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The distance from here to there by Gowri Koneswaran

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She is afraid to cross the street alone here
So she grazes his elbow with her right hand.
Twenty-nine years old and her father is her
Security on this eight-minute walk
From the hotel to his sister’s house, from
One side of the busiest street in this country
To the other.

She lets him think he blends in,
Allows him the privilege of believing
His departure thirty years ago
Doesn’t make this country any less his;
That leaving his home to give his children
One that wouldn’t rank them by ethnic group
Is not the definition of choice.

She has learned her place here.
As a teenager she thought
She could camouflage herself in
A salwar kameez,
Plait in her hair,
Pottu on her forehead, and
Made-in-India-but-sold-in-Sri-Lanka
Slippers on her feet. But she

Wears her passport in the way she
Looks men in the eye,
Pays too much attention to the trishaws and
Passengers almost falling out of buses.

She asks to stop at the bookstore so she can
Practice her Tamil.
Enna vilai?

He lets her get away with knowing how to ask
What price?

While needing him to translate
The answer into English.

Gowri Koneswaran is a poet, singer, and lawyer based in Washington, D.C. She has been a featured poet at the Kennedy Center’s Millennium Stage, the Smithsonian Folklife Festival, Campus Progress’s Protest Through Poetry, Sulu D.C., and Busboys & Poets. Gowri released her first chapbook, Still Beating, in 2010. She hosts “Poetry in the Morning” at BloomBars community arts space and was a member of the 2010 D.C. Southern Fried Slam team.

The distance from here to there by Gowri Koneswaran (c) Copyright Gowri Koneswaran; printed by permission of the author.

Alive to the Possibilities by Jessica Beels

Following a traditional track toward museum curatorship, I studied art history (17th-century Dutch genre painting) as an undergraduate at Harvard University and later got a masters degree in Early American Decorative Arts from the Winterthur Program at the University of Delaware. My first post-college job was with the Smithsonian.

All along, however, I was working with my hands, almost obsessively accumulating at least a passing familiarity with as many media as possible. I have always knit, embroidered and collected sticks and vines to make into baskets. In high school, I learned theater costuming and set design, had a summer job with a cabinetmaker, and learned to work with silver and enamels. Right after college, when I moved to Washington, DC, I learned spinning, took classes in figure drawing and stone sculpture carving, learned to throw pots and honed my silversmithing skills.

In 1995, when my daughter had just been born, I left my editing job to stay home with her and try to make a living making art. I had fallen in love with sculptural beadweaving, exploring the three-dimensional possibilities of weaving simple cylindrical glass beads into complex hollow and undulating forms. The experiment worked, and my primary occupation has been as an artist ever since.

In 1998, while pregnant with my son, I craved a last hurrah before going “under” for the next two years. I wanted to work on a large scale, but I obviously couldn’t haul large hunks of clay or metal around, so I signed up for a two-week class in paper sculpture with Jeanne Jaffe of the University of the Arts, at Haystack Mountain School of Crafts. There, I fell in love again with a new media and a new technique, draping flax pulp, which shrinks tight as it dries, over armatures. I delight in the possibilities offered at every stage of this process, from building the armature, to making the paper sheets, to surface treatment, to how the paper distorts the form as it dries and then changes color and texture with final surface treatments. I also love that the medium so clearly expresses its formal possibilities. It is hard to achieve those curved and shrinking forms any other way.

The next couple of years, most of my time was spent raising my kids and working with the more contained medium of bead weaving (large vats of stinky water and toddlers don’t mix very well). But after a few years, I found a local paper artist, Ellen Mears Kennedy, who let me pick her brain and work with her while I decided where I wanted to go with the medium.

About three years ago, I switched from showing primarily beaded work to focusing on handmade flax paper shrunk over armatures. I make both jewelry and sculpture. Often, I print the wet paper with inks and paints and, when the paper is dry, infuse the surface with wax to seal it and enhance its translucence. I am intrigued with how the opaque and sometimes reflective quality of the inks contrasts with the glow of the paper fibers. Recently, I have been making ungalvanized steel armatures and experimenting with sealing in the rust resulting from the metal’s contact with the wet paper and ambient humidity.
 I am also beginning to make larger pieces again. There are few intrinsic limits on the size that can be achieved with this lightest of media.

Alexander Calder’s work is a major influence for me, with his sense of play and irreverence for material coupled with his love of simple fluid form and composition. True to my art historical beginnings, I still love 17th-century Dutch paintings, with their focus on everyday objects, and the memento mori theme of many still life paintings. The twisting lemon zests, skulls, bugs, and shells of this work feed into so many aspects of my imagination.

In almost every medium I’ve pursued seriously, I have drawn from my fascination with biology, particularly microscopic organisms, and math. I love the sense of timelessness of fossil forms – how nature produces mathematically stunning forms. They are often imperfect – but they refer to pure math – symmetry with blips and crinkles. I try to capture the feeling that you are seeing something in transition, a phase of an organism, a growing being. Sometimes my work is about transience and decomposition, and sometimes it is about growth and evolution. I explore interior spaces, how an exoskeleton or skin reflects the absent organism that grew it and grew in it.

Jessica is an Associate Artist at the Torpedo Factory in Alexandria, VA, and will have a studio at Flux Studios in Mt. Ranier, MD, starting in August 2010. Her website showcases her jewelry and sculpture and lists upcoming shows and classes. She also writes a blog about artists reusing and recycling materials.

On July 8, she will be featured in a trunk show at the Neptune Gallery in Bethesda. In September her work will appear in a group show at the District of Columbia Arts Center (DCAC) and in May, 2011 she will have a solo exhibition at the Black Rock Center for the Arts in Germantown, MD.

She exhibits and sells her work at juried craft shows and galleries from Maine to Kentucky to Virginia, and many places in between.Upcoming shows include the Westchester Craft Show, October 15-17, 2010, the Washington Craft Show, November 19-21, 2010 and Craft Boston Holiday, December 10 – 12, 2010.

Edited by Ellyn Weiss

[POEM] My Garden at Vetheuil by Jessica Wilde

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Mom took us to the National Gallery
when we’d had enough
of dolls, work-out videos
and make-your-own-popsicles.
“Which one is you?” she asked
and we stared up,
the walls whiter than at home.
The girl with the watering can?
The hula hoop?
The one that up close
is made of spots?

The little girl alone,
because she was blond,
and I was too, then.
The one who thought mom
wasn’t looking
because she was so far ahead,
who could sit in a cardboard
moving box
in grass above her head
and be alone.

1880
Yellow spots with green,
shadows of moving flowers,
a little girl alone,
walking in front of the rest,
veering slightly to the left of the path,
her feet frozen in motion,
her youth trapped in one breath.

Monet’s wrist trains my eyes
to recognize my face.
My face
with a mere suggestion of eyes
the color of my dress,
blue into green
peach into yellow
like the world with sun in your eyes.

Mom chose this postcard
years later,
to write me from Walter Reed,
when I would clorox the kitchen
before bed,
when I would sit on my floor
late in the night
and write Bible verses
on ripped up note paper,
tape them on my wall.

I taped the postcard too,
between rainbows are reminders of god
and a Teen-Bible cut-out
of how you look ahead when you carry coffee
so it doesn’t spill—
a metaphor for looking to the future.
Now everyone has cancer
and metaphors of the energy
of color,
of beams bursting
through her body
dividing the cells
that divide too fast,
and her and me both
no longer suffice.
Mom rolls her eyes
at breast cancer patients,
lends them her books,
feeds them carrot juice.

But back then,
my Spanish teacher took me aside
when her mom died
and told me I understood
what it’s like to ponder your mother’s death.
I had no idea,
just accepted her jewelry,
let her call us in, one by one,
to choose the clip-on earrings
we had preferred most while playing dress-up,
the watch on a golden chain
that wound,
that my grandmother kept
in a box
in a plastic bag
with a rubber band around it,
padded with bandaids.

Two nurses,
girls in their twenties,
manned the radiation machine,
showed me a video
of the room behind the metal doors,
and the one nurse slapped the other.
“You’re crossing your legs again,”
she said.
Crossing them makes varicose veins
like her mother had,
she explained.
Then, without a pause,
she pointed at my mother’s feet,
coming out one end of the radiation machine
like groceries on the slowest moving
conveyer belt you’ve ever seen.

Jessica Wilde is a D.C.-based writer of fiction and poetry. She grew up in a Navy family, moving frequently along the east coast of the U.S. and throughout Europe. She graduated from the George Washington University in 2008 with a degree in English and Creative Writing, and received the Hassan Hussein prize for her thesis in fiction. She writes for the Works in Progress section of The American Scholar and is an Assistant Editor of Bourgeon.

My Garden at Vetheuil by Jessica Wilde (c) Copyright Jessica Wilde; printed by permission of the author.

Creating a Veil of Ignorance by Judith Peck

Last year, based on past work and exhibitions, I was juried into the Hillyer Art Space 2010 season to have a solo show. I had just about finished painting my last series (which was on the effects of global issues on the individual), and was ready to begin something new. I started three paintings, one after another, each on subjects that just didn’t feel right in a way that would sustain a whole series. Then I came across a thought experiment by the political theorist John Rawls.

Rawls’ “veil of ignorance” suggests that we hide from ourselves our personal social status, ability, and income, when we make decisions about systems of justice. He suggests that a “veil of ignorance” helps us consider the interests of the least advantaged members of society, and make the best choices for everyone. Inspired by this hypothetical system inspiring social justice, I found that I could not stop painting. The paintings poured out of me.

veil-480pxFor more than thirty years my work has centered on social justice issues seen throughout history. I’ve painted on such themes as the steps taken by the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa, the victims of suicide bombings, and the uncertainty of bringing a child into this world. The most intriguing part of the veil is that Rawls used such a strongly visual image to explain his concept. I thought that if I could capture that wonderful idea, I would have something special. In the past, a symbol often stood alongside the model to convey a sense of time and place. However, the veil enabled a cohesive, natural, woven image. The veil might be light and airy and dissolve into the atmosphere, or it can be a thick shroud that hides part of you. For example, in my painting titled “Veiled Judgment” (seen on this page) the veil almost floats before the woman in the painting, largely obscuring two strikingly different symbols of social status: a worn worker’s shoe and a stylish high-heeled one, and thus leaves the woman’s station in society in doubt. It became clear to me that if a veil were set in between the subject of the painting and the viewer, either one could be considered “behind” the veil depending on one’s point of view, as is the case in “Veiled Identity.” In this way, I hope the veil engages the viewer, strengthening your interaction with the painting.

Now a week away from the June 4th opening, I am obsessing about finishing up, reworking paintings that have already been photographed, and even inviting models over with new paintings in mind. I guess I like to work under pressure. Please comment here if you have any questions or thoughts, and I hope you’ll come by the opening and let me know what you think.

Judith Peck has made it her life’s work to paint about the history and healing of social injustice. A graduate of the George Washington University with a degree in fine arts, she has exhibited her work in venues nationwide, including the Center for Civil and Human Rights in Atlanta, GA, and the Rhonda Schaller Studio in Chelsea, NY, as well as in such print media as Ori Soltes’ book The Ashen Rainbow and the San Francisco City Concert Opera Orchestra’s announcement for “Die Weisse Rose.” Peck’s latest series “Original Position” will be showing at the International Arts & Artists’ Hillyer Art Space from June 4th to June 26th with an Artist / Curator Talk to be held Saturday June 5th from 5 to 7 pm. You can visit the artists website at www.judithpeck.net.

Poem: A Triumphant Return by Isaac Beekman

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Lactation precedes this dictation but nowhere is expectation
As high as with the internal leave-taking of the senses, this mother
Of creation, this happenstance of understanding. Lactation
Underwires the triumphant return of mistakes which bless
This tundra, replete with the ice of hardened experience.
This return solidifies the maternal in me, the show up
And fight, the wrestle and meander in me, provoking
Such stiff yards of immigration that I am easily pushed over.
I am pushed over, I fall over in this triumphant return.
The overwhelming pull of gravities strange and immeasurable
Leaf me into the hardware of great joy, my body surrounded by
The snow and ice, melting the cold with my warm back.
I look up, a triumphant return at hand:
There you are.

(C) Isaac Beekman