For the past month, some of my writing has been featured in a group show at Paragraph gallery along with visual artists Neil Goss and Monica Dixon. I tried something a little unusual for this show, which is titled “Sincerely Yours.” Instead of standard wall text or a booklet, I constructed writing panels that look almost like kitchen cabinetry, with titles on the outside and continued text within. To fit with the theme and title of the show, I called it “Cover Letters.” The pieces are short — only about 500 words total. The goal was to address personal/intimate topics to create short moments of communication with the reader. I like the way the show turned out. The expansive fabric, varied textures and colors of Neil’s and Monica’s work creates a pleasant, slightly dreamlike atmosphere, and the writing is presented in a more interactive fashion than past shows I’ve been a part of. If you’d like to see it in person, drop by Paragraph on Saturday, Aug. 6 at 1 p.m. We’ll be giving a short talk (30 minutes total) and answering questions, along with curator Michael Krueger, a visual arts professor at the University of Kansas. There will also be coffee.
For further reading, here’s Annie Raab’s review in The Pitch.
And here’s some background about my portion from the Charlotte Street blog.
Last year I saw this video, which was filmed by the music ensemble Quadrigarum at the mouth of the Turkey Creek tunnel, and I made it my mission to find out what this challenging, fascinating piece of art was all about. A few months later, I published this feature in the Pitch. Thanks to Tim for showing me around, Ashley for the musical/philosophical insight, the folks at Mid America Regional Council for the numbers/perspective, and to Scott at the Pitch for the helpful editing. You can read the whole thing here.
The sun may be setting on this site. I’m not sure yet. I’m still writing, still busy, still enjoying life. But I don’t want to spend much more time in the shifting sands of WordPress, which in addition to adding video ads seems to have stripped the formatting and sidebars in the most recent update. You get what you pay for, I guess. In the meantime, feel free to get in touch by email, or phone, or by saying hello.
A few months ago, my good friend Robert Bingaman asked if I would be interested in writing something for his upcoming painting show at Studios Inc. He told me to just come by the studio once in a while to observe and chat, and we’d take it from there. We spent the following weeks talking about art, watching the World Series, playing ping pong and working on our respective projects. On the day of the parade, I sent Rob a text expressing my uncertainty about how to approach the project. He replied:
Don’t beat yourself up. This is all about doing something good and worth doing and beyond our grasp and beyond our ability to always succeed or find it. Trust the process.
I wound up writing an essay about the exhibit, and also made 100 prints of the prose poem above. I’m not sure I pulled it off, but I learned a lot in the process, and I’m happy Robert took me along for the ride. If you get the chance to visit the exhibit or check it out online, I encourage you to do so.
“Until It’s All You See” is on display at the Studios Inc exhibit space at 1708 Campbell through Dec. 18. Gallery hours are Tuesday through Friday, 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. (closed from noon to 1 p.m.) and Saturday from. noon to 4 p.m.
It was a stormy Sunday night and I was out too late, hours later than I meant to be. Nothing had been open for hours, but I’d managed to drink and drug my way into the early morning. I didn’t want to call a taxi and there was no one I could ask for a ride, at least not without angering or embarrassing my family. I’d fallen asleep on a bus or something and didn’t know where I was in the city except that it was far from home. The late hour and the impending storm had all but cleared the streets, so I decided to look underground. Surely there was a subway line that could get me close to where I needed to go. I found a cellar door with a stairwell that led into a station, which was almost pitch black. It looked like a service depot, with hardly any signage except for a dusty electronic ticket booth which I swiped my debit card on and which spit out a ticket from a dot-matrix printer with perforated margins. The ticket cost me $16.17, but the route numbers listed on the ticket were unfamiliar. I looked at a map on the wall, but it appeared to be of an island, and everything was in German. The stops along the route were neighborhoods or municipalities I had never heard of before, including one — possibly the station I was at — called Abaddon. I saw no other passengers, and on the tracks different trains went by without stopping. Box cars, wooden crates, steel rail cars with no engines attached. I walked to the far end of the platform where a man behind a murky bulletproof glass window offered to help. I showed him my ticket, which he collected under the counter and looked at with confusion, shaking his head. He sold me a new ticket for $7 and asked where I needed to go. I felt foolish asking for help since I had never seen a subway station anywhere near my house before, or anywhere in the city for that matter (except of course the Amtrak station downtown, and this was clearly something much older, more surreal and subterranean than our nation’s official subsidized rail service). But when I told him I needed to get to Westwood, he nodded and pointed to a stop on the line that would let me out at Southwest Boulevard, a low-lying urban thoroughfare near the railroad tracks. The train should be down there in just a few minutes, he said, nodding toward the dark end of the platform. Would there be a sign? I asked. No, but you will see the other passengers. A minute later, an engine with a single cattle car attached pulled up, but no one else was on the train or waiting to board. It slowed down long enough for me to jump on, but sped up again before I could make my move. It must have been almost light outside by now, but it was hard to tell since the station did not have any clocks. I began to doubt whether I would ever get home. The other trains and train fragments continued to race past at increasingly faster speeds. A few moments later I was woken up by a particularly loud peal of thunder. The faint smell of soot and axle grease lingered in the morning darkness.