circa 1935, Cedric Sproat, artist
with instructional critique and grade
Sesame Street? Arrested Development? The connections are as Ann on the nose of plain’s face.
Someone gave this to me in 1998.
My noncompliance explains everything.
Tuesday morning self portrait
Marjorie had a general disposition of quiet wonder. At rest, her eyes were wide, her mouth gently ajar. Many men and women, young and old, had looked up to find Jorie staring at them, wearing her pat expression. Really, she wasn’t staring. Her eyes may have been fixed, but she didn’t see them.
Who could say what Jorie was thinking? If you sat beside her and were acquainted enough with her to speak, you might ask her, “What are you thinking about?” Jorie would blink at you, consider the question for a moment, and then, smile and tell you that she didn’t know, or she might simply say, “Nothing.”
She knew, of course, but would never say. She sat, in reverie, imagining fortresses of white stone, built out of and into a sheer cliff face. She saw rows of quartz horses marching, frozen in formation along the workbench of an aged artist. She followed alabaster stepping stones to the alabaster gate of an alabaster palace.
She sat in plastic chairs at laminated tables, on the thinly upholstered seats of a steel train on steel rails, on a leather sofa in a hardwood-floored house built of wood and wool and plaster, but she dreamed of rock, polished or roughly hewn, carved by chisel or shaped by the weather, paving the seaside or buttressing cathedrals.
Roald Amundsen Dreaming
Joh. Thorsen 1875
I realized today that I don’t even actually know the names of the members of most of my favorite bands. There’s John, Paul, George, and Ringo, and that’s about it. Ryan Miller? He’s in Guster, yeah? That’s all I’ve got. And Andrew Bird, but that doesn’t count because if he wasn’t a solo artist, I wouldn’t know his name either.
I seriously love some bands, listen to their albums on repeat, sing along with every word, but I don’t really care all that much about who the people are who make that music. I don’t care whom they’re dating or how they vote.
And I think it’s because when I was twelve and thirteen, I gave my heart to ‘N Sync and knew every single thing about those guys, and then, they broke up, and I’ve never been the same.
Susannah Hart, artist