Ekphrasis IX 2020 Virtual Exhibition
SET 2. Visual Artist Initiators and Writer Responders, cont.
D. Conjuring Dragons (Steve Garner), Remedy (Shirin Yim Leos)
E. Mother and Child (Karen E Reynolds), House Hunting (Sue Gibson)
F. Waiting (Sev Ickes), Story of a Farm (Priscilla Comen)
G. Night Bridge in Venice (Sharon Garner), Dopo la Peste (Doug Fortier)
SET 2. Visual Artist Initiators and Writer Responders, cont.
D. Conjuring Dragons (Steve Garner), Remedy (Shirin Yim Leos)
E. Mother and Child (Karen E Reynolds), House Hunting (Sue Gibson)
F. Waiting (Sev Ickes), Story of a Farm (Priscilla Comen)
G. Night Bridge in Venice (Sharon Garner), Dopo la Peste (Doug Fortier)
Conjuring Dragons by initiating artist Steve Garner. Watercolor and black ink.
Remedy by responding writer Shirin Yim Leos
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She was not a herby chick—a term she felt entitled to use, but only in her head. She did not wear floating cotton skirts sewn over with small mirrors or decorated with elephants marching around the hem. She did not own Birkenstocks. She tried to buy organic as it was better for the planet—but only if it wasn’t significantly more expensive. With eggs, she only went as far as cage free. She did not believe in dream catchers, or crystals, or chakras, or animist gods that were the stones, sea, or sky. So it was very odd when she began to believe that all her bad feelings could be thrown. Like a ball. Like a big sack. It wasn’t entirely her idea. Her therapist had seeded it. “If your anxiety was a ball,” her therapist had said. “What kind of ball is it?” She’d noted the discordant tenses. “Were a ball. It would be a basketball.” “As big as that?” She hadn’t told her therapist the truth: that what had actually come to mind was one of those sit-on balls you use for pilates or in place of a desk chair if you had a bad back—which she did. She straightened her posture slightly. |
“Well, each time you think about it, I want you to imagine it smaller. And that’s about time.”
Was her therapist’s clock-watching meant to exercise or exorcise her abandonment anxiety? She’d gathered up her wallet and keys. So, she had imagined her anxieties as a ball, as a series of balls getting progressively smaller. And then it occurred to her that if her anxieties were a ball—she noted the awkward transition from plural to singular—she should be able to throw it. Isn’t that what balls were for? It wasn’t outlandish, it was sensible. Here she was, therefore, in her sensible tweed skirt and forest-green jacket with multiple practical pockets, standing on the edge of a cliff with the wind whipping her hair. A small ball, she thought, and she imagined it between her hands. A dense ball—but not so dense that she wouldn’t be able to loft it easily over the crumbling edge and feel the wind come whistling into the new space in her chest. Go! She thrust with all her might. It worked. Sea and salt (and from somewhere, frying potatoes) came whirling through her nostrils and deep into her newly disburdened chest. Relief. And then she breathed out. |
Mother and Child by Karen Embree Reynolds. Photograph. Reproduction 6x6 on wood panel. $50.
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Artist's comment: This image resulted from an artistic exploration of the streetlights of Mendocino. The morning shadow on a building on Howard St. seemed to cast maternal affection on the small night light, and its shadow, attached to the weathered wooden exterior wall. In addition, this neighborhood would be a perfect setting for house hunting sparrows, which are the subjects of Sue's story. |
House Hunting by responding author Sue Gibson
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Harold and Henrietta House Sparrow sat on a fence sharing a tasty fat worm, because they shared everything. Henrietta said, “Harold, this is such a special time and I need to tell you how proud I am of you. I think back when we first met and how you hopped up and down and fluffed your tail feathers. Your wings were spread wide open and you ran off all my other suitors. You are such a man. I know I am vain and but I truly think I deserved all that attention. I have always prided myself on my pretty feathers.” Harold finished his portion of the worm, cleaned his beak under his feathers and said, “Henrietta, we need to choose an eave to build our new home. Have been looking around and think I have found a few possibilities and want you to see them. I will make sure we won’t settle by any Ravens because I remember the time they tried to steal our babies and all of the gentlemen House Sparrows banded together and chased them away. I will be looking at the neighbors as I want a tranquil nest for our little family. |
There will be no Mocking Birds either because they make too much noise. I also want to be sure we have lots of twigs and straw close by. Proper mud, too. Bits of cotton are always helpful and I have found a nice supply. Neither of us want to be under HOAs, so I will be careful of that."
Henrietta chirped and said, “Oh, Harold, this time of year makes me think of our first little nest. You were so clever when you found that old Christmas tree and brought back all that tinsel. I think that was one of our loveliest. I know the other lady House Sparrows were jealous and I heard one fuss at her husband about ours and say that he wasn’t a good provider.” “Let’s go see where we might live”. After looking at several she said “Yes, yes, this one is perfect. I love the color of the eaves and think we will be happy here and raise beautiful little House Sparrows”. She gave him a soft peck on his neck and they started to gather lovely, soft things for their new home. |
Waiting by Sev Ickes
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Artist's comment:
Author Priscilla Comen's comment: "This art made me so happy looking at it! It's joyful and beautiful and I hope the story sounds cheerful, too. It is much needed these days. Thanks to the artist! |
The Story of a Farm by responder Priscilla Comen
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Mama and Papa and their five children live on a 200-acre farm in Vermont. On Bear Swamp Road, it’s half-way between Burlington and Montpelier. There are several apple trees—at least nine—and Mama bakes apple pies. She does the laundry, cleans the house, and works in the gardens. She’s exhausted at the end of the day.
Georgie, sixteen years old, sells slices of pies at their farm stand on the main road. Neighbors buy them for one dollar each, and folks from the city stop on their way home in their Mercedes Benz. Papa tends the sheep in the upper field and Victoria, fourteen, sells fruit and vegetables at the stand. She can keep part of the proceeds. There is a bright red bicycle at the store downtown she would love to have. The children are named for Kings and Queens because Mama and Papa are into the sagas of history: George, Victoria, Cleopatra, Frederick, and Julius. They are happy on the farm and go to a one room schoolhouse. Papa takes them in his wagon. Their lives are like a fairy tale. It’s a beautiful day with azure skies and white clouds fluffy as the sheep’s wool. Birds zoom across the skies and frogs croak from the pond. Sunflowers bloom in bright yellows, and daisies turn their faces to the sun. Everything is peaceful and idyllic here. The twins, Julius Caesar and Cleopatra, take care of their dog, a feisty bull named Nero. They frolic in the tall grass and let him nuzzle their ears and noses. ...cont. |
They wish they could buy him a collar with his name on it and their phone number in case he gets lost.The barn needs fresh flooring and a new roof, but the farm stand doesn’t make enough money to pay for those things. Papa can’t work at a job and care for his farmland and animals. He thinks of planting grape vines and making wine, but he knows those take years to mature before they produce any salable vintages.
Frederik stands by the road and watches the cars go by. He could use a new pair of trousers and new shoes. But he’s happy with his family and friends and neighbors who come to visit. “Baa baa,” say the sheep. “How are ewe?” “Gooood,: say the cows who donate buckets of milk and cream. In the barn are goats who contribute Feta cheese daily. And then the Army Corp of engineers comes to the farm to design a freeway. They make an offer to Papa that he cannot refuse. Now Nero will have his new shiny collar and Victoria her red bicycle. Freddy will have new shoes and pants, and Julius will be able to attend college. Cleopatra will go to business school and open her own fashion shop and direct employees. Mama and Papa will have a vacation in Hawaii. The story of this farm must have a happy ending. And so it does. |
Night Bridge in Venice by photographer Sharon Garner
Dopo la Peste by responding author Doug Fortier
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To live—me, my wife, Melina, and her mother, Antonietta had to leave our home on Calle dei Morti, Street of the Dead, in Venice, because of the plague. There is an irony there. I took this photo in the middle of March, around midnight, after we’d finished packing. We went to our summer house in the mountains outside Locana, fifty kilometers west of Turin, a four-hour trip. Our two sons, Marco and Lodovico, “Vic,” living at home, wanted to stay at their jobs, with their friends, and couldn’t be convinced. They didn’t understand our worry, but when you’re in your twenties, you are fearless. Locana has two thousand residents in the territory of the Gran Paradiso National Park where we would usually get away from the heat from mid-July to mid-September. In March, walking every day, we saw many more marmots, chamois, and ibexes. It became our routine to rise with the sun for breakfast, then walk six kilometers among the trees. |
At first we didn’t see the virus as a personal death sentence, only an inconvenience requiring masks in public, and sheltering in place. Then the numbers grew, and the media exposed the government’s disregard in trading a good economy for the lives of its citizens. Mother Antonietta became our biggest concern—we did nothing to put her at risk.
Within three months the boys needed money for food, their jobs gone. We talked every week. Their spirits were good, even though they spent most of their time at home. The time away from home worried us. Then Vic talked about how Marco wasn’t doing well. Within three weeks both were gone, and we couldn’t comfort them in their suffering—our boys. Now, three years later, in the times immediately dopo la peste, after the plague, we’re left with only what’s most enduring, what’s truly important, no longer arrogant, we’ve given rise to compassion for the suffering of others. Author's Note: Sharon Garner's fascinating photograph inspired me to write a fictional account of an Italian I'm working with on a biography in Italian of his grandfather—only the Locana house is true. Doug |
