She is a study of lines

December 8, 2011 § 7 Comments

the outlines of a form emptied of everything but form itself

December 7, 2011 § 6 Comments

Francesca Woodman, Untitled

Dear _________,

I, of course, agree. You were hiding in plain sight again, weren’t you? Plain, perhaps, but certainly not ordinary. No, never that.

Your departures, as much from yourself as from us, those blanks unmentioned and breaks untold, the outlines of a form emptied of everything but form itself — these come, always, with a cost. To succeed in these is a peculiarly welcome failure, though. How else could we, those of plain sight, see anything at all?

Your absences, you surely know, are a taking leave that are never quite achieved. And for this we, & more importantly I suspect you, are grateful. Because you want to be seen as unseen, don’t you? You are the best at hiding because you are in fact the worst at it.

Where the exhibitionist has made the anonymity of sight into a fetish of pursuit, for you is it a curse somehow to redeem?

The inevitability of a name is as much birthright as it is tombstone.

Francesca Woodman, Untitled

The tree has entered my hands

December 7, 2011 § Leave a comment

Francesca Woodman, Untitled (1980)

The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast —
The branches grow out of me, like arms.

Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child — so high — you are,
And all this is folly to the world.

— “A Girl,” by Ezra Pound

the confident precision of lament

December 6, 2011 § 4 Comments

Francesca Woodman, Untitled

Standing before death she would see
she who saw life,
sitting aside the pistil,
a moment captured,
with the confident precision of lament
allowed the young who have,
in not having seen at all, seen enough,
exhausted sight,
weary before it is time to sleep.

Chipped like a pallid wall,
the leaden frigidity of a life
erect and exposed —
silence fragile and cut to size,
a moment anonymous
named —
by the stain of shadows cast
and voyeur visions unseen.

A Momentary Muse

December 5, 2011 § 2 Comments

She: You’ve been struggling, haven’t you? So uncharacteristically silent, you’ve become.

He: Yes.

She: The words have been there, though. Beyond your reach, maybe? Too many to speak, perhaps?

He:  Yes.

She: The ideas have all been vacated, by noise? Dialogues, all turned into crowds?

He: Yes.

She: So serious, you’ve become. We hardly recognize you,  you know. No wonder all your other Muses have left you.

He: Have they?

She: These movements of yours, they’re meant mostly for bowels. And indignation, it’s for a righteousness you long ago lost. You’re not young anymore.

He: I’m not old either.

She: But can you keep up with those who can hardly keep up with themselves? Listen, they’re already out of breath.

He: Are they? I’m not . . .

She: Oh, and the tides are rising anyway.

He: But you . . .

She: The sky is falling anyhow. We’re out of time.

Francesca Woodman, Untitled

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