Do Artists Always Wear Black?

Incendiary
Shanna Wheelock, 2011
Ceramic, light, metal
Photo by Leslie Bowman

Hammond Hall, Schoodic Arts For All
Winter Harbor, Maine

Abby Shahn's "Save the World" globe.
Thanks, Abby! You did a great job organizing the "Worlds Seen and Foreseen" show in downtown Skowhegan!!!

Portrait of me.... Photo by Leslie Bowman

Do artists always wear black? I guess that's a silly question. But as I was preparing yesterday morning to head out, sporting black shoes and a long-sleeved (very cool, I might add, Liberty Graphics) black Tee, I "asked" Chris, should I wear my black or purple polartec? I was already slipping the black one over my arms when Chris responded "artists always wear black." He said that when he taught at University of Tennessee that the art department was a sea of black fabric. I remember back to my own undergrad days as a fine arts student at USM. Indeed, my closet was filled with the color void. But for every black item, I owned an opposite, brightly-colored garment. Maybe tie-dyed, maybe bright orange, some sort of funky wild concoction of hues and patterns always took residence on a neighboring hanger.

It is a stereotype that artists are brooding, dark souls who walk around in goth fashion. So yes, yesterday I wore a lot of black, but, black goes with anything! Yesterday it just happened to match perfectly the dark, rainy morning, and yes, I had been in a quieter, more introspective mood this past week while trying to overcome rather than succumb to that change-of-season chest cold. I just happened to need a long-sleeved, relatively warm shirt to wear with jeans. It did have a moon on the design which seemed fitting since I was delivering a sculpture for an exhibit about light. But my interior mood was anything but brooding. If anything, the rainy day lifted my spirits. I love the rain. A mellow ambiance makes perfect for working in the studio.

Rather than brooding souls, artists should be known to be deep and introspective. Most people have a range of emotions that run the gamut from "skippy-dippy gleefully happy" to the "best-not-to-talk-to-me-now-funk". Artists are amongst the most intelligent and caring beings that I have ever met and rather than seeing the world as a depressing pit of near non-existence, they see truth, which sometimes is ugly, and because of that channel a sense of hope to create a better reality. Sometimes the world we live in sparks pain, but art is cathartic and artists have at their disposal great means to work through the pain. I sort of see me as an example of that. For those who know me personally, they know that I am a generally optimistic person who wears a smile. Yet, my sculptural images are sometimes pain and despair-filled. I have come to the conclusion that it is because I am a person that believes we can AND SHOULD work toward a peaceful existence - one that is gentle, caring, loving - that my work exemplifies a more painful and destructive force that I feel needs to be recognized and abolished.

So yesterday, I did wear black, and yesterday, I was in an upbeat optimistic mood: the best I had experienced all week. Chris and I started our day early for a two-hour drive to Winter Harbor. We were delivering my Incendiary sculpture to Hammond Hall, a performing arts center under the direction of Schoodic Arts for All. The show features illuminated artworks that will adorn the space with light as days grow darker heading toward winter. It was a joyful morning visiting with other artists. John McMurray was there, the artist who worked with us this past summer on the Lubec Arts Alive kinetic herring. I also got to meet Mary and Jane who were overseeing the delivery of work. I loved their energy! After the delivery, Chris and I stopped off in Machias for a quick lunch, then it was on to a hardware store for me to pick out some lumber for the sculpture that I am currently working on. I will reveal details of this new piece later on, once it is nearer to completion. Right now it is a hodge-podge of components that make little sense and even to me are mind-boggling. I am looking forward to creating the base structure this weekend so that I can begin to make sense of it all.

I haven't blogged in two weeks. I have been trying to keep up with the demands of a heavily-divided life. I thought that teaching half-time this year would open up all sorts of extra time, which I guess essentially it did, but that time has been quickly filled with more work. I am busy with pottery production for upcoming fall and holiday sales and continue my work in the MFA program at Heartwood College of Art. Slip in a bit of salsa-making, veterinary appointments, pottery deliveries, broken kitchen appliances, everyday household duties, jury duty letters and a "quick" fourteen-hour run to Skowhegan (where artists who were protesting war were very brightly dressed!). All this was on top of a week of Chris being sick then me unfortunately following right behind him. There hasn't been a whole lot of down time. I even somehow fit in the role of interviewee on Geno's Washington County TV, discussing the arts scene in Lubec, which was an interesting event for sure! (Sorry, I forgot to ask when it will air. When I know, I will let you know.)

Chris has been super busy as well, teaching women's studies this semester for UMM and dividing his writing time between the novel and his poetry. Whale Sound (see link below) just posted his poem "Gods Reflect on Creation." It is an audio file read by Nic Sebastian. She does a great job with it! Check it out!

Gods Reflect on Creation, audio file (click here)

Without further adieu, I think I will mosey on downstairs, greet Bello and Bouli, shower, trim pots, then continue work on the sculpture. An hour ago when I looked out the window, day breaking, it appeared to be a bit overcast. I am hoping for another long day of dark and stormy to keep me in this awesome, focused non-brooding mood.

and...keeping with the theme of wearing black...here is some music to help start your day.

Censorship in Maine

Panels 7 though 9 of Judy Taylor's Maine Department of Labor Mural
Click this link to go directly to Taylor's website that depicts and explains all 11 panels of the mural.

Follow this link to read an article about yesterday's gathering at the Maine Department of Labor.

"Lost Childhood"
The second panel of Taylor's MDOL mural



Follow this link for press-conference statements and updates on the mural situation at the official "Saving the History of Maine Mural" blog site.

Bangor Daily News Poll found that 4 out of 5 Mainers do NOT want the mural removed from its intended home!

Maine is in the news, and it is, once again, an embarrassment to the majority of people who reside here. The recently elected governor has decided that a mural which is displayed at the Maine Department of Labor is to be removed becasue it is, he says, "one-sided" and "pro-union".

Yesterday, 250-300 people gathered at the Dept. of Labor for a press-conference and rally in support of keeping the mural at its current location, where it was originally intended when commissioned by the state in 2007. For an explanation of the mural, please visit the artist's website. The painting is steeped in Maine's labor history, and all images were created only after intense and thoughtful research alongside seasoned labor union historian, Charles Scontras.

The press-conference yesterday was especially powerful as it fell on the 100 year anniversary of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire (March 25, 2011). In a room of hundreds, there was silence, except for the sound of a bell as over 120 names were spoken of the young female workers who died in the fire. In total, 146 people died and it is considered the deadliest industrial disaster in New York. The Triangle fire was a catalyst for modern day saftey regualations that keep our workers safe.

Below are the statements that Chris and I made at the gathering yesterday. I wish I had transcripts of the other speaker's statements as they were incredibly powerful and excellent reminders of of how fortunate we are to live in a democratic society with the benefits that ALL people reap, not just members of unions, because of the battles that labor unions have fought.

Thank you Natasha and Robert for your passion, insight and dedication!!!!


Shanna's statement at the MDOL Mural press-conference:

When I first heard that Taylor’s Department of Labor mural would be dismantled, I was, like many, angered. The impending action brought up images of censorship and fear of a dangerous slippery slope where voices are quelled to the point of living in a society where humans are expected to go about their day as emotionless as robots.

What makes this mural so powerful, and so relevant, is that not only does it tell a history of the working people of Maine, but that it has provoked a conversation; one that is quite poignant in today’s society.

The Governor ordered removal of this mural because of complaints about its pro-union theme. Where better to house a mural depicting the struggle of the working class and the rise above adversity than in a complex where the welfare of its state’s workers is the number one priority?

I ask myself, is the subject of this mural offensive?

The answer is: YES!

Child labor is offensive. The fact that people have to fight for safe and fair work conditions is offensive. Treating humans in less than a dignified manner is offensive.

We should ALL be offended that not everyone finds these things offensive.

Then I ask myself: Is this artwork powerful and inspiring?

And that answer is YES!

I see a story unfolding from the first panel where an apprentice passes down his skills to another, preserving a trade. I see a panel of child laborers and am filled with such relief that our children are able to receive an education rather than toil the days away in a factory. I see women who model strength and perseverance, and I see people uniting for a cause worth fighting.

As we reflect today on the 100 year anniversary of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire, let us remember that a movement was sparked that made way for safer and more fair work conditions for all. One hundred forty six workers died in that fire. Imagine where we would be today if that part of history was erased from the books, never to teach us, or remind us, the role that the working class has played in our society.

Artists use a visual language to document the stories of our lives. We must always remember the struggles, why we were there, and how we progressed, so that we do not repeat these atrocities again, and that we keep moving forward, toward positive change.

Chris Crittenden's statement at the MDOL Mural press-conference

In a travesty of governance, Paul LePage has belittled and dismissed some of the brightest aspects of Maine's history. In deference to a "handful" of unnamed detractors, who object to some few elements of a visually eloquent compendium, the Governor has opted to dismantle the entire magnum opus, a mural in homage to labor on display at the Dept. of Labor. The artistic excellence of this masterpiece is not in dispute.

As a metaphor, we can imagine a handful of privileged men, who walk into a garden, proclaiming that they do not like several of the flowers. In response, over the shock of the gardner and the general populus, every single flower in the garden is plucked up. The garden itself is carved and removed.

The few flowers that are offensive to this small group, in reality represent some of the brightest victories for dignity in human history.

For most of civilization, slavery reigned. After slavery came Dickensian work conditions. We can thank the Labor Movement for uplifting the American people out of horrific industrial sweatshops, what William Blake referred to as "dark Satanic mills."

LePage and a blinkered few to whom he caters, are attempting to obscure the heroes who ended the practice of children having to toil in crowded, unsafe rooms.

LePage and an influential cadre, are attempting to efface those brave and unquenchable souls who brought us the 40-hour work week and the weekend. The word "efface" means to rub out or erase. Etymologically, it literally means to remove the face from. To deprive of a face.

This is crass censorship at its worst. An attack on a history rich with moral pearls. LePage would crush those pearls and replace them with a brine of obeisance to the lowest considerations, the sad and unsupportable principle of "Money Makes Right."

Thanksgiving

Encaustics are coming along. I still need to add the acrylic paint, do a few touch-ups, and attach the tops of each of the individual pieces. I'm anxious to see the sculpture complete!

A new tapestry in progress. Right now it sort of looks like a tornado ascending from a 70's shag carpet.

I'm looking at the calendar and wondering how it is already the "holiday season" and where did time go? It is true what they say - that as you get older, time passes by quickly. It's a hard concept to grasp, that time itself is a fixed thing, when some days feel so long and others just whiz by. I noted to Chris that yesterday was a two year anniversary of an important event in my life - we were both surprised that two years had already come and gone. Looking back over those two years, It is amazing to think of all the profound events that have occurred.

In a few days most folks will be sitting around a table gobbling turkey and pie with loved ones. Putting aside the historical context and the thoughts of tragedy endured by Native Americans, that day as it stands now is a tradition in our family associated with warmth, blessings, and strong relationship bonds. We will, like most U.S. families, gather, prepare, eat, laugh, and fight for the couch which is the best place to recover from an L-trytophan induced coma.

I am running down the list in my head of what I am thankful for, and how fortunate I truly am. I won't force you to read them ALL here, but will note a few highlights.

Of course, health and love come first. I am grateful for my own health and the health of my loved ones. There have been some wobbly moments and all have, thankfully, pulled through with grace. I am truly blessed to be surrounded by people who love deeply and watch-out for one another, and because of this I know that no matter what twists and turns life takes, I will be okay.

I am grateful for friends, old and new, with whom I laugh and share anything from the deepest secrets to the the trivial everyday.

I am grateful for the beauty of nature and that I have the privilege to enjoy it each day, from sunrise to sunset: the ocean, the trees, the flowers, the butterflies, the mountains, the birds, the bears, the snow and rain, and the wind.

I am grateful that I have had the opportunity to be educated, to be an artist, and to have a beautiful space in which to create.

I am grateful that I do not go to bed hungry, that I have shelter and warm clothes, and a job that is meaningful.

I am grateful for things great and small, from the wonder of a caterpillar nesting on a bean pole to the intensity of first love.

The poet standing by "Owl Medicine" painting.

And, I am deeply grateful to the fates for bringing into my life my partner/husband/best friend/fellow artist/supporter/and comedian, Chris. He has supported me in all my creative endeavors. It isn't easy, I will admit, to be married to an artist. But somehow, he manages. We have a unique partnership in that we work as a team, inspiring and learning from one another. He puts into words what I put into pictures and vice versa. He has been patient enough to allow me to keep insane hours in the name of art, and is always there to lend a hand when needed. Unconditionally, he is present.

So - especially for my Poet-C,
here is a little video for you to watch....

Happy Thanksgiving to all!

A Life Without Art?

Tapestry in progress

Rack of greenware drying VERY slowly

Four bases of a sculpture that is in progress

I'm not huge Sci-fi fan by any stretch, nor am I a fan of action-packed cinema with gun-wielding outcasts and zooming car chases, but I did see such a movie a few years back that has had a long and lasting impression on me.

Equilibrium is a futuristic movie where a post third-world-war society has deemed that human emotions are the root cause of conflict and members of society are mandated to take an emotion-quelling drug. In the movie, art is viewed as dangerous and as a result is banned in all forms: poetry, music, painting, etc. The protagonist is a cleric and government official who misses his daily injection and begins to experience emotion and question his own morality. He eventually partners with the underground to overthrow his own government.

(see Trailer for this movie)

What struck me most about this movie was the cold feeling of a society without art. People all looked the same, acted the same, hum drum, emotionless, monotone. Imagination and color, joy, and individuality were completely stripped.

Is this how life would look without art?

I start to go through the things in my mind that are influenced by artists. The list is long. Imagine if you will, everything we experience in our daily routines that had the touch of a creative person, and then take those things away from existence.

- The clock, lamp, small table beside my bed that holds the alarm clock, and my favorite chair (furniture designer)
-The clothes we wear, wedding dress, work uniform (fashion designer)
-The house we live in, buildings we work in, skyscrapers in cities (architects)
- Music (musicians, singers, sound engineers, instrument designers)
- The automobile that gets me to work (automotive designer)
-Television, cinema, live theater (performing artists (actresses/actors), screenwriters, camera technicians, directors, set designers, commercial writers)
- Food (packaging designer)
-Billboards, calendars, posters, wedding photos, advertisement (photographers)
-Museums, galleries (artists of all types)
-Toys (designers)
-Computer games (artists, musicians)
-Restaurants (culinary arts)
-Dance shows, ballet, the macarena, music videos etc. (choreographers, dancers, musicians)

The list goes on and on. I look all around me and it is near impossible to identify anything that is not influenced by an artist or creative person of some sort. Even nature, with her own beauty and design is often landscaped by a visionary.

Imagine, if you will, the above list of items removed from your life, and then you might have an idea of what life would look and feel like without the influence of artists.

I feel fortunate to be able to live in a world where color and imagination are part of our everyday existence. I love that I can visit a museum and see works of great artists who lived before my time, or that I can turn on the radio and listen to works by musicians that inspire me to create my own works in fiber and clay. I love that I can walk into a store and feel the texture of different fabrics and pick out clothing ensembles that fit my personality. I love that I can attend live theater and watch a story unfold with incredible choreography, moving music, and a fantastic light show.

And most importantly, I love that I have the freedom to be an artist.

I am grateful that everyday of my existence is somehow influenced by the arts and creativity, whether I am reading my husband's poetry, teaching, creating my own work, or viewing/listening to the work of another artist. I am grateful that I am surrounded by people who appreciate the arts, who understand their importance in our lives, and who have consistently and enthusiastically supported the endeavors of myself and my husband as we live lives as artists.

Art brings a deeper meaning and purpose to all of our lives. It helps us to design our own individuality with the choices that we make in the music we listen to, the paintings we hang on our walls, the furniture we pick for our home, the clothes we wear to various functions, and the way we plate our edibles when hosting guests for dinner.

We are each like a palette with several colors of paint waiting to be created into our own unique artwork based on how much we use of each color, the type of brush stroke, and where it is applied on the canvas.

We all begin with the same ingredients, but each possess a different way of expressing and that is what makes us interesting, passionate, unique individuals creating our own life masterpiece.

Praise to ART!

Living Quaintly

Artist Geer Morton with sketch of our back door entryway.

Close-up of Geer's sketch

Our back door entryway

Cobscook Pottery and Fiber Arts shop entrance

Entryway into the studio space

Fire Circle with Earth Loom

The Fourth of July signals an influx of tourists and summer folks to Lubec. I love this time of year because it's when the town really seems to come to life. Don't get me wrong. I love the Lubec winter as well, which offers time to "hunker-down" and be in solitude. Artists love that sort of thing. But the energy of summer brings a different kind of experience.

Yesterday brought us the return of Geer and Pat, who are counted among some of our 'favorites". I was excited to see the familiar van roll-up our birch-lined drive. We were greeted by Pat's infectious laughter and beautiful smile, and Geer's saracastic and much-adored wit. In tow, their friend Shula, a teacher from Chicago.

Geer Morton is what I consider one of those "hidden-treasures" in Lubec. This town is full of accomplished artists who seem to make their hideaway here on the coast, in the furthest reaches of the U.S. He and Pat spend most of the year in San Diego, but for a few months in the summer they are "the regulars' in our little town. I first met Geer when I was still fresh to teaching in Lubec. He offered to visit my art classes to speak about the experience of being a painter. I soon began to trek my students to his studio which is in walking distance from the school. From there, the four of us began a ritual of an early fall waffle breakfast date.

So yesterday, Pat, Geer, and Shula showed up, which totally made my day. I had been in a cranky mood from a bum glaze firing, but Geer and Pat snapped me out of that quickly. Pat and Shula toured the newly-arranged shop space in the barn and then came inside the house to see the new studio. When Pat called to Geer from the doorway "do you want to come see the studio" a quick reply "busy" was bellowed out.

Outside in the van, Geer had his sketchbook open and pencils laid out on the dashboard. He was feverishly sketching our back door entryway. I was a bit embarrassed at first, noting the crackling paint on the cedar shingles, the plexiglass window cover, and overgrown grass. As an artist though, he views the world around him differently. Artistic appeal has little to do with the appearance of "Martha Stewart Living".

He said that our entryway was "quaint".

Quaint: "Strange in an interesting or pleasing way."

Hmmmmm. Should we be offended by this?

Okay. I accept it. We are strange folk, Chris and I. Yes, that is a jawbone of some unknown creature in the window, and the plants are overgrown, and there is dead wood from the walnut tree perched against the house. We have strange weaving contraptions scattered about and the paint is chipping off the shingles, but we always seem to be too busy in our clay and poetry worlds to tend to them. There are piles of rocks here and there (I mean, you can always find a use for a rock, right?).

So, I am accepting that as time passes, our home (and perhaps we!) are getting a bit more bizarre each year. Chris is the hermit in the hut in the woods, and I am the bumblee bee flitting about from the shop to weaving studio, to pottery cave, to garden. We live with a gargoyle, piles of rocks, stacks of interesting driftwood and tree limbs, a mandala shaped veggie garden, and wild healing plants. Our huge cat "Bello" guards the yard and greets the customers, and a hummingbird often flies into my studio space. There is a nine foot high cedar log loom warped for weaving and artwork crammed into every nook.

Strange? Yes. But somehow, all so perfect.

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A couple summers ago when Pat and Geer arrived to town, we all sat by the fire circle drinking pineapple spritzers. Geer sketched Chris while we conversed, and the sketch in turn provided inspiration for the following poem by Chris.

On A Sketch Of The Poet

(sketch by Geer Morton)

poem by Chris Crittenden

jackal-faced

and jaw hung low

like a chuckling

sadist.

scribbles frantic

in the hollows,

and the slit of the chin.

askew eyes

mocking order,

a pose hunched

yet strong—

part ogre, part pensive

like Rodin.

lips racked

in a rude smirk-smear,

hands like fumes

of neck-biting

flies.

expression

like a saint

who waded too many

garbage dumps,

washed

too many sins,

legions of the crumpled

and begrimed.

Submitting to "Calls for Art": Process and Rejection

A misty veil of fog has settled over the field. Stepping out on to the deck this morning, it felt as though there was some ghostly presence shifting through the grey, eerie and magical at the same time. Birds were starting to chirp, signaling the waking of the diurnal creatures. The rains have brought all kinds of critters to this safe haven. Yesterday afternoon a small rabbit hopped through the rosy pink phlox and a fawn preened and snacked at the grassy edge of the drive.


The submission process sure has changed over the years. As usual, I find myself lacking some of the necessary skills to pull a packet together, nonetheless, the job is done. When I first entered the world of "calls for art" in the early 1990's, 35mm slides were the normal protocol. As a student, I didn't have the funds to hire a photographer who was adept at using filters, backdrops and professional lighting. My slides were a mess.

Now we live in an era where submissions are done primarily online with photos taken with digital cameras. Digital cameras are fantastic in that they almost guarantee a decent looking photo for even the most amateur photographer. Auto-focus and on-screen editing has eliminated the olden day waste when we would disappointingly thumb through an envelope of 36 shots (72 if you ordered double prints!) of blurry-faced friends with red-eye and sometimes a tip-of-the-finger shot that inadvertently snuck its way in to the front of the camera lens.

But even with a digital camera, photographing art can be tricky, especially when photographing sculpture. For a submission to a show, an artist wants their images crisp, true to color, and without disruptive shadows. Anyone who has tried to photograph their own art knows the frustration of trying to conquer all three of those requirements.

The past couple years, when submitting to a particularly important exhibit venue, I have solicited professionals to help me achieve those goals. For smaller sculptures I have had success with my own camera, an E-Z cube, and tungsten lighting. But for the larger sculptures which are not easily moved and mixed in with the usual studio mess, I rely on professionals who know the tricks of the trade.

A recent photo shoot went well. From approximately fifty shots I found two or three that I considered appropriate for the current submission. I let the photos sit in a folder on my computer for a couple weeks until ready to use, or rather until "down to the last-minute wire" of submission deadline. I had assumed it would all go swimmingly since I had the photos done, the most challenging part of the process.

Silly me. I opened the photos in preview mode only to find that the resolution was 72 dpi, a far cry from the 300 dpi that was required. Frantic, and highly frustrated, I tried setting up the lights and photographing my own series. The colors were nowhere near as warm as when the other photographer took the pictures, but I was desperate. Again, something happened in translation, and images were at too-low a resolution. I know my camera is over five years old, but at the time, consumer reports ranked it highly.

I began to frantically email people that I knew asking for a local photographer who could do the job ASAP and who also knew the tech end of things. Local is key. See, I have a sister-in-law who is an amazingly talented photographer, as well as a friend who is a photojournalist, but they both live over four hours away. That just isn't feasible. A return email came with an offer to look at my file. So I emailed the file to Jude and soon after received a reply that turned my whole day around. It turns out, it was just my own ignorance with the photo program. I didn't realize that I could actually play around with the resolution and image size. So simple.

Once that little golden nugget of information became available (thanks, Jude!) I was able to proceed with the online submission.

The next phase entailed updating my artist resume. I removed some of the older shows from more than ten years ago and added a few new accomplishments. Artist statement was the final component. I asked my husband to give it a read, he did, despite his own super hectic schedule which right now involves his own writing and submitting, teaching an online ethics class, giving a poetry reading in pacific palisades, and preparing to facilitate an online poetry workshop for Rooster Moans. So bless his heart, he gave it a read and came back with some edits stating "the first four paragraphs are dry."

I was surprisingly pleased with his comment, since he tends to sometimes be far too gentle, but this time, he laid it on the line and offered a few suggestions. I mixed things up a bit incorporating some of his suggestions while still preserving the parts that I felt were necessary to my own voice and style.

The actual online submission, which included uploading photos and typing basic information, was a snap. Now the waiting begins. I go into the process with hopes of being accepted, but also know the reality of the competition, the thousands who enter, and that it also comes down to which pieces will complement each other in a particular show or also what personally appeals to each juror.

Albeit, there is still a glimmer of hope in me that hell will indeed freeze over and that pigs will someday fly.

My Favorite Writer

I woke this morning (after a beautiful restful eight entire hours of sleep!) to the sounds wind whipping the trees and rattling windows. The rain seems to have moved on, but the grey sky and breeze remain. It's one of those mornings where you just don't want to get out of bed. So, I didn't!

Well, I admit that I did go downstairs briefly to fix me up a cup of hot cocoa, but other than that, here I am, snug and warm, listening to the awesome sounds of nature. And Bello. That frisky cat is clawing at anything he can find, asking me to PLEASE let him out. But he will have to wait. For now, I am feeling in a...poetic mood. So, I thought that instead of my usual self-indulgent blog (okay, I admit, I did start out that way) I will share a few poems with you by my favorite writer, Chris Crittenden.

He has written, literally, thousands of poems since I have known him, and published hundreds. When we first met he was teaching ethics (feminist and environmental) and primarily writing articles for philosophical journals. That influence is evident in his poetry and novel writing. I will share three poems here, all of which are some of my all-time favorites. If you were to research his poetry, you would find that his work spans themes too many to mention. If I had to sum-up his work, though, I would see him as a writer of nature, politics, and the human condition. That covers a lot!

Chris can be reached at: ccritten@gwi.net

Exile of the Loons
night came
like a violin without a bow,
seeking my murmurs,
for silence had cursed its
ebony since the exile
of the loons. stars watched
with their trivial, infinite gaze
as my cheeks offered wet
glissandos, my lips wavered
between fever and howl, my
fingers scurried, plucking
strings of mist.

i waltzed with a willow
while moonbeams splashed her hair,
stomped silver trickles, accosted a
snoring crow, but still night
was not pleased

until i sobbed a strange rapture
over the lake where ghosts
once flew, skinny-dipped,
amphibious as a duck,
toward the liquid center.

there my throat learned
how to woo a marsh.
it memorized the vibration,
the heat, the solitude. finally
the night smiled, hearing
its cold stage haunted once again.

-from the chapbook Opals of the Opened Soul


The Gods Reflect on Creation
we gibbered and gabbled
in the null onyx,
afraid that heat might seethe.
one of us quacked too loud
and light erupted, birthing awe
alongside violence and waste.

after eons of reptiles
prayer wafted up. it was far better
than mindless solar pageantry.
our new toadies prattled
more efficiently than we,
collapsing truth
into a few apt equations.

soon they had a stash
of nuclear kicks,
enough to freckle plains
with poisonous craters.
it wasn’t enough for them
to gnaw the crust. life itself
made them salivate, the urge
to splice it into freaks,
to distill tints and recombine piths—

like evolution but more wanton,
even slutty; an orgy to harvest ambrosia,
so they could be immortal like us,
sit on pinnacles and shout in release—

to be as great
as the thrill that started it all—
that seminal yoctosecond
among the timeless idiocy
of our babbling.

-from the chapbook Gordian Butterflies

Song for a Forest
no one can tell me
the forest has no flesh.
my feet have tasted its roots,
licked across arteries
even as their spirals split
again and again
below a simmer of fallen leaves—
pumpkin, pale, russet—
and a dark brewing depth
of drunken earth.

why are leaves drumming
and oak limbs swaying to a beat
as ripe as a lover’s heart?
why are raindrops sad or joyous
on the eyelashes of pines?
ants are red cells in a greater blood,
sparrows breaths in a windy lung.
owls are nothing but the pupils of elves
half torn from fetal sleep,
deer nothing but caresses
of brown fingertip.

i kiss streams with my eyes
and they kiss back with pouts of sparkles;
or whisper into my ear, soft as sensual lips.
i follow them where they feed cushions of moss,
toes of alders, visions of blue pools sky-entranced.
i hear messages in warbles and whirs
that come together like bits of a thought.
i watch sunlight splinter into bright lines,
the outer edges of a smile.

-from the chapbook Opals of the Opened Soul