by Joanna Penn Cooper and Todd Colby
I let myself into your house and wrapped your family portraits in muslin. There wasn't a lot I could do with images of fetid life. I don't really want to hear about your nostalgia for summer telephone poles sweating creosote on dirt roads, either. Or the movie lot with the dust bunnies or some palace on a peninsula. I'm done with glitz, for the time being. Please meet me in the creek where my project begins, something about mud, something about, oh here I go again about mud. You know that feeling where you've been thinking a lot about the appeal of French New Wave cinema, and you don't even really like French New Wave cinema? I mean, I did spend a year of my life pretending I was Jean-Paul Belmondo and/or Jean Seberg, but that's between me and my shrink. Did I say "shrink?" I meant I'll be back in just a second.
[Note: Ideas from a slide talk I saw by the painter Hanneline Rogeberg-- such as family portraits being wrapped in muslin-- have been finding their way into my poems, but they are, of course, out of context and get further pulled in strange directions when collaborating. But Rogeberg's work, and how she talks about her work, are my new art crush. Also, the image above is from the movie Breathless.]