her shoes and tied the laces together to hang them around her neck. Across the sandy beach and into the surf she went with her precious container. Calf-height did not seem deep enough to be sure the ashes would fully submerge into the Pacific. She went further, up to her armpits. After unscrewing the lid to the urn, Katherine swirled around in the waves, mixing Bob’s remains into the chilly water. She sang “In My Life” to him. She did love Bob more, and the Beatles had been the soundtrack of their romance.
In her mind, she visualized the perfect summer days they’d spent on this beach as they fell in love. She recalled details from every single decade they were together, the easy times and the hard ones. Then she felt an overpowering desire to close her eyes and float, so she did. Never had she felt more relaxed.
On the beach the next morning, a man found a red bucket hat along with a pair of size-7 sneakers tied together. The items were damp, but otherwise in prime condition. “I will bring them home for Rosa,” he thought. He knew she would like them and that made him happy. He could not imagine life without her.
