Monday, June 7, 2010


April 23rd, 2010

You see the scene.

The four, cornered lights with silks.

The white tape in square with form-bolstering cords;

The true yet transient perimeter, 40x40ft.

A wooden table,

Twin chairs to match

In center stage,

Square within square,

The remnant of a tree

Growing from green slate,

A reflection of grass.

An artist

—the artist—

at an end,

Participant placed to the compliment,

all to have between them

a beginning.

To what?





Here, there,


Come again.


See her.

She is striking in posture and face.

A nose to rival stereotyped witches.

She offers what so many wish of celebrities;

A chance to sit with them,

Be near them,

And most outstanding,

To have their complete attention.

Most unusually and improbable of all,

You have their eyes through hers.

Will her attention falter?

Does mine?

In my time waiting

will she stand and leave before I do,

Before I have a chance?

What is she offering?

Will she change from these encounters?

Will she change me?

Will my stare change her?

Will the years of focused attention

on the work of my hands change me?

Why am I here?

Why do I want to sit with her?

She prepares herself.

Shoulders down head moved slightly

To settle the kink to the lower right.

Eyes closed to revive moisture,

Light re-envigored by darkness of closed lid,


Arms lowered,

Relieving shoulders.

A new person approaches,



The artist takes her time

She is not a microwave.
This is not fast food.

This is real.

This is personal,



She tells any who wants a burger and fries

To look elsewhere

in her slowly returning posture.

In the awakening

She is a phoenix;

Anew like the first glance,

First person,

First time

—A virginity Madonna can’t touch.

Vitality lasting person after person,

Day after day,

Two months to follow the first.

You can’t just be a spectator.
You want to participate,

Want to experience,

Want to know,

With a touch of being seen,


Talked about.

One person wants two minuets.

One as long as he can stand it.

One as long as he can sit.

Another but a breath.

One man staid an hour and a half,

And continues to sit and stare

From across the room at the unfolding,

The people,

The scene.

He either gained something here

Or lost

Where he is left incomplete

And hoping

To gain

A little more

From watching her back, face, and hands.

So is this a test for us or for her?

Hands puffed from blood.

Eyes also shot bloody.

Face is grease and sweat from the four, 1K lights.

She stands the risk of malnourishment,


Blood clots in her legs from prolonged sitting.

A challenge of patience,




Do I want to wait half an hour,

One hour?


Will I forgo the artist’s artwork for the artist herself?

What is an artist without her art?

She makes us a piece of her own art

By our own willingness,

Art arising mentally to those involved,

those watching.

Physically and emotionally on human palletes

The brushs of her eyelashes paint

With the color of her eyes

And the texture of her face’s age

By the hold of her body’s sacrifices

To the strokes of the compliment

And to the inspiration of the interaction.

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