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lookingglass
Through the "Looking Glass," readers are invited to dig deeper into our issues as contributors share reflections on their work. Specifically, "Looking Glass" provides a sort of parlor where authors and artists reveal the genesis of their pieces, as well as provide meta-discursive insight into their textual and visual creative works. Issue 25 Reflections
Read on for reflections by select authors and artists
on the genesis and craft of their pieces in Glassworks and then read the full issue online! |
Christopher Paul Brown
"Fabric in the Light" series
I worked with model Katrin Dohse from 2015 to 2017 in Asheville, NC. She now lives in Germany. It was a lucky period for me as numerous buildings in Asheville were abandoned at that time. Derelict buildings have always been a draw for me. Today they have all been gentrified.
The location of this shoot had been a warehouse for used paper. The front half had been demolished but this rear section stood for several years. It had dirt floors and no electricity, but skylights littered the ceiling. Some were covered in moss and others leaked water, but we found several that served the purpose of out shoots. A previous shoot had involved Katrin spilling corn kernels from cups. When we returned weeks later the skylight and leaking water had allowed corn to grow.
The location of this shoot had been a warehouse for used paper. The front half had been demolished but this rear section stood for several years. It had dirt floors and no electricity, but skylights littered the ceiling. Some were covered in moss and others leaked water, but we found several that served the purpose of out shoots. A previous shoot had involved Katrin spilling corn kernels from cups. When we returned weeks later the skylight and leaking water had allowed corn to grow.
Alison Lubar
"Grief is Its Own Carnival Prize" and "Sonnet [Mid]Transformation"
The story of Gabriella in "Grief is its own carnival prize" is true--after winning over my parents to let me play the carnival game of tossing a pingpong ball towards a couple dozen open mouths of small glass fish-bowls, I won a goldfish. She lived way beyond what was expected. This poem considers that childlike feeling of hope, the "I know I can win this" confidence, and wonder that accompanies innocence. It also addresses chance: that you'll win (something), that something you love will last longer than it should, that just having had existed or had that experience at all is a kind of gift. And grief is evidence that there was something (or someone) to be grieved. In that sense, a loss is a win, too.
"Sonnet [Mid]Transformation" is inspired by Edvard Munch's Mermaid at the Philadelphia Museum of Art--one of my absolute favorite pieces. No museum trip is complete without a visit to her. This poem honors that adoration as well as my own fascination with mermaids and their seemingly "hybrid" identity. While we see them as a mix of fish and person, they must feel a singular identity. In this way, in a very personal subtext, this idea of them has been one way that I've navigated my own intersectional identity, and come to appreciate the wholeness of it. The speaker in this poem, though, is still stuck. They consider all of the (in this case) girls they've been, standing before the (mostly) unchanging painting, even on the precipice of understanding their own (future, possible) nonbinary identity. I'd like to think that this poem is ultimately a "yes, and" rather than an "either, or," but captures the tension and sadness and confusion of the latter while being too cautious to celebrate the former quite yet. Mermaid serves as a sort of Giving Tree but without the sacrifice; she bears witness and in that way, collects the aggregates of all the people the speaker has been under her gaze.
Ultimately, these two poems together pose a question and an answer: what's the composite of identity? A collective of everything you've ever been, and all the pieces you only think you've lost. It all still exists, and is something to be grateful for.
"Sonnet [Mid]Transformation" is inspired by Edvard Munch's Mermaid at the Philadelphia Museum of Art--one of my absolute favorite pieces. No museum trip is complete without a visit to her. This poem honors that adoration as well as my own fascination with mermaids and their seemingly "hybrid" identity. While we see them as a mix of fish and person, they must feel a singular identity. In this way, in a very personal subtext, this idea of them has been one way that I've navigated my own intersectional identity, and come to appreciate the wholeness of it. The speaker in this poem, though, is still stuck. They consider all of the (in this case) girls they've been, standing before the (mostly) unchanging painting, even on the precipice of understanding their own (future, possible) nonbinary identity. I'd like to think that this poem is ultimately a "yes, and" rather than an "either, or," but captures the tension and sadness and confusion of the latter while being too cautious to celebrate the former quite yet. Mermaid serves as a sort of Giving Tree but without the sacrifice; she bears witness and in that way, collects the aggregates of all the people the speaker has been under her gaze.
Ultimately, these two poems together pose a question and an answer: what's the composite of identity? A collective of everything you've ever been, and all the pieces you only think you've lost. It all still exists, and is something to be grateful for.
Caroylnn Mireault
"You Have a Friend in Enosburg"
In “You Have a Friend in Enosburg,” Daisy, an out-of-place high schooler, attends her English teacher’s exclusive holiday party, after which she learns that other students are going to prank the teacher’s house.
Composition of this piece brought forth numerous confrontations with morality, as many of the characters consider and battle this throughout, including in the background. At the time of writing, I had a particular fascination with Keats, which naturally bled into the story. The piece exists as an “odd man out” narrative tilted on its head to examine acceptance versus rejection, and that in the complexity of friendship lies the simplicity of kindness.
Composition of this piece brought forth numerous confrontations with morality, as many of the characters consider and battle this throughout, including in the background. At the time of writing, I had a particular fascination with Keats, which naturally bled into the story. The piece exists as an “odd man out” narrative tilted on its head to examine acceptance versus rejection, and that in the complexity of friendship lies the simplicity of kindness.
Lisa St. John
"Relentless Sunrise: Golden Shovel"
The idea of something exquisite, like a sunrise, as relentless evokes the difficulty of enjoying life after a loved one dies. This poem is about learning to accept beauty after my husband’s death. I chose the Golden Shovel form as an homage to Margaret Atwood’s sublime poem, “Cell.” The first line, “Now look objectively, you have to admit the cancer cell is beautiful,” invites the reader into a strange place; as strange as grief itself. “Relentless Sunrise” echoes Atwood’s powerful message that we are, even at a cellular level, all just trying to survive.
John Wojtowicz
"After-Hours Flowers"
Twenty-four-hour solutions for even life’s minor crises are wonderfully convenient. Recently, I stayed in the rural upstate NY town of Perry and a local creamery had a twenty-four-hour cheese vending machine…but that’s a different poem. Bringing back a token of love after some distance, is an acknowledgment, a symbol of the healing to come, a promise of better days. Baby, when the last petal drops, you’ll be too happy to notice. This poem is about a real bucket and the shadows who visit, mine among them. I wanted the poem to be practical. I was reading a lot of Ted Kooser and found myself whispering damnit Ted at the end of each poem in awe of the simple object or moment he had turned into a dove and let fly. The flower shop leaves the bouquets out after closing on the honor system. They go quick but I like to think if you really need a bunch, it’ll be there.
