The images below inspired poems by members of the Illinois State Poetry Society!
The Addison Center for the Arts acknowledges support from the Illinois Arts Council Agency.
EXHIBIT DATES: February 15 - March 18, 2023 PUBLIC ART/POETRY RECEPTION: Saturday, February 18, 2023, 1 to 4 pm.
ACA HOSTS 3rd ANNUAL “EXPRESSIONS: ART AND VERSE” EVENT FEBRUARY 18, 2023
The Addison Center for the Arts hosted our third collaboration between visual artists and the Illinois State Poetry Society. Participating poets read poems inspired by original artworks by members of the Addison Center for the Arts. The public was invited to attend the free art reception and poetry program on Saturday, February 18, 2023, from 1 to 4 pm.
Julie Mars, the organizer of Expressions: Art and Verse 2023 explains, “This exhibition is intended to celebrate the mingling of art forms. It showcases how visual art can inspire poetry. Visual art evokes a personal, subjective experience within the viewer’s mind. In this art and poetry show, the poets have interpreted their inner experience of the artwork for us in their poems.”
Illinois artists exhibiting in “Expressions: Art and Verse 2023” are: Tania Blanco, Margaret Bucholz, Susan Cargill, Benjamin Calvert III, Ashley Ehrhardt, Andrea Fox, Jeanne Garrett, Beth Gollan, Jennifer Hauser, Tony Ilivanov, Joan Ladendorf, David Morris, Hanh Nguyen, Sharon Peters, Nancy Staszak, Lyn Tietz, Ana Vitek, and Sindee Viano.
The Illinois State Poetry Society’s featured members are: Marie Asner, Jo Balistreri, Bakul Bannerjee, CR Bolinski, Mary Beth Bretzlauf, Paul Buchheit, Hanh Chau, T. H. Chockley, Kathy Cotton, Judith Cummings, Gail Denham, Barbara Eaton, Idella Pearl Edwards, Sheila Elliott, Michael Escoubas, M. E. Hope, Mark Hudson, Judith Kaufman, Maggie Kennedy, Rafael Lantigua, Lennart Lundh, Karian Markos, William Marr, Wilda Morris, Susan Moss, Carole Novak, René Parks, Marie Samuel, Nancy Schaefer, Curt Vevang, and Rita M. Yager.
Susan Moss, ISPS President about Expressions: Art and Verse: “In the early 1970s, ISPS began as a single chapter and became a charter member of the National Federation of State Poetry Societies in 1991. Presently, there are seven chapters throughout the state, and all are committed to creating and promoting poetry in all its forms. ISPS appreciates the opportunity to blend art and poetry that results in a collaboration of these artistic forms in order to present a greater expressive whole.” - Susan T. Moss, President of the Illinois State Poetry Society.
Jeanne Garrett Milkweed Series 3, archival pigment print $350
In the deep darkness of midnight, the prairie is silent except for birds, Autumn has cast its melancholy net over dry grass and stalks of thistles.
Yellowing broad leaves of milkweeds are hardy. Stems don't bend easily but prop up seedpods to be kissed by the rays of the rising sun. Pods wait.
Each pod rests for the floss inside to swell. When the time is just right, like the urge under pressure, they burst, propelling each seed to joyous flight.
by Bakul Banerjee
Jeanne Garrett Silver Moon, digital Inkjet Print on Rice paper with metallic thread 14" x 16" $300
Locals gather at the beach on an August night to greet the Sturgeon Moon as it breaks
dusky horizon, first flash of silver that slowly emerges from waterline and casts ripples
of light across lake and sand, its radiance growing brighter as the glowing sphere climbs
farther into orbit with its magic washing over rotted pylons that once supported a wharf eighty years ago.
Gossamer threads bathe us in tranquility while painting the earth and sky as they have for billions of years. Susan T. Moss
Jeanne Garrett Healing Series 3, digital inkjet print on rice paper with cotton gauze 16" x 20" $350
Lines & Healing Circles By Marie Samuel
Outside the boxes Inside straight lines To seek a centering We find so sublime
Til inside boxes Outside those lines Swirling circles now Each hopes and pines
Can we find new boxes Within the curving lines Mostly we need healing From brutal daily grinds Daily warring-some detox Others calmer paths define Missions ageless are current Now coloring outside lines.
David Morris Alchemy, oil on panel NFS
After Alchemy by René Parks Tender youth, our breath joins the clouds swirling to the heavens in a single note we circle the fire warm fronts, cold backs bodies dividing dark from light warm golden hues dance in the pupils of our eyes daring flames reveal the future, we gaze at each other, greedy for life:
I. Calcination moon glow sets my bright skin to moving downy hairs on their ends energy shifts around my body, crown to perineum building heat like the driest desert song on a death valley day, drawing my attention, I am community’s captive, I am sliding the bolt from the lock in my minds eye under closed lids, eyes look together and up, toward my third eye, i turn twelve
II. Dissolution fully round, my face seeks its own brilliance I want to know how you turn me inside out swelling to overtake, like a soft valley accepting its wet sister slicking along, moving away like embers of fate on the bank, my destiny dissolves in the flow
III. Separation exposing me to my essentials, salt, i am elemental catlike with a wolf’s heart, teeth bared but with an expression of love from my chest inspiring the wind with each note i chant and the sound of it breaks blocks sonic waves make savory laps over my surface, jiggling apart the rocky exterior rocks jump around like little beans on my body scattering themselves on the ground until i can’t tell the difference the division makes me black and blue and I weep for lost time the whore-moans driving me mad, then quiet, a glance to the pane, reflecting
IV. Conjunction watching the leaves fan themselves, the hot waves roll of my body each side takes its turn to bask in the light, under the moon I flip from side to side, wanting both to be at once smooth to rough and back again soaking up the radiance compounding myself into moon sugar my sweet words melt into the soil
V. Fermentation a low boil under Inanna’s gaze, rising in slow hot bubbles expiring a distinct smell, the smell of change, a spicey vinegar bursting at the top it starts in my brain, pulsing until it overtakes my thoughts with fevered imperative nothing is safe from the force of it nothing is sacred here I turn forty
VI. Distillation and then the cool morning comes to me, settling clouds repose rest may finally come except the low buzz of the possibility that it might take this time
VII. Coagulation clotting around each lid touching like ouroboros lash to lash in my ears, the sonorous tock of twining loops of time a stiff patina unifies the broken days with the texture of a sharp drum beat grooving my heart a swift crescent shape sweeps the sky filling itself full of stars matching my mouth, growing into an awed oh i go to sleep to travel back in time to tell my son i love him to warn him of what the future will bring i navigate his age before and now i make myself back into the same mother i was then so as not to raise alarm, i hold his toys in my arms, looking directly into his eyes, to see the ef ect i am having as I speak is he listening? he is wise beyond his years now I leave him and move to the ice chest only to find a smaller more impossible ice chest, one inside the other the smaller chest gives up a secret warmth a pitcher of oil: hot, golden, healing to absolve myself I suppose i anoint my beating heart, soft and muscular at the same time slippery under my fingers, as they start to tingle with life
feeling the fire once again just before the icey night was going to make off with me I feel the hands of my sisters sitting with me at the fire I turn forty-eight and yet, I don’t know myself this flat passionless version, not yet feeling the effects of the oil and my own loving hands on my heart.
Jeanne Garrett Still Life, archival pigment print 17" x 21" $300
My Lovely Plant …ekphrastic, plant on table
Such a pretty plant. Not that I knew its name. I seldom remember the fancy scientific monikers. Now, buds had appeared. Hooray. Soon, if winter held off awhile, we’d have flowers.
Every morning I filled the big steel bowl on that table with seed. Then, I brought my coffee and sat to watch the birds. Nuthatches, Mountain Chickadees, and once in awhile, large noisy Blue Jays stopped for breakfast. The birds cleaned the pan quickly. The fluttering visitors brought such a cheerful feel to our porch.
Two mason jars held starts from fancy plants (which I couldn’t name), some that our neighbor sent. I was curious what would emerge. Some days my neighbor carried her cup of tea, sat with me to watch.
In time, winds picked up, and a coolness touched us. Soon I’d take my plant inside, place it by the window, hope the sun would bring out colorful blooms.
I still fed the birds. However, something else felt winter’s approach. Out of the woods came the deer, searching for a meal, now that early snow covered the grasses.
So one morning, as I came on the porch, bundled in a wool poncho, I was shocked. My gorgeous, almost-blooming plant had been nibbled to a nub. The deer had supped.
That day, the plant came inside, along with the bottled starts. I continued giving the birds their breakfast. They had to eat quick, to finish before deer sniffed out food. I added a pan of water that formed an ice skim daily. At least I could enjoy the birds, and besides, I had to admit the deer were here first. It was their land we inhabited.
by Gail Denham
Beth Gollan Gathering, paper collage Image size: 8.5" w. by 10" h. $175
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the past through a composite of colors.
Grayscale apartment buildings and shadowy, indistinct
figures line the boardwalk under a muted sky
while vibrant colors contrast a stone sculpture
and children in a Victorian photograph
are partially submerged in iridescent water.
The kaleidoscopic effect of the imagery
evokes a feeling of rebirth and renewal
and a new day of freedom heralded
by songbirds and soaring butterflies.
by Carole Novak
Beth Gollan Lucky, paper collage Image size: 6" w. by 7.5" h. $125
Lucky in love Lucky penny It's your lucky day Feeling lucky? Want to get lucky?
He loves me He loves me not He loves me He loves me not
Just my luck I'm out of luck
It's at times like these that I reach for my girlfriends.... to know that I am lucky still and to remain lucky requires nothing but secrecy....
by Barbara Eaton
Jennifer Hauser Choir Rehearsal at the Old Elm Tree, ink and colored pencil on primed masonite 6" x 6" $150
Music in the Glen
Spring is now out the door and summer is brushing her hair,
waiting for the Woodland Concert to begin.
Lightning is chased away and replaced by rainbows for visual effect.
Seating is available for the winged and four-legged audience -
logs, twigs, pebbles or mounds of velvet moss.
Moon has a view over green tree tops.
Inside the oak tree, mouse choir nervously awaits the arrival of Director Homer,
who received his name by being born near a ball park.
He arrives - a bow to the audience – his baton is raised and the concert begins with harmony throughout the Glen. . Next performance is the Fall Harvest Ball - (slight pause) lighting provided by an Orange Moon. Author: Marie Asner 2023 ISPS Overland Park, Kansas
Jennifer Hauser The Tallest of Trees, ink and colored pencil on primed masonite 3" x 17" $170
The storm lasts 10 minutes at best. Howling winds pull neighbors from dinner to doorsteps to glimpse the violence. Leaves, twigs, trash lids, a child’s stuffed bear whirl past, hail slamming roofs, car alarms screaming, while branches reel and thrash. Then, as if in sacrifice, one of the mammoth trees that oversees our street cracks in half, crashing through chaos with a thud, taking no one and nothing with it. American sycamore, Platanus occidentalis, known for bark that strips, bone-white limbs beseeching skies. The mottled giants form a 100-foot arch over our block, entwining odds and evens. The storm turns off as suddenly as it began, and neighbors descend stairs to inspect the damage. Fallen, we see the tree was hollow all along, grotto wide enough for coons and possums to hole up, a store of spilled acorns, cozy nest of foliage. A sycamore trademark, a neighbor explains. As the trees age, fungus consumes the dead, central wood, what botanists call “heartwood.” This makes me love them even more. For anyone who has not yet known the cavernous echo of their own heart beating despite, pumping despite will soon enough be hollowed, only to find themselves filled despite to bursting, if they can make a dwelling of their loss. The sun is setting, turning sycamore branches a warm amber. Hundreds of swallows circle overhead, swooping and gliding, then a dozen of the fist-size birds pitch into a hole in the tree nearest me. Listening, I hear the roaring noise of birds settling within.
By Maggie Kennedy Note: The tree in J. Hauser’s delightful painting does not appear to be a sycamore. A sycamore’s leaves are five-pointed and look like hands. But the painting made me think of the sycamores on our street.
Hanh Nguyen Wings of Joy, mixed media on canvas 12" x 12" $150
A Love Remembered
A melody secreted from the past is lingering inside me. Neural fires rekindle, frolic, titillate, and cast your fleeting image on my eyes. Desires awaken, musings fill my memory: your voice and violins, a blossoming of lovers, lilacs, and the mystery of woodlands come to life, the early spring ablush in verdancy, your perfumed skin arousing passion in my soul, your smile an artist's masterpiece as doves begin to serenade, to flatter and beguile in waves of soothing choruses, sublime attendants to my moments back in time.
by Paul Buchheit
Sharon Peters Idyllic Place, oil on canvas 16" x 20" $375
Two Becoming One by Michael Escoubas after Idyllic Place—Oil on canvas
It must start somewhere, you know, this becoming, this growing from youthful bliss.
How fragrant the summer day, the plush grass, waterlilies drifting in pink tranquility.
Sunfish kiss the pool’s surface, polliwogs snuggle near the water’s edge. The wind,
whispering from a nearby willow tree, nudges the two of you into ever-closer harmony.
Is the meadow singing? This music, this duet of two eyes synchronized, two hands trembling,
two hearts in bloom as the sun chases clouds, two minds dreaming their wedding night.
But this becoming, this interlacing of lives-- will it meet the test of two-in-one when times turn bad? When the meadow has gone to seed, what song will the willow tree sing?
Sharon Peters Life's Wonder (Great Grey Owl), oil on canvas 16" x 20" $375
THE OWL ~ Idella Pearl Edwards
While other birds fly with noisy flapping, The owl has a silent flight. It softly glides its way through the air Into the still of the night.
This silent flight is a symbol of peace, The absence of turmoil and strife. It gives us hope for graceful passage Through the trials and troubles of life.
The owl’s listening skills are finely tuned Its sensitive ears hear all. We too can master the art of listening, As we strive to hear God’s call.
Look closely at the owl and you will see Wisdom in its round saucer eyes. “O majestic owl, show us the way. Teach us and make us wise.” The owl cries out, “Who! Who! Who!” The answer, of course, is, “Me!” I’ll be the one to learn from the owl And be all I can be.
Sharon Peters Symbol of Love, oil on canvas 16" x 20" $525
A rose I find in beauty precious and exquisite blooming in the garden from a delicate rosebud that caught my eyes exuding a radiant pose with a sweet aroma scenery carrying through the air freshly flourishing view red soft petal caressing symbolizes for passion as your favorite pick so vividly to the memory filled with nourishing care of love and admiration like a plant seed growing inside of me through the years of untold that I share for you my darling as I call
Written By: Hanh Chau
Nancy Staszak Crow's Feast, collage on cradle board 8" x 8" $100
Five Haiku Thomas Chockley
a murder of crows ranging the sea beach darkest before dawn
cracking the sky black chasms of crow croaks
crow’s nest a bracelet charm bright but broken
shivering among crow caws a solstice chant wet silence residue of a crow call in the mist
Nancy Staszak Entrance to the Fragrance Garden, watercolor 8" x 10" NFS
Nancy Ann Schaefer created a poem for the above art work, but reserves the right for the poem to remain unpublished at this time. You can read the poem while the exhibit is on view at the ACA gallery through March 18, 2023.
Lyn Tietz Hot Air Balloons, oil on canvas 14" x 18" $395
Hot Air Balloon
In a dream-woven basket, we lift away from the fabric of ordinary days, unbutton our gaze from familiar horizons. A blue bolt of sky unfolds as we travel on the wind's half-mile-high, unmarked road, drifting above beaded clusters of trees and houses, a narrow ribbon of river, then the raw-edged majesty of mountains—their pleated and gathered folds of granite hemmed with clouds: earth-bound art from a bird’s-eye view. Kathy Lohrum Cotton Anna, Illinois
Lyn Tietz Togetherness, oil on canvas 16" x 20" $395
I feel your cheek against mine, your breath of dandelion and tuna.
We play together among lilies yapping and meowing in the wind, making songs into the rolling air. I howl for comfort you sing out to the wildlife and butterflies.
We chase them in the fields through the day and lounge at night. Our play tapers at twilight when we listen to the stars, together. --Carole Bolinski
Benjamin Calvert III Three Muses, woodblock relief print 12" x 12"
Sheila Elliott created a poem for the above art work, but reserves the right for the poem to remain unpublished at this time. You can read the poem while the exhibit is on view at the ACA gallery through March 18, 2023.
Susan Cargill Chicago Botanic Garden Tea House, acrylic 18" x 15.5" $150
Though a moat of water and ice limit him physically, they do not deter him —he crosses the threshold of 2023 anew—the sadness and anger of the last two years replaced by an acceptance of what is.
He opens the shoji screen, inhales the fresh scent of snow, the piney smell of the large black trees. Though he cannot see, he feels the lightness of the moon on his face,
remembers its look on the landscape. Closing the screen, he carries his hot Hojica back to the kotasu table, inhales the tea’s sweet fragrance, its hint of cocoa. He walks through the garden in his mind.
He finds it soothing to know the open arms of his pines. He thinks of them as ancestors, the anchors he counts on to move forward. Just so, the evergreen shrubs, pruned and rounded
all these years to resemble the miniature hills and mountains he’s climbed. He runs his hands over them, some bristly, others soft as moss. What good friends they’ve been.
Though he had always courted simplicity, he could not have known the blankness of blind. Sometime this past December, he realized the light must come from within.
He is back to beginnings—black and white, horizonal and vertical, life and death, intuits how they are the whole of life. He thinks he may have known this as a newborn.
Memory cushions him in this altered life, pushes him outward to experience again all he loves. He thinks of the maples planted when the house was built. They tower above it today.
Tonight, he is content, feeling solidarity with everything he loves. He hears the temple bell, its ring, his call to sleep. He has everything he needs. Mary Jo Balistreri Waukesha, WI 53188
Andrea Fox Dream of Moonlight and Love Songs, mixed media $500
what silent song would a flower sing that a butterfly could also dream what winged whispers would a dragonfly send to its love in the moonlit gleam
so temporary, so fleeting is this collection of unwitting beings, transformed the faded woman understands-- her twilight is the one she mourns
a veiled and wistful shadow a full dream of sleep, she spins but savors now this moment caught before the waning begins
Andrea Fox Belle Natur, mixed media $600
This place by M.E. Hope
Light catches leaves, then feathers, birds reach out to touch her, the breeze stifles its endless whisper to listen. Blossoms, pine needles line that path, that entry into the deep. Clouds pull back, a curtain of light opens further, shows the way. Birds dive, alive with each turn, each wingbeat lifts heat, settles dust. Moths haloed, butterflies their flutter of wings is like a book shuffling shut. See the tree shudder when she walks by, how she is grateful in return. What she carries what she holds is alive, vibrant in its thousand colors, innumerable shapes, shades. A need displayed. And then listen: birdsong, leaf music, a humming symphony. Hues force you into the fold of each flower: violet, indigo, gold, garnet where more realms unfold. Your face is close to the bees, competing for this whole world that doesn’t need, as you need this place, this place. This place.
Joan Ladendorf Sunrise, digital photo collage 12" x 24" $150
Watching Sunrise on the Mountain
Only at this height one can see the serene face of the world after a full night's sleep The clouds are so light The wind is so gentle there's not a single trace of nightmares
by William Marr
Joan Ladendorf Waiting, digital photo collage 24" x 12" $150
“ For, the experience of each new age requires a new confession, and the world seems always waiting for its poet.” Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Full-faced above the valley stood two moons in skies brushed black by oil.
Here sedges have withered from the lake and no birds sing
We have lost our way
Forged as green granite, we are seven, steeled, facing a cavernous tomorrow.
Darkly we gaze into the days ahead. The sky is low, the clouds are mean.
We stand side-by-side, not stratified, to mend, to tend, dawn's early light unseen.
Judy Kassouf Cummings
Poet's Statement: The image “Waiting” #57 is described as a photo collage. I chose to imitate this artistic style by borrowing from other written works and interlacing these into a whole. The poem, The Restorers, is a literary assemblage of poems, a song and a speech ( indicated below) pieced together with other thoughts suggested to me as a result of this artwork. Italics indicate lines borrowed.
Introduction: RALPH WALDO EMERSON: Essay Second Series – The Poet
line 1&2 The Lotus Eaters (modified) Alfred Lord Tennyson line 4-6 La Belle Dame Sans Merci (modified) John Keats line 7 The Great Dictator's Final Speech Charlie Chaplin line 9 We are Seven William Wordsworth line 11 America Claude McKay line 12 The Sky Is Low Emily Dickinson line 16 The Star Spangled Banner Frances Scott Key
Sindee Viano My Journey, mixed media 20" x 20" $295
My Journey Halfway through the journey I found out who I was A person so busy trying to be who she’s supposed to be has no time to figure out who she is Too busy being considerate compliant ... complicit? leaving no time for self-examination self-appreciation personal growth I stared into a mirror with a vision of who I might be I could be I wished to be but that person was always there staring back sending me a message to replace duty consideration compliance with illumination
by Judith MK Kaufman
Ana Vitek 1 Door, acrylic on canvas 11.5" x 11.5" NFS
The Garden Gate Curt Vevang Gates exist to keep us out, while some are a doorway for those bold enough to enter.
This gate opens to a garden full of the riches of the world. Riches of joy, happiness and contentment all existing within an idyllic floral garden living in unison with croaking frogs, noisy petunias, and whispering willows.
When you bring positive thoughts into this special garden, words of sorrow can become thoughts of promise, words of joy can be transformed into thankfulness and words of hate can become stepping stones to kindness.
Those bold enough to push open the squeaky garden gate will find they are in a magic garden of better understanding where hurts can be mended, prejudices dispelled, and hearts gladdened. The open gate allows us to see the garden and the world in a different light, a light tempered by the joy, beauty and serenity of the garden.
Margaret Bucholz Golden Corn Worm, colored pencil 18" x 14" $125
The Earworm Defends Itself
Mother laid me—still an egg-- in a silken crib which I ate once I hatched.
When the corn silk was gone, I explored the area, biting into golden kernels
or into the cob. A sibling was born next to me, I’ate it too,
so as to have no competition. Farmers hate me, saying I destroy their crops.
If I escape the grasp of a downy woodpecker, the hateful
impact of poisonous pesticides or a few drops of mineral oil, I’ll drop off
into the soil and pupate, eventually becoming a mother myself, ready
to start a new generation. If you’re honest, you have to admit I’m attractive,
and I don’t eat whole cobs of corn. Let’s make peace and share. ~ Wilda Morris
Margaret Bucholz Pony Rides at Sunny Acres Farm, watercolor 20" x 16" $200
Mark Hudson Remember the day of nature’s charms? In the innocent days of pony rides! Pony rides at Sunny Acres Farm, an innocent world for a child. Those days seem like eons ago, in days when children got to be young. Till the time when children grow, ponies were something to be among. Laughter, innocence of youth, happy children on a horse. Better than reading the Phantom Tollbooth, surely this is a tour de force. Riding ponies in the warmth of the sun, remembering the days when life was fun.
Margaret Bucholz Dancing with Paint, acrylic 24" x 18" $250
After Dancing by René Parks
Patti Smith on what matters in art: “the string of words propelled by God becoming a poem, the weave of color and graphite scrawled upon the sheet that magnifies His motion. To achieve within the work a perfect balance of faith and execution. From this state of mind comes a light, life-charged.”
She, Patti Smith, was there in my dream last night, making art with me i was tossing and turning between yoga nidra and mis-guided meditations but had somehow fallen back to sleep without knowing: my skin simmering under a sheet and three blankets, first pressing my back onto the back of my curled up girl and then twisting myself into a spoon around her scooting down and then back up again, shimmying toward the deep dark.
take me, please, cosmic obliteration
i didn’t know that my eyes had even closed but they had and there She was: Patti’s a wise teacher, She knows what works not saying but saying, you know Her voice rang clear and authentic (familiar because i’ve listened to Her for hours, reading books whispery memoirs, like sharing coffee with a dear friend, catching up on the intimate details of Her life i took Her as my mentor from afar) but in the dream, as we walked, She made suggestions juxtaposing images in conspiratorial collage smacking together the unexpected, watching disparate images bloom up into some new thing we continued creating every few steps, walking around the room, like a collage path, a museum walk She accompanied me, perhaps it’s the way of the artist beckoning beauty from the humdrum. Patti’s tall figure guided me while i swooned over what we’d made:
oh Patti, i see You knowing Yourself, beautiful teach me to be tall teach me to sway the way You do show me s'il te plaît so we can slide across the page together, in that quiet direct way You have joining muse and medium, springing poetics in long leaps in the look of Your face, in the speak of Your words it’s a dreamy dance, where i can see the expanse of Your life knowing i am witness to Your becoming and then measuring what is left of my own to see what I might be if there is enough left and i know there is not, to be a cultural icon.
so, i return myself again to this moment it’s all i have really, and so i dig, feeling my way with the rhythm, a slow slap on the head of a drum, a toe wiggle in the messed up sheets and bed clothes the thrum of my dogs heart, the knots in the hairs on the back of my head as proof of the song i sang restless though it seems sung in a gray-yellow dawn, before waking to the smell of stars still in my nose, hot and mineral, and tasting the rocky energy in my mouth, crunching between my teeth, residual stardust leaving me dry like a desert, thirsting after the harmonious moment always, you know.
Ashley Ehrhardt Grey Street, photography $150
A Photograph from Where She Lives for Now
She recalls the dances, red dresses and greens, brightest blues, yellows, the happy walk back up the aisle, shorter by miles than down, his yin-yang tuxedo an accent to her white bridal satins and lace.
And then he took the bright colors, leaving her without them, without him, and that was hard, the black and white, and then those faded and gathered dust, leaving her out of focus, petrifying her, in her grayscale mirror, her greyscale life.
This is where the difficult stops, where the dangerous begins the long march to a destination that haunts the wait before arrival, that blade’s edge between the endless am I through yet and I’m going home.
Ashley Ehrhardt Hope, photography $150
it may be the faintest prick of light at the end of a looming tunnel or dimmest glimmer in a dream
hope, in the form of compassion can heal so much pain for the suffering the lonely the lost the addicted
it is in the hand that reaches out – stretching like taffy to make that connection, kindle that spark until one day the light grows closer, grows brighter mbbretzlauf 1.2.23
Tony Ilivanov Bar Fly, oil on canvas $320
Drink Tonight as I
sit and pour
I start to think that
I’m really on the edge
standing too close
to the ledge of sorrow
wondering if I should even
plan on tomorrow
pour another drink
till I can no longer think
instead just fade away
I’ll no longer care and
all that will be left
will be me
and my bottle…
2002 Lyrics of Our Lives As contained in “Martini Talk” a chapbook on Womens addiction
Tania Blanco The Urgent Questions, collage on board $200
It’s Not My Problem
I keep amazed about the circle of life. What’s my problem? Is it an urgent question we all ask? A never-ending quest for truth.
Many time, to justify our actions, we ignore answers. But, do we really know, search or care for them?
Is it that we don’t know what to give back when is needed. For fear to stand up, walk-the-walk, and righteously answer fundamental questions? Tell me, oh, I want to hear the voices.
Because when I try to discern between reality from dreams -Or else…- I wish I could invent -discover at best – the alphabet to answer this paradox: What is our problem? I wonder.
So, how many people in the world cannot answer this question, and say, “It is not my problem”, still. And cannot find answers, still… and prefer to walk away, still. I wonder why. Tell me…Why.
Rafael Lantigua Medina
Thanks to these funding agencies for helping the Addison Center for the Arts bring the Arts to our community.
The Addison Center for the Arts acknowledges support from the Illinois Arts Council Agency, the National Endowment for the Arts, the DuPage Foundation, the Village of Addison, our corporate sponsors and members of the community. THANK YOU!
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