Solidarity Texts

In Moon we Trust, 2016, digital print from 35mm film negative, giclee print, 23" x 12", Rauschenberg Residency, Captiva, FL.

Let live and let grow. Let me live so I can grow. Grow so that you might live. Let’s be trees. Have rings. Go through seasons. Shed leaves. Give shade. But don’t throw it. Take time. Take breath. When someone approaches you with a pot of soil, show some respect and plant seeds. Spend time in the garden. Tend to the Earth and dream of all other planets. Be a planet. Be a mound of dirt, of salt. Be a part of this earth. Be human. Please don’t forget to be human. And check every single receipt.

We petition 

genocide

genocide 

genocide

dwarfed by the 

from 'Broken / Open'

Being completely fucked,                                                            lament has corners colder

the song

This work, titled NYT, OCTOBER 6, 2015, VIVIAN STROMBERG (2016, Canvas, paper, embroidery floss, and graphite, 15" x 20"), is part of the Words From Obituaries series and it corresponds, as indicated in the title, to the obituary of Vivian Stromberg published in the New York TimesApril 13, 2018

The wind is my mascot

I shall not want

But even the wind

Is owned by names

And struggles against its hand

With lines by Janet Housden, Jaime Borschuk, Maxine Chernoff, Dorothy Moskowitz

Falarski, and Chris Stroffolino

On the first/second/third/fourth/fifth/sixth/seventh/eighth/ninth/tenth/eleventh/twelfth day

of Trump-Pence the alt-right gave to me

twelve Russians hacking,

eleven glaciers melting,

Translated from the French by Sarah Riggs

L’amour est plus froid que le lac

consigner les coïncidences

    les angles les sons des étoiles

mortes encore visibles

nous par exemple

In the avalanche of shameful livery assembled from colonial centuries

it is necessary to undress —

I remove my mother’s ermine-trimmed coat, my brother’s sugarloaf hat, my grandmother’s
pomegranate gown with the gold-embroidered sleeves, my father’s suspenders and blue jeans, my
ruched veil, high-tops, and striped wool socks.

To detonate this ode, this pain in baroque fog

I unlace my bodice —

__

Steeped in so much death, did Freud sigh into the mountain that was his soul when he composed section five of Beyond the Pleasure Principle — arriving at the conclusion that pushed past his previous theory of the primacy of the human drive toward pleasure? Given the atrocities of massive world war did it seem perhaps inevitable to conclude that the first drive, the primary drive, is the drive to return to the nonliving?