At the Movies, 24 x 30

The Transformations event last night was a big success, standing room only. Each team consisted of an artist and a poet who collaborated to produce a painting and a poem. The poets' readings of their work just brought their words to life. It's amazing how well-paired each team was, because many never met before this project. Leave it to two members of the Pieces of 8 (Cindy Michaud and Denette Schweikert) and one Pen Woman (Fay Picardi) to pull off such an amazing event!
I stepped way outside my comfort zone for this painting, and it bears explanation. When I was born, we lived in an apartment inside a movie theater, and my father managed the theater. My poet, Jean Shepard, lives in Jacksonville, so we met in Ormond Beach to toss around ideas for our collaboration. She was fascinated by the idea of living inside a movie theater. She wrote her poem from my father's perspective and also made interesting observations on time and motion. All of this gave me the idea for a painting with my mother in the center, sitting on a crescent moon, surrounded by movie stars.

Here is Jean's poem, "At the Movies."

Being two with the hope of three,

it was all they could afford,

an apartment above the cinema

where for hours each day he was a god

at work, turning day into night,

night into day with a flipped switch.

Where he revealed moments

snatched out of time

and run through a light

for believers who sat in silence below.

When two became three,

they ascended the narrow stairs

carried a pink bundle to an empty crib

watched with fascination

the arms waving, the legs kicking,

the unknowing, introverted face.

But others waited below.

He descended to darkness and the machine,

the sour smell of celluloid,

its tiny pieces of the past

curled on themselves like a  shell.

As he turned the switch on

and watched the relentless streaming

he suddenly saw how we move in the world,

how we run forward while

looking back over our shoulders

caught up in continuous flight.

Then he thought of the pink bundle above him,

the new skin, curled fingers,

the tiny feet that had not touched earth

and he was afraid.