Coraddi

i

\

36c cr
pring
981+ •

C O R A D D I

The Magazine of th

J*

*v»S

I

Spring

i*'TC^

^

Lvr-^'

*^^i*..,.

RprVi Anvarp

staff

CORADD

EDITOR Dawn Ellen Nubel

ASSOCIATE EDITOR Mark A. Corum the magazine of the fine arts at UN:

ART DIRECTOR Chris Clodfelter

BUSINESS MANAGER Lisa Morton Spring 1984

ADVISOR Jim Clark

CORADDI

205 Elliott University Center

UNC-G

Greensboro, NC 27412

©CORADDI 1984

Coraddi is published three times a year by the

University Media Board of the University of

North Carolina at Greensboro.

The subscription rate for the current year is

$6.00.

Coraddi is printed by Hunter Publishing

Company, Winston-Salem, Harry Kir-

chmeyer. Account Representative.

Chris Clodfelter

The poetry competition was judged by
Barbara Rosson Davis.

The stencilized photograph on the cover
is hy Chris Clodfelter.

CONTENTS

8. DIALOGUE WITH PETER AGOSTINI
An Interview by Homer Yost
Sculpture

18. Tom Severa

26. Bill Rankin 52. Charles Stigliano

38. Homer Yost 54. Sara Gray

24. Pots by Uli Schempp

32. THE CRYSTAL

A Short Story by Jo Jane Pitt

44. FRAGMENTIA

A Short Story by Mark A. Corum

50. Stencllized Photographs by Chris Clodfelter

56. PENLAND WINDOW SERIES
Photographs by Elisabeth Price

Poetry

4. Elisabeth Rochelle Smith-Botsch

5. Jon M. Obermeyer 41. Byron Emerson

5. Geoffrey Eraser 42. Mark Thomas

6. Mark Thomas 43. L.L. Fox

19. LL Fox 46. Mary Beth Ferrell

20. Geli Klimek 47. Alison Kimmelman

22. Elisabeth Rochelle Smith-Botsch 48. Bruce Piephoff

30. Eric Hause 55. Ian McDowell

40. David Robinson 62. Ronda Messick

41. Teresa M. Staley 62. Byron Woods

Art and Photography^

I 7. Bill Rankin

21. Lynne Faulk 37. Jan Couch

23. Beth Atwater 49. Jill Couch

28. Jill Couch 63. Charles Stigllano

31. Gregg Balkcum 64. Gregg Balkcum

\

JAPANESE PRINT IN THE SEMINAR ROOM

I often look at the horses

in the room with the three white walls

and one of peach color, to match the coat

of the groom that pours their feed.

Some of the horses are pale-grounded

with watercolor spots of sorrel,

some all dark

approaching the trough with distant mouths.

All their hooves sharp brown,

turned against the matte

like stiffened fern fronds against sand.

Once, the^ had run on a farm
where monkeys cried at night
but birds made gems of air.

Or they were the emperor's horses
he rode to a lather, the sun
beading his back.

Now, they are thronged by walls,

the cumbersome sounds of western words

colliding in the space between.

Elizabeth Rochelle Smith-Botsch

BACKYARD REVIVAL

In the fierce pulpilgrip of summer
preaching that sullry gospel of humidity,

cicadas rasp

up in the dogwood choirloft,

prudent four o'clock gasp

as crepe myrtle struts her stuff.

The back-porch cat, oblivious,

sprawls in the shadow of the coiled hose.

the tent meeting of the clouds. Above
the blazing lawn, gnats congregate.

The sizzle of brimstone briquettes.

the chuckle of cubes in the beaded glass:

penitent in lawn chairs with fans, we
await the startling redemption of breeze.

Ion M. Obermeyer

INSECT

Softly plastic city is stuffed in a big gray trashbag.

Street lights wink against the thick carapace.

The gift floats in stellar regions.

Incomparable collection of magpies, long sunlit rays.

Miami-bound hips on streetcorners, tiny trees, buses.

leweled hearth fires, supermarkets full of bread and milk.

Drunken robberies, ashcans, girdled horses,

And churches with carillions still making a mad cracked sound.

God, sending tearful snowflakes

Freezes the thing as a remembrance:

It lies against the nose of a cow browsing away among

Snowy grasses.

And is revived by a warm tongue.

GeoWrey Fraser

MOLINA MEMENTO

From where Alex sat painting, the road between the trees

Ran straight behind the barns. The sun was cool, and

Shadows eased to rusty red tin roofs.

The sunburnt road was dry as snakeskin.

But flowers glistened from the rough. The painting

Dries as Alex spoke awhile about his native island.

Cuba's beaches, white as milk, could blind a camel.

Others black as tar and mile-wide. He'd blistered

His feet before he reached the water.

1 thought age had enriched his memory;

My years were not enough to know that

Most men are always twenty in their own minds' eyes.

His eyes were dying. Cancer's rising tide

Reclaimed the sandy fringe of life. Alex, always

The bon vivant, advised me to wear tight shoes

So I would make a graceful dancer. His feet were beautiful:

Like Christ's feet, they were slender as a woman.

He and Jesus danced for God and man.

But the painting was for me.

It hangs beside a picture of young Alex

Tending burned feet on a broad black beach in Cuba.

Mark Thomas

Grand Prize

)ialogue With Peter Agostini

Interview by Homer Yost

"Whoever interrupts, whoever arranges, whoever lets his human deliberation, his
wit, his advocacy, his intellectual agility deal with them in any way, has already
disturbed and troubled their performance. The painter (any artist whatsoever) shtmld
not become conscious of his insights: without taking the way round through his mental
processes, his advances, enigmatic even to himself, must enter so swiftly into the work
that he is unable to recognize them at the moment of their transition. "

— Rainer Maria Rilke

eter Agostini, born in 1913, has been making
! for well over fifty years.
1 1959, Agostini was "discovered" (uncovered)
^the art world, after working in solitude for
ire than 25 years without an exhibition or public
•ognition. Within two years of his first show,
I was considered one of America's foremost
[Iptors. All the major museums in this country
IV own his work— including the Metropolitan
Iseum of Art, the Museum of Modern Art, the
iiitney Museum, the Guggenheim, and the Hir-
•irn Museum and Sculpture Garden,
n the 1930's, Agostini was working in
imymity with artists Willem deKooning, Ashille
irky, Franz Kline, and Jackson Pollock. Some
:them came off the boat from Europe; others
me to New York City to be in the art capital.
It Agostini came from the heart of
linhattan— Hell's Kitchen (now Paradise Alley),
!! barrio made famous by Roger's and Ham-
Tstein's "West Side Story."
Vgostini is not a product of educational insitu-
ins or art schools. He is a full professor at UNC-
eensboro but has no degree except for a high
lool diploma. He did, however, read books, visit
iseums, and study the streets. Trial and error
.s a big part of his personal search,
^gostini's history is one of private detours
iien his inner visions bumped up against the flow
outer reality. This interview is a personal
irney through historical landmarks— the Great
;pression, the WPA Arts Project, and post-
orld War H Abstract Expressionism.
For eighteen years, Agostini has been teaching
iiilpture, drawing and watercolor at UNG-
•eensboro while also teaching at the Studio
hool in Manhattan, alternating his work bet-
jen North Carolina and New York in ten day
ints.

,Agostini retired last summer, but continues to
ach in Greensboro during spring semesters.

Coraddi: Peter, how did you first become involved with making art?
Agostini: Well, I never went to school. That's number one. My
older brother Bill was an artist. He was a painter. A good one. I
can still remember him giving me crayons and paper, you know,
like you do with kids? I just loved art, that's all. By the time I was
eight or nine I was involved. When you're involved, you start sear-
ching the world for it. And I spent a good part of my youth reading,
for the simple reason that I was broke. And the library was warm.
And I was lucky because I lived in New York City, so I had the
Met (Metropolitan Museum of Art). It was all there. They had
plaster casts of the whole Renaissance. I could see Rossellino. They
had the horse of Donatello, the horse of Verrocchio. All of these
fantastic plaster casts of everything; the whole floor was loaded
with them.

Coraddi: So you think that it was to your advantage that you never
went to art school?

Agostini: Well, when you look at all this fantastic stuff in the Met,
and then look at somebody doing something else, you knew it wasn't
it. You didn't have to be intelligent. When I didn't see any guy
getting it, what could I do with him? What is he going to tell me?
What can anybody tell me? But what they could have told me which
would have helped me was how to draw. Instead of struggling the
way I did. Then they would have forced me to start from scratch,
instead of jumping into creation before I'm ready for it. Which is
what happened. I was trying to be creative, excercise this essence
before I knew what the heck I was looking for. I was like a blub-
bering idiot, let's face it. I never wanted to know how, I wanted
to know what.

Coraddi: But you did spend a year at the Leonardo Da Vinci School
of Art. How did you end up there?

Agostini: I was about twenty. And I was lonely. I needed artist
friends. So I walked in and said to the guy, "I don't want to be
taught. I just need a studio. I need clay and I want to work. I've
got no money. I'm not going to pay you." So I went there every
night. I had a job, but I didn't have any money because I was sup-
porting my brother. After work, I'd do my poetry from 5:30 to 7:00.
Then I went to the automat and ate. Then I'd go in to the Da Vinci
School and work till late at night. It was a routine.

I remember some instructor came over to my work once. And
he was going to say something. So I put my hand over his mouth
and I said, "Don't, don't. I don't want any criticism." I was scared.
I met him some years later when I had already gotten a
reputation— I'm talking about 25 years later— and he remembered.
He said, "Do you remember that figure you were doing? It was
terrific. I liked the idea." I told him, "If you had told me that I
would have been wiped out because I worked on the figure another
year after you saw it. But you would have made me satisfied. But
as it was I kept at it because I didn't get what I wanted." So praise
was a i deadly to me as telling me I stink. I couldn't afford praise
and I couldn't afford criticism. So I was in no position to be even
looked at. I wasn't that good. It's as simple as that.
Coraddi: So you had no training, no teachers?
Agostini: No, I can't say that because— let's face it— if you have
eyes you learn from what's around you. What do you think African
art was all about? Observing the guy that was doing it. The reason
they had such simple answers was because they had arrived at that
point. Like the Egyptians— they watched and they'd do it. We all
do that. It's aping. We all ape in the beginning. The only thing is
that if I hadn't gone to the Met, I would have accepted a teacher.
But when I saw what these guys did in the past— Jesus, it blew
my mind. That they knew so much. When I come across a guy work-
ing today and he's trying to simplify all that, and he doesn't get
the pc er that these guys in the past got so easily. So what in the
hell shi^uld I go to him for? It wasn't their fault. There just weren't
any modern-day Michelangelos floating around. ...Who could make
me feel like I was learning something? I had a lot of talent, you
know— I could do it. I could draw. If you say draw a head, I could
draw a head. You say draw a foot, I'd draw a foot. I had no pro-
blems with drawing. It was trying to figure out what for. I did't
like the idea of just doing something. It was a bore. I had to be

going somewhere in my head.
I wasn't just trying to be cute because if I were I would be si

ing it to somebody, right? But I never showed my work to anyb

I wasn't interested in getting accolade. I just wanted to know \
the hell I was doing in the first place. But I did have an opir
and most of it was that I didn't like what they were doing.
I wouldn't say well, the reason I don't like it is because I k
the answer. I didn't. So I wasn't going to show them my wor
prove the point, because I didn't like what / was doing eith(
thought it was very.... nothing. I never thought much of my w
believe me. And when they accepted me.. .hell, I was walking d
the street with a box of my stuff. I was moving and Gusamanc
friend comes along and he says, "What do you have there?"
I said, "Just a bunch of junk." So he took a look, and says '%
about this?" And I says, "You want it, take it." That's wh
thought of my work. Another guy came to my studio once am
said, "I don't like the figure, I like the head." I knocked off
head, gave it to him, and threw away the figure. I had no ego al
me at all. I knew what had to be gotten. And if I didn't get
was a flop. I had to try to get essence.
Coraddi: You didn't even show your work to other artists?
Agostini: For a long time I didn't show my work to anybod
was scared to. If a guy had said, "Peter, you should learn to dra
it would have knocked me across the room. I was vulnerable. I di
want somebody to come in and say, "Yuccky," 'cause I'd drop di
Because in my own heart I was hoping that it was better t
yuckky. But I wasn't sure, see?

Coraddi: How did it happen that you finally had your first sh
Agostini: It was an accident. There was a woman who own«
print gallery on 10th Street. The Grimaud Gallery. She want(
sculptor— she didn't care who it was. Just as some decorative
ment. She wasn't really interested in sculpture. To her it '
something to take up floor space. You know, for people to v
around when they looked at the prints on the walls. So she as
somebody— I think it was Earl Kerkam— if he knew of any sculp
He said, "Well, there's this guy, but I don't know what he's
to, but I heard he does sculpture. His name is Agostini. Why di
you try him. He doesn't seem to be with anyone." So she came c
and looked. But she didn't want to pick up these crazy headi
mine. She was French, so she probably had good taste. But
as far as I was concerned. Good taste she had. And she had all
modern abstract artists of the French who were famous at the ti
You could buy their prints from her— very expensive. This wa
1959. My brother Bill had just died. I wouldn't have shown my w
if he had been alive. That I'll tell you right now.
Coraddi: Why not?

Agostini: Because he was better than me. He was the real art
I knew it. He had essence. What are you going to do? When ;
see it, you don't fight it. He was good. I was just his kid brotl
Anyway, she told me she wanted my burlesque queens and ot
sculptures I had around. She says, "I'll take those things but
drawings, please. I don't like your drawings." But later she
interested because people asked about my drawings. She s
everything— all my drawings and all my sculptures. And
couldn't believe it. Even abstract artists bought my work.

So by then Tom Hess came into the picture. He called me up !
says, "Peter, can I talk with you?" I says, "Well, who are yo
So I called up a friend and said, "Who's Tom Hess?" And he s£
"He's the editor oi Art News. Why?" I said, "Well, he wants
see my work?" He said, "Jesus, do you know who he is? He's i
of the most powerful figures in the art world." I said, "Really? ]j
what does he like?" He says, "Peter, he doesn't like realism,!
don't give him any of that nonsense." I said, "But that's all 1'
ever done. I don't do abstractions." I just had a bunch of plas
figures and drawings in my studio. So when Hess came ove:,
threw them on the table and I said, "That's it. And what's doi
at the gallery." And he said, "Oh, you're having a show?" Sol
looked at my work, and you know what he said? "You're a genij
You're good." I said, "What? From this?" And he says, "Ye
You're going to need money, Peter." And he gave me a thouss

)i;ks right then and there. I never saw that much money in my
1. 1 wasn't malting that much in a whole year. Then we went to
;l gallery. He had a photograph of my "Ariel" piece taken and
•:, it in the March issue. And he wrote about me. Tom Hess. You
( )w, he usually sent somebody to review a show. He's the editor.
Pit then made me a star overnight. I had a sellout. I didn't make
rch money because they were going for extremely low prices.
it I couldn't believe it. And then somebody wanted one in bronze.
Ixt blew my mind.

'hen I was sitting in this place one day and a guy walks up to
r and says "I'm Stephen Radich." And I said, "Oh yeah? Do you
[3w me ?" And he says, "You're Peter Agostini, and 1 like your
\rk." And I didn't know who he was, but he was a big dealer on
j.dison Avenue. So he came over and looked at all my drawings.
picked a certain batch, and he sat down and wrote a check for
If thousand dollars. He said, "This begins it. Now, here's the
lil. I want a contract for life. I will support you. I don't what
n to worry about anything. You just do your work." Then I had
I how with him and it was held over for an extra month, by con-
rtsus of the artists. Isn't that something? What happened is I was
'ing high. Everybody was after me.
iraddi: How did Hess hear about you in the first place?
!;o8tini: He said that deKooning and Pollock and Franz (Kline)
i3d to mention me.

kaddi: You met a lot of these guys in the '30's during the WPA,
Hn't you?

'fostini: Yeah, the WPA was the best thing that ever happened
.this country. And to artists. That was the closest thing to what
ay did during the Gothic and the Renaissance. They were doing
r paintings on post offices and everything. But what did they
? They killed it. The birth of America was in the WPA. There's
lere the beauty would have been coming from. Competitions for

monumental art. Not a monetary thing, but a spiritual thing. The
pay was the same for everybcxiy. The m^xJel thiat fx.»»ed for you got
the .same pay. The guy thiat wa.s nriaking the plaJiler wall for you
U) work on was getting the same pay as you. It wa« an honor to
do a piece. ..at $21.80 a week. You were a worker. And you Htill
lived like a king. You'd do your work. You got free modebi, paper,
plaster, marble. That wa.s our age then. What happened?
Coraddi: We could use another WPA now couldn't we?
Agostini: I don't know why they didn't continue it. Do you know
what the WPA did? They fixed all the farms, all the trees, here
in North Carolina, planted by the WPA. They built the roa/ls. Not
only that— they sent somebody around Ui record the whole music
of North Carolina. Went into the mountains and wrote about it and
recorded it all. A whole book abfjut North Carolina. They did that
in every state. Central Park was built by the WPA. You see all
those beautiful statues they have there, the bears and everything?
All WPA.

Coraddi: What did you do with the WPA?
Agostini: I had lots of jobs at that time. For a while I was knock-
ing out posters, with Pollock and everybody. They'd pick one of
the lot and print it. That was an honor. But everybody would make
one. They'd tell you the theme— like anti-Nazism.
Coraddi: What else did you do during the WPA?
Agostini: I was teaching for a while, night classes for the public.
Who is that famous comedian who was in 77i€ Producers'!
Coraddi: Zero Mostel.

Agostini: He was my leader. We had groups teaching during the
WPA. And Zero Mostel was head of our group. He was teaching
too. He used to imitate everybody for us. He used to make us 1-a-u-
g-h. I knew him very well— an abstract painter. A lot of people were
abstract then. But I'll be honest with you, deKooning and I and
all the rest used to think he didn't know what the hell he was do-

ing. That'll tell you where we stood about abstraction. Who's kid-
ding who?

Coraddi: WTiat other jobs did you do to survive before you made
it as an artist?

Agostini: I made manequins. They wanted me because I could make
hands. That's how I really learned to make moulds— and fast. I was
a ghost sculptor. That's where I got my schooling. Like when
somebody wanted a reindeer for a mountain in Pennsylvania. And
I had a week to do it. Lifesize. Plus the fact that it had to look like
St. Francis of Assissi, which I didn't know what the heck that
meant. But when the nun came in and saw it, she said, "That's it."
Coraddi: You did Elsie the Cow too, didn't you?
Agostini: Yeah, I did lots of those things but I was purely a ghost
sculptor. Whatever somebody wanted, I would do it, they'd pay
me my money, sign their name to it, and that would be the end of it.
Coraddi: When was this?

Agostini: In the early fifties. After the war. We had to get jobs
to pay the rent. Survival was difficult. They should have kept the
WPA. The world would have been so different. But the war eclips-
ed that. You saw what happened to the artists. They eventually
were lost. That's why they got into abstract expressionism. Mean-
ing was gone. There was no world anymore. Nothing. Nobody
wanted you. You didn't exist. So you had to just do all kinds of
jobs. I even had a Charlie Chaplin job. You know, where you keep
feeding a machine. That was unbelievable. I went crazy after two
weeks. I had to quit. I couldn't cope with it. I couldn't even get
to the bathroom. I almost peed my pants. The birth of an artist.
But I was lucky, I always had a job. Even when I was a kid. I
remember I was a messenger boy for an advertising agency. Then
they gave me a room by myself and made me a file clerk which
is what I liked because they left me alone and nobody knew what
I did. I could do the whole day's work in an hour then the rest of
the day was mine. I used to write alot of poetry then. This was
a funny place to work because the president of the company
Frederick Cone adopted me. I remember one day I came into work
with a pajama top on. I got up late, so I just put a tie on over my

pajama top. There was this vice-president who was the kind oi
that could be described as spiritual vomit. He went into the p
dent's office and said, "Do you see how he's dressed?" Mr. (
said, "Yeah, I see how he's dressed.?" "Do you approve of th
"Whatever Peter does I approve. What's your problem?" The ■
president said, "I think you should fire him." Cone said, "You
answered my question. You're fired." And he fired the other.
You see, he adopted me.

Coraddi: Peter, you rarely talk about your father. Why is t
Agostini: The reason I never talk about him is because I ni
knew him. I once asked my father about his life and he told
"I've lived my life, you'll live yours. There's nothing I can tell
that would help you one bit. It's not important what I've doi
My father was an anarchist. You know what he did? He said, "'
is your room, I don't want to see you again." He didn't even k
my name half of the time. He'd make a pot of stew, leave i
the stove and I'd take some to my room and eat it. I can't remer
ever sitting at a family table with everybody and eating din
I do remember one thing he did. My brother Chris and I v
fighting over a wagon. My father picked up the wagon and smi
ed it. He said, "Now I've destroyed the bone of contention." .|
he walked away. You see, he was from Dalmantia, what usei
be Ragusa, on the Adriatic Sea. They were independent peci
Dalmatians aren't prejudiced; they are very open people. But h
owe allegiance to no one. They don't mind being alone. They v]
shepherds. The men would go into the mountains alone for moi!
with the sheep. Being alone was not a stigma. Loneliness was
a word in their language. Bernard Shaw said that the Dalmat;
were beautiful, powerful people. Proud. That's why my father di|
impose himself on me. I was always alone.
Coraddi: What did your father do for work?
Agostini: He owned an employment agency. The American Li<
Employment Agency. He wouldn't work for anybody else. Bel
that he owned a market, but he went bankrupt because he g
so much credit to a lot of poor people. I never heard him pass ju(
ment on anyone.

10

Vaddi: What about your mother?

LpBtini: My mother died when I was four years old. She was on-
pirty-seven. She had influenza. And my step-mother didn't want
CDC bothered by a bunch of brats. So I was put in homes. I
Eiember being in a French convent. They called me "Petit
'rre." My brothers and I were all split up because the houses
re divided by ages. It was like a boot camp-beds all lined up.
\ had to take baths at a certain time-lights out, go to bed. My
ither Chris didn't like it in his house so he just ran away. He
B eleven then. I'd run into him on the street and we'd talk. He
|ays seemed well-off. He was like a con man. He always had a
[of money and he wouldn't work. He married an actress when
iwas fourteen. But he died at twenty-two. So 1 was always alone.
id I always dreamed and I always found interest somewhere. I
^er got bored with being alone. I wasn't happy, but I wasn't
Ciappy. I was in a constant state of freedom.
iraddi: What artists in history have been important to you?
I'ostini: One person who really motivated my mind was
(chelangelo. Raphael was another. And Botticelli.
:raddi: What about their works?

I;08tini: I have no idea.. .The essence— the life-force— that they
ibued into their pieces. They made what was, real. I'm not talk-
if about realism. I'm talking about creating a reality.
:>raddi: What images in particular do you have in mind?
Irostini: The "Moses" of Michelangelo. And the "Night" and
'iay" from the Medici tomb. "Night" and "Day" because that is
8 poet in me. And because the sense of sleep is very important
I- me. The reality is more in "The Moses." The power of com-
feteness of the person. He was a complete actor. I didn't feel that
the "David." I liked the "David," but the other ones really got
me. And then "The Three Graces" by Botticelli. The was a com-
ete act, a complete truth, a pure statement. I don't think anybody
ithe world of art has equaled it in its purity. That to me is one
|the most powerful frescoes ever done. The most powerful essence
1 womanhood that I have ever seen in my life. It's like that an-
jnt bull done 15,000 years ago on the cave wall. That bull is the
sence of all bulls. The same with Michelangelo's "Moses." The
sence of Moses. And Raphael's "School of Athens." A complete
formation center, done with such complete simplicity, that
erything holds its weight.
>raddi: What other artists and images?

e^ostini: I've looked at where the horse is personified. I found
)wer in Donatello's horse and Verrocchio's horse. But the horse
its essence was made during the Tang Dynasty in China. When
)u look for essence you don't stay in one particular am-
iitheater...My world deals with the power of essence— the real
uths. You can't argue with them.
oraddi: Your horses are not done from life, are they?
gostini: No, I don't look at living horses when I am doing one,
jcause it would interfere with what I'm trying to capture— the
ssence. The same with the human figure. I find it very difficult
I translate what I'm looking at into what I feel.
oraddi: I've noticed that when you are working on a figure in
Dur studio without a model, it seems to come. But it seems to be
real torture for you when you have a model— a standing figure— in
■ont of you.

.gostini: That's because I can't cope with the present, because
doesn't exist until I perceive it later. When I'm doing a clay sketch
f the seated model, I'm just drawing, just absorbing. But when
18 is standing there, she is in total existence. Then she becomes
yrmbolic, and I am dealing with the essence of woman. And that's
verpowering. You've seen me when I work from a model in class.
can put it up fast, but all of a sudden it goes beserk. I'll capture
;, and then I lose it just as fast. I could draw you a tree, and make
lat tree come alive— I can do it right from my head. But if I'm
iced with a tree, it's abundanceness drives me insane. I can look
t your standing figure and come and change it into the right posi-
ion. But when I try to perceive that myself, I can't do it because
'm looking one step further. I'm looking for essence. If I had done
hat woman with the beads— that the Weatherspoon owns— from

a model, I would never have done it. The same with my Old Man.
I put them up very fast. But if I were looking at models. I never
would have finished them. The contradictions of what it is and what
I assume it should be interferes with me.
Coraddi: Has Rodin's work been an influence for you?
Agostini: I like Rodin. He was really looking for the same damn
thing I've been looking for— the essence of woman. Men were not
his important battle. His men are hopeful images that he would
appear to women as. That's why we make our Apollos. We hope
that will transmit back to us and we will get the charisma of at-
traction.... And I like the power of being in his •'Balzac." And I like
Gaston Lachaise. I like some things by Despiau. -And as I keep look-
ing back I like things by Clodion. That's one person I've always
had in my head. There'sBelleuse. And don't forget. Donatello was
terrific. And there's Duquesnoy.
Coraddi: What about Degas?

Agostini: Degas was extremely good. But he didn't have the power
of Ingre. But he is extremely good. But I don't know what is. His
things still stay on the edge. But an excellent artist— fantastic. But
it stays on the edge, just like Toulouse-Lautrec.
Coraddi: How about Giacomo Manzu?

Agostini: Manzu is very good. But he's more a professional, than
getting essence. He's too good for his own good. He's like a lot
of artists— they're so damn good, but their work lacks the essence.
Coraddi: How do you feel about Egon Schielle's work?
Agostini: I like it very much— he was exellent. But it needed
something else. He needed time. He should not have died when
he did.

Coraddi: How about Kaethe KoUwitz?
Agostini: She was ven,' good. She was equal to alot of them. But

11

she didn't have the essence. I'm sorry. But she was a fantastic ar
tist. You see, these people were great. I'm not going to take that
from them. But if you're talking about that other thing— that's the
rare, rare thing. And that's why when you look at a Rembrandt,
you just U)ok. Right? The power of the eyes in his portraits are
unbelievable. Those eyes just pop out at you.
Coraddi: Let's talk about some other women artists. How about
Malvina Hoffman, Paula Modersohn Becker?
Agostini: They're alright. I'm not saying that women can't be
great. But I'll give someone who was really great. As good as any
of them. Rosa Bonheur. You ever see her "Horse Fair?" They have
it in the Metropolitan. It's as big as this whole wall. Life-size. A
whole bunch of horses. A woman. She's more powerful than any
of them I've ever seen yet. She knew what she was doing. She's
a real artist. She was very famous too, in her time. She did bulls.

She was fantastic, that's all. You don't hear about them. Bu
starting to see a lot of artists from the past. I have a little dra
that I picked up done by a student of Eakins— she was fantc
Coraddi: I like Eakins. And Sargent. How about you?

Agostini: Yea, I think they're very good. But they lack

Coraddi: Essence.

Agostini: Whatever the hell that is. I mean, I think you should
be very good. I don't think you can get the other thing. I think y(
either stuck with it that puts you in a position like deKooning, w
he just keeps pursuing this crazy thing. I mean I'm sure he w
have loved to paint a figure the way it was, but he just can't,
like myself when I push a figure. If I just do it, it doesn't n
sense to me. I just can't. I know where everything is, but tl
not enough. There's something else that has to take place, t'
just is.

Coraddi: Let's talk about contemporary artists. Are there any)'
ones now? Is there art with essence being made now? \
Agostini: Well, I like deKooning. I don't know what the hell '"'
I just like it. I like his Women Series of the '50's. I like wha
was trying to think. He was trying to find something. And for
reason I prefered him to Pollock, even to Franz Kline. Franz I<
was like a jazz musician. He was dazzling in his non-caring. DeK
ing couldn't do that.

Coraddi: So what is essential about deKooning's images to ;
Agostini: DeKooning was trying to experience himself— he di
try to go far. And if you notice, in the beginning, he was invo
with Botticelli. You see, he used to call me Botticelli. He was ;
ticelli. DeKooning really wanted to know. He stayed very sinr
He was always trying to make whatever existed look out to ;'
Whatever was in there was coming out to you. I think I ider
with him because we are in pretty much the same world.
Coraddi: How about other contemporary artists?
Agostini: I think that there's a lot of beautiful work going
Beautiful explanations and ideas. But the power of essence is L
ing. Beautiful work— I can't argue with it. Even when they tr
do grafitti, it's fantastic. But it doesn't make power. You
explain— you can throw a big word on a canvas with such powe
understanding that it absorbs the canvas. I still won't be the poA

12

lal other thing that is essence, that you find in Michelangelo,
■tticeiii, in Raphael, and in a guy like deKooning.
•ddi: What about the other present-day superstars, such as
iihurg, Dine, Pearlstein, and Segal?

[tini: I think they do very well but, for me, they don't have
ice. That's all. What I consider essence, they don't have. They
1 have what I see when I look at a Michelangelo. Ingre was
I'er. Compare the others to him, and they just don't stand up.
[;se is beautiful. And Picasso is powerful. No matter what they
ihey made an essence. Matisse is very real. And so is Picasso.
!g all the reasons doesn't prove the point. I believe that you
le the most intelligent person and not even make one scratch
sence.

ddi: Do you think that Giacometti was dealing with essence?
tini: Oh yes, he did get something. But it was not big enough,
't mean volume, but it just was not big enough. Meaning is
re a big problem. Like in art, you don't really know how to
. But when it happens, it's already enough. The power of mean-
i a very, very difficult thing to approach, as you know.
ddi: So there are no artists living today dealing with essence?
itini: I don't know. I haven't seen everything, so you never
ay that. I may find it lurking in somebody. There's little pieces
n everybody. It's just the idea of bringing it to frutation that
ave to think about. When a man lives in his time, and then
ook back on his time, that's where you're going to have to
: the decision. I said this to Ad Reinhardt, "You can't talk your
ito existence. When you are gone, it will either be there or
in't." You see, this is something I can't figure out. Some peo-
^y that right now deKooning is doing something very power-
lut in ten or twenty years he won't exist. I don't know. I may
ipprove of everything he does all the time. But I do under-
1 what he's hitting for— for essence. And he does it more so
the others. He wants something to happen. They do something
Iffect.

Iddi: What do you think of Henry Moore's work?
kini: I can't put him down, but I can't speak very highly of
He's very good. But he wouldn't be what I would call a man
essence. Everybody says he has it, but I don't see it. I think
orced. Very good though. They're all good: Tony Smith, David
';h— they're all good at what they do. Some artists do a good
'f illustrating. They represent the fashion of the time, but they
conviction. Like Warhol and Segal. Warhol would agree with
opinion of him.

iddi: Tell us what you think about the larger 'art scene,' the
)ry system and marketplace.

stini: I think that there's a search for this thing that we're
ng about— essence. They're aware of it. And they're going to
at anyone who seems to say, "I have essence." And you know
n well that's what they're trying to do. They push up those
lanvases where they're not trying to draw, they're not trying
lint— they're trying to make whatever should exist. That's simp-
iiat they're trying to do. But it doesn't work that easily. That's
it's like a graffiti world, where the naturalism to express
■self is all that's needed. "I am an artist. For that reason, what
Dress will be art." That's what they're trying to say. I look at
stuff in galleries, but most of it evaporates. The attempts are
'. Maybe somebody will pull it off. I don't care if they do the
ng. 'That's always going to exist— they're always hyping,
rybody is hyped. They've hyped Michelangelo. But he doesn't
1 it, see?

iddi: But are the galleries even looking for essence, or is it
a market?

'Stini: They don't even know what they are looking for. They
f/ that vitality is an important factor. They don't want the
ices, the modulations, the tonal explanations. They don't want
world of inner and outer search. They want to "let-go. ..There's
nner or outer— it's you— now— that." That's what they're say-
That's all. "Don't submerge. Don't even go into the water,
water has nothing to do with the world. What exists is
lingness, and it doesn't matter." It all comes through the ex-

perience not only of drugs but people trying Uj make the mind find
an answer. And that'H what you're stuck with. Whether they u*e
drugs, drinking, or anything. And IhoHe {iu:U>r% have worn out. But
you know, th<; 'OO's wa.Hn't a waste— it was then thiat they were
planting their little bomb U) explode. "What the hell. Why?" And
then somebody says, "fuck why. It is." Then we got int/.i that xXnge
of Nothing's— going— Uj— change— but— change— itself. TYtef'/rce
of change, not trying to change. Before there was "this is model-
ing our times. They don't want the t/jnalities, or its subterfuges,
or its intellectual understanding. They ju.st want "truth"— whatever
the hell thai means. That means "just let go." Don't have reas^^ns
for letting go, just let go.

But I can't put a man down for whatever he is and how he gets
there doesn't matter. You see, every man is honest, everybody is
honest with what they do, even if they try to fake it, that's not
faking. What they're really trying Uj find out is 'Why this, why
not that?' There's no real criticism of art. The truth about art is
that every artist is not pretending. If a guy works, he's doing it.
I don't care. You can say you don't like his work. That doesn't mean
anything. If he's working, he deserves the respect of being view-
ed, whether he's doing it for the crowd, or for art, or for love, it
doesn't matter. Same with a student. When he's in there and he's
working, that's all I want from him. Everybody is an artist until
they prove they're not. It's not the other way. Everybody can be
an artist if he says he's an artist, and time will be the thing to decide
what he really is.

Coraddi: Peter, how do you feel about art historians and critics?
AgOBtini: Art historians don't get to the juice of the truth. They
just explain, and there is more to it than that. But intellectual
doesn't make the point in art. When you read Shakespeare, the
intellect doesn't come through. It's the feeling that bowls you over.

He doesn't ponder the meaning, he captures the tlow of life, the
feeling. That's why his work is so liquid. That's why it moves us.
I don't like intelligence. That intelligent goobly-gop is a lot of crap.
It's got nothing to do with art. Its a barricade of art. of feeling.
Coraddi: Tell me about the various themes in your work, the \-arious
kinds of work you've done over the years.
Agostini: Well, one is the burlesque queen. The burlesque queen
I think is a Venus theme really. Because I feel that she was like
a burlesque queen too. We're just kidding ourselves when we think
it was anything different. They just made a goddess out of an idea.
My burlesque queen is not a put-down of women; to me it's just
like something where they all exist. You know, with the beads and
the shoes. It's like children, the children in all of them. I've done
Venuses in many ways but they all end up in child play, with crazy
shoes and big hats. Like this figure I'm doing now. It's much like
a person I once knew. She's like a grown-up baby. What I have
to do is re-create the memory. I'm trjing to capture the baby in
her. It's voluptuous in a way. and there's joy in it.
Coraddi: You've done horses throughout your entire life as an ar-
tist. Why?

13

Agostini: I love horses, that's all. I don't look at them when I sculpt
or draw them, but I know them. They captiire an essence of form
and movement. When I make a horse, I don't give it much of a
tail. The tail is a decorative element, like hair on a head. You notice
my heads are basically bald— even the women— because I want to
tighten up the skull. The form is the essence, not the surface decora-
tion. See, I don't put much of a mane on the horse either, I just
suggest it. The horse doesn't need a tail or mane, and a head doesn't
need hair. I'm more interested in large volumes. Like the flanks.
Coraddi: When I see your horses, I want to feel them, especially
the rear.

Agostini: DeKooning recognized that in my work. He said to me,
"Peter, you are the greatest ass-man in the world. When I see your
horses' asses I feel a woman's ass."
Coraddi: What are your other themes?

Agostini: Old men. I did a whole series of old men's heads. And
ApoUos, old Apollos. And heads that generate a sense of por-
traiture. Often they are kind of beat up, and I leave them that way.
I like that beat-up kind of state. So I leave a lot of pieces the way
they are when they dry up. And I usually do them from the memory
of a person, not with a model in front of me. It's to capture a mo-
ment. Same thing with the horses; I capture a moment when they
are working, moving. But not with too much flying out— it's always
contained, very quiet, gesturing.

Coraddi: During the 1960s, when you were at the height of your
popularity with the critics and your work was selling, a lot of your
sculptures were abstract. Do you see these images as essentially
different from your earlier and later work?
Agostini: No! These pieces are not abstract. They are about nature.
I was thinking about wind and tides— natural forces. Like the "Sum-
mer Breeze" pieces, and the "Winter Wall" where cloth is frozen
solid in the wind. And the "Clothesline" that I did in 1959. That
was from a drawing that I did in the '30s. And "A Summer's Day"
that I did for the World's Fair in '63 or '64. It has a quiet flow.

That came from listening to the buzz of a bee. Like a musi

listens to water or wind to find a sound that he can use. I was

listening to nature.

Coraddi: And your large "Hurricane" piece of '72 is about the aj

thing, I suppose.

Agostini: Same thing, listening to and watching the force

nature. And describing her effects. That one too came from ai,

drawing. I've been regrouping all my life.

Coraddi: You said earlier that you try to make sense out of the j

Agostini: You can't see things instantly. So you record, ma

biography for the future. Later you give meanings to your

perience. The things of the present are seeds for possibilities. L?

moments drop into place, but when they are happening, it's a \

So you make a garden. I keep absorbing. We all do that. W

sponges.

Coraddi: When you were doing direct plaster casts of found

jects, you were grouped with pop artists such as Andy War

Jasper Johns, and Robert Rauschenberg. How do you feel al

that?

Agostini: Well, I can tell you what I was doing. I was invo

in the process of vibrations of my time. I cast beer cans that I fc

in my backyard. You know, there's a lot of garbage in New "V

City. But I was interested in them because they were smashi

was interested in the idea of discard, rather than the th

themselves. Again, the process offerees. Like my balloons ri-

out of cardboard boxes.

Coraddi: Giacomo Manzu did some similar direct casts of obj

around the same time that you were doing these images? Is tl

any connection between you and him there?

Agostini: I was never interested in Manzu. I see no connect

I came upon this purely by accident. It wasn't a derivative.

of drapery in still-lifes or figures in art history, or of other i

temporary artists. It was a process of thinking about nature

Coraddi: Portraiture is very important to you. When you do a

14

alt, is it of a specific person?

gostini: I'm working on one now, an image of someone I knew
ng ago. I'm trying to get it to look like how I remember that per-
in. Not realism or naturalism, but how that person looks, feels
i me. And if you saw that person on the street, you'd spot that
was her. And I leave them in a state of happening. And I can't
ill you why, give you a reason. It just ends up that way. When
m doing a portrait, I'm feeling it out. And when a person exists
it, then I stop. That's the way I work. I want you to feel her when
ju see it. They have to be full of life.

oraddi: Throughout your life, you've done a lot of very different
inds of images. But is there, or are there, any theme or themes
lat are consistantly in your work?

gostini: Yes. One is the idea of elevation. That is the prime
ling— to generate 'up'— leverage, elevation. The balloons rising,
othes on a line being picked up the wind. I did the "Hurdy-Gurdy,"
did the "Carousel," and the "Lolli-pop Roller-coaster," the
Mickey Mouse Airport." All these are long ago. Then I did lots
f standing figures, with high heels. Why? To make them elevate,
3 rise up. Some of them are holding birds, one with a bird on an
utstretched arm, about to fly away. Again, flight. I did the
imflower, the butterfly, the sunbursts, moonscapes.
loraddi: Was the reoccurance of this theme a conscious thing on
our part, or did it just happen?

Lgostini: It just happened. The same with my horses. Whatever
Ise they are, my horses are about flight, bursting out. And another
hing that's important to me is sleep. I'm very involved with the
tate of sleep. I've done sleeping figures sitting and lying down.
Ind my "Winter Wall" is the long sleep. And a lot of my heads
,re sleeping. Portraits at rest. What I want to do is make a subtle
ituation become real. Why don't I make dancers? I never think

about that. I don't nued U> make (innt-jun, they ail fJanct when I'm
through. The main (joint in rny work i.H V) try tii gel the imploukjn
and explosion . Th<- implosion i.s U> gel the thing tit l^eat from within
the skin, arid then U> gel what you call the 'life-force' Vj exf/and.
If you get both those two things working, you Ux^k at it and itay,
yea, it's real. Is it right or wrong? It d'^sn't matter, if it generat*«
a sense of life. Do I know anything aUjut anaU>my? I don't give
a damn about anatomy— it's what fits the purjx^sse. S^j I'm tjetween
the worlds of things in flight and things at rest— elevati^.in ari^J sleep.
And making things jut '\uV> space, rather thian just be in space. I
want to activate the space I'm putting w^mething in.
Coraddi: Peter, the Coney Island piece that the Weather8pfX»n
owns seems somewhat unique to most of your other work. Could
you talk about that image?

Agostini: Well, that one was actually done in 196fJ, but they have
it dated wrong-I think they have 1966 on it. But that's when they
bought it. I hadn't finished it. I just added a little more to it then.
I did that piece when my wife died. She died in 1961. She was dy-
ing of cancer, and I used to go to the hospiul day and night, so
I slept very little. So the only way I could keep myself awake was
to do a thing like that. It gave me a reason when I walked Uj the
hospital. I'd pick up little pieces of paper. It's really a homage to
her in a way. I'd pick up all these pieces of colored paper, like match
covers, walking through the streets looking for certain colors, like
red or yellow. It was like a dirge, and a comedy of errors, if you
want to call it that. It's trying to get back before when death hap-
pens. It's one thing you do when you see someone approaching that.
You have the memory of them before they even knew what it was
to grow up. You get the experience of the child back again, the
wandering alone. When someone gets near to death, you feel the
lonliness of them. Like everytime I hear ragtime music, it throws
me back to my own birth time because it was around my birth time
that ragtime music was— in 1913. So that still rings in my head.
Coraddi: What other works did you do during that time of your
/ife's death?

15

Agostini: I did another image, which was of New York City, which
Hess bought. It was about five feet by four feet. That's a big area
to cover with tiny pieces of paper. I started in one position, and
did the City in pieces of color. I got Harlem in there, I got 42nd
street, I got the Battery. But you can only sense it with color. I
had to do those images because it was the only thing that would
keep my mind free of my anxiety of what was going to happen.
I was hoping that I could turn the table. I was trying to group all
my forces to say that she was going to get well because I say so.
The color released the morbidity, it released anxiety, it released
joy. What I was looking for was the power of being a God; I said
this person should not die. I will look at her and concentrate on
the fact that she will get well because I said so. There's no need
for her to die. She's too young. I was trying to reconstruct the world
with bright colors, to control something which I could not control.
But it was like slamming at something, without using my fist. Slam
at it some other way, try to bring joy into the act, and not to let
the other thing take over.

Coraddi: How did you get involved in teaching art?
AgoBtini: My first teaching job was at Columbia in 1960. That's
when I had the first big exhibition. Everything just popped up at
once. At first I wasn't supposed to teach any classes. I was like
a spectator-like Motherwell and the others. Just come in and
review the graduate students' work. Critics for the MFA. But
Nivola had to leave and they asked me to take his class. I said,
"Look, I don't know how to teach. What the hell am I going to
tell them?" They just wanted me because I was Peter Agostini.
Since I was a star, anything I said would be considered interesting.
Even if it was stupid. You know, when you're a star, stupidity is
considered profundity. But I didn't want to be a fake. I had no
technique to give them. So I was just going to let the students work.
But the kids put me on the spot when I criticized what they were
doing. Remember, this was at the height of abstract expressionism.
So they were doing all these big sketches. But I told them it just
didn't make any sense. One guy didn't even look at the model when
he drew. They forced me to show them how to draw. And that's
when I started discovering things. That's the first time I worked
with a model. And remember I was forty-seven years of age. And
that's when I came up with the idea of making little sketches of
the figure-drawing with clay. Like I still do at UNC-G.
Coraddi: I found that the best way to learn from you is to watch
you work.

Agostini: The truth is that I feel that if I'm working, my energy
is pushing you. I want to create energy in the students. I'm not
a teacher. I'm a catalyst. I want to give the students possibilities,
give them choices. Like when I'm talking to you, I generate
something within you to be an artist. Hopefully something will rub
off when we interact. The same is true if I am working in class.
I feel like I gave this school a kind of essence. I made everybody
get involved. Only by doing what I do.

Coraddi: You must feel a bit uncomfortable teaching in an institu-
tion, having avoided them most of your life.
Agostini: I am basically like my father-an anarchist. I hate
bureaucracies. And I hate bureaucrats.

I'm not interested in art students. I'm interested in artists. In
those who want to pursue the idea of being an artist. But if a per-
son doesn't want to, it would cut short my conversation with them
because it is better that they be what they want to be. If they want
to be a salesman, or sell art, you know, be a professional, I can
teach them to be a professional. But let's not confuse that with
art.

Any situation that you set up in school can make a person better
at what they're looking at. So most of the people really want to
be good professionals. They're not interested in art; they want to
make a living. It's a living. They want to be what you call an artist
who lives off of what they make. The only reason that doesn't work
today IS because at the time that was done in the Renaissance peo-
ple were hired to do things like frescos. People could do that and
still be great artists. You know, searching. Looking for essence.
But today commericalism has done something else to art. It makes

you a pretty good professional-you can do book jackets. You c
make somebody be pretty good at something if you keep after the
But that isn't art. You can train people to see, but if you are rea
searching, you hope to find what it means. That's the differenc
But you can train people to see. And that's the condition that tak
place in every school. So we'll give them a diploma, make thf
professionals. That doesn't bother me.

But if a guy is serious about being an artist, then I will tell h
these other things, like I tell you. If you're serious, there's the oth
thing. Essence. There it is. But what does it mean for you to g
there and do something with it? Two worlds: being an illustrate
and the search of being an artist. Two different worlds.
Coraddi: Why did you come to UNC-G in 1966?
Agostini: Carpenter asked me to come down and give it a try. I
met me through Noah Goldowsky. But I told Carpenter if I didr
Hke it, I'd just leave on the spur of the moment with no hard fei
ings. At that time I really didn't want to teach anymore. I was e
hibiting at a lot of places, like the Guggenheim. But I came dov
to North Carolina. In those days, as soon as my classes were doi
on Wednesday I would fly back to New York. And I wouldn't cor

back until Monday morning. I'd walk into my class right from tl
plane. But then I got involved with UNC-G. I liked the people her
And I found a nice source of search for me here. From this plac
I produced all the shows I had from '66 on.
Coraddi: So, are you a North Carolina artist?
Agostini: I really am. From the sixties on. Some of my mo!
forceful pieces were done here. The Old Man series, my woma
with beads, my horses, series of portraits. I really grew here. I m
growing up in New York, but then I grew something different her-
But they never understood. You know, one critic here called or:
of my heads a "potato." They had a goldmine here, and they didn
even know it. My studio at the Sternberger House is packed fu
of my work. Just sitting there. What a mess. The debris of a los:
dream. ■

Coraddi: You still comute between North Carolina and New Yor
City, ten days at UNC-G and ten days at the Studio School. Wh
do you do that?

Agostini: It makes me see here better. And it makes me see Ne'
York better. I'm not caught up in either world, see? I'm an observe
of both, which is better than being an inmate of either. You ca
see that people like Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns are New Yori
I'm not. I'm not North Carolina, either.

Coraddi: Do you think it also has something to do with the fac
that you, as you said, have always been alone? That you never ha
a nest. And you shun growing roots?

Agostini: Basically, I would give me credit for one thing. I'm pai
tially a gutter-snipe. And I'm a first-class hobo. I don't belong t
anyone. It makes me belong to myself.

The interviewer has been studying sculpture with Agostini fo
four years.

16

1 r ly -I

Bill Rankin

17

18

MORNING CLOUDS FROM RUE DASSAS

An early morning's fiery sun
Battles through a patchy cloudiness.
Its fierce look sets the Pantheon in blazes
And rules a helpless blue.

Then a pushing wind out of the west
Begins to bank the greys against themselves.
To load the winter skies of Paris
And blow away the light.

Now a colder, finer, whiter cloud

is floating with its loneliness

Somewhere between these heavy, vaporous masses

And all the other worlds.

L.L. Fox

19

SUMMER

I

And I'm goin' swimmin" in the river
with its clear, cold water reflecting the sun
and the golden star-sprinkled bottom
with fishes dancin".

I'm gonna leave this
sit-still-do-nothing-sweat-anyway land
where the grass is dried brown crunching underfoot
and the jarflies rasp on in the still heat of the day
while it's too hot for bird's song.

I'm ridin'.
Ridin" down a road with the humid blanket over me
makin' everything slow...heayy
Damn! It's too much to talk, almost too much to drive.

But I'm goin' to the river where I wont see
slick-faced, glass-eyed folk draggin' their heels
mumblin' about...who cares?
I'm goin" swimmin'!

Gel! Klimek

1

Third Place

20

Lvnne Faulk

21

TO MY HUSBAND IN THE EARLY MORNING

Six o'clock ticks in the new, punctual light

and dishes, crept out of the cabinets, sully themselves

before the astonished bare face

of the know-it-all kitchen clock.

Forks, unwrapping from dull tines

the hours of darkness, are splotched underneath

with an armor of old red food.

And I. having dreamt like a wife all night

of toasters and nylon spatulas and love,

waken to the remote gray glare of the television

across the bedroom.

I remember the late show,

those people on the flat curved screen

making love loud and nimble

between dull talk scenes. Because of this

we went to sleep with trite phrases on our tongues

but our cliches are so complex

they would fool anyone. Today

there is dishwater to be drawn

and wine to be drunk. The ring warm on your finger

you float on a blonde sea over which the sun is about to break.

Elizabeth Rochelle Smith-Botsch

22

Beth Anvater

ULI SCHEMPP

24

26

BILL RANKIN

28

Jill Couch

OCTOBER COTTON

I

She would drive us outward
past the slipping houses,
into the hills.
The final nothing
when she stopped the car.
She would pull her arthritic
old body from the seat
and proclaim,

The heart of the Cotton Belt."
My brothers and 1 would run.
boundlessly through the October fields,
brown with harvest,
pulling the bolls from their stems
and running the whiteness
through our harsh fingers.
She would simply watch her
grandchildren, alive and young,
and knowing death was near.
Still her lips curved back
in a smile as she laughed
inward to the sky of her being.
We fell into the stupor of wonder,
the kind only children know,
the kind my grandmother must have
felt in a different time.
This was her home soil,
paid for as the cotton passed each season
But we, not knowing the secret
of the day-red land, were awed.
It pleased her
(we could tell)

to see her own second generation
walking on her own.
And today, even after death,
1 recall the beckon of the red dirt,
of the hills, the whiteness of cotton,
and grandmother's timeless face.

Eric Hause

30

I

^iiifrA

Gregg Balkcum

31

Jo Jane Pitt

As the psychic minister, Helen Turner, entered the long,
motley room with two companions, the circle of gray metal
chairs began to fill.

Susan tried for a deep breath around her chest pain. She
released it long enough to ingore for awhile.

Helen Turner walked quickly down the scuffed hardwood
floor, smihng and waving at old friends.

Susan moved along the curve of chairs to the left,
murmured "excuse me" to someone already seated. She looked
around for Lelania, who seemed to be in intense conversation
on the other side of the room. Just as she wondered whether
to save a seat for Lelania, someone took the chairs on each
side of her. She hooked the wood heels of her clogs over
the chair rung.

She forced herself to look around. This night she would
not think of Mike and their separation.

Not quite behind her was a long table. Two short plump
women in their sixties, in grandmother uniforms of thin
bouffant hair and polyester pantsuits, were unpacking cans
and packages from cardboard boxes. The one in the bright
rust suit never smiled. Susan watched the women fret over
the placement of small bowls of cookies and snack foods.
Apparently she was one of the regular attendees of these
with Helen Turner. Why did she look so grouchy?

The old women picked up a pitcher of magnolia leaves
and shuffled to the top of the circle at the far end. She
set it on the floor.

Helen and the pregnant girl with her stopped to speak
to a young woman and admire her baby in an infant seat on the
floor. Then they sat at the top of the circle, feet behind
the magnolia leaves. The other companion, a red-bearded

fellow, found a seat dovra two from where Lelania had percheo

Even as Helen sat, a half-dozen arrivals came in an
paused by the literature display table. Eleanor Withrovj
coordinator of these monthly meetings, scuttered back ani
forth unfolding chairs from a stack against the front wall
Helen Turner slid forward on the seat and in a resonant void
said, "Welcome, come on in, friends. We're just gettini
started. Everyone slide back and open the circle." A
her arms did a breast-stroke through the air, chairs scraped
On the other side of the room, the chairs in front of a tabl
draped in black velvet could not move.

"Mother-Father God, we begin with gratitude for ou
friends gathered here." People still wandered in after Helei
Txirner offically began with a prayer. "We send only praist
to you 0 Father for all life on this planet, the Great University;

Susan was a person who usally opened her eyes, a littll
guiltily, during prayers.

"We ask that you clear the room and our hearts of
negatives dear Father-Mother; that what Spirit channels hen
tonight, and always, be positive energy only."

Helen Turner, a little overweight, looked about fifty
five, possibly older, though her smooth skin did not indicati
it. Her short fluffed hair was probably tinted to maintaii
its apricot glow but was effective. She wore a white pantsuit
a royal blue scarf around the neck, and sapphire dangle earrings

"We're especially thankful for your unceasing care
Father, for our little brothers, the dogs and cats, sent t(
enrich our hves with their special lessons."

Lelania was an explorer. She was one of those womei'
who, at age thirty in the midst of conservative dress styles
could drape herself like a flower child and pull it off
She wore her hair in long curls, and was dressed in thii
yellow socks turned down at the ankles, sandals in February

32

FHE CRVSTKL

blue ruffled skirt and purple poncho.
Susan thought about their arrival here. Lelania greeted
lople. Susan, feeling awkward, stopped just inside the door
side the literature table. On it was a display of pamphlets,
ssettes, miscellany like UNICEF cards and No Nukes bumper
ickers for sale. Lelania went from hug to hug. Susan
etended interest in an "I'm A Vegetarian" button. Lelania's
3uth and forehead both, however, seemed to concentrate into
tense pucker, unawares.

"—grateful for our ministry and these many gathered tonight
share and recieve Spirit."

Susan considered these many, from the baby to a man in
trim mustache and designer knickers, to the one black guy,
student-type, to an affluent couple in knit suits, to the
.ndicapped man, head fallen to one side, flanked by a
licitous older couple, to Helen's companion with the reddish
ard and droopy mustache. He did not look at all like Mike
it might be interesting. She would have lingered on him
ifhile but Helen Turner said, "In the Christlight and Energy
id Divine Love of All and the One, Amen."
There were the usual end-of-prayer coughs, chair shuffles,
id latecomers.

"Welcome, folks," said Helen Turner. "Try to open up
e circle. And if not, Eleanor, we may need another row."
leanor, distressed, helped unfold the few unused chairs,
elen continued, "First, we're going to talk about the crystals
night. Quartz crystals."

Susan was amazed by the synchronicity of the topic and
ir attraction to crystals.

"—stopped me over at the crystal mines in the Southwest,
a the way back from California. Stand up, Donna and Larry,
r a minute." A young hippie-looking couple stood.
Susan realized she was holding her breath. She felt

self-conscious about the multi-faceted, shiny. pear-shaf>ed
glass that lay against the dark green of her crewneck sweater.

She wondered if everyone were staring at her because
this was crystal night with Helen Turner, and she was already
wearing one.

The tightness in her chest was fenced by pain. She
had been able to forget that pressure for a while tonight.
She had not been obsessed with Mike since coming to this
place.

Then she heard Helen's voice, "-here on the table
at the back. They are not inanimate rock as you might think,
but living, breathing beings. There's a cr%-stal deva that
helps them grow. Yes— you have a question. Beck>-?"

A woman in a knit suit, who looked more like a campaign-
ing politican's wife than a mystic, said, "Helen. I've
heard you mention these devas before but I'm not clear as
to what they are exactly."

"Oh, good question. There is a Spirit, a life force
behind everything. As trees, flowers, everj- growing thing
has its own deva in the nature kingdom to help it grow, so
do quartz crj-stals. The crj'Stal de\-a gives them their life
force. The crj'stals are solidified light."

Part of Susan registered data without listening as
Helen continued, "A quartz crj'stal has special healing
qualities. But it needs proper purification to cleanse it
of negative nbrations. It's been handled a great deal you
see, in the mining process. To cleanse one you soak it in
a glass of distilled water and sea salt. Set it in sunlight.
I put mine out on the sunporch.'"

Susan thought it seemed expensive to buy one of those
gallon jars of special water to purih" one crj'stal. Maybe
she could not afford a cr\'stal.

But she was being told about a piece of solid God.
She had to have one.

"Would you explain how these crystals help heal?" The
elderly gentleman cupped his palm behind the ear with the
hearing aid.

No, Susan had a feeling that if her crystal lay on
that table over there, somewhere, then she would be able to
afford it. She fingered her pear, looped with blue fishing
line onto a thin silver-plated chain.

Helen Turner went on. "—different crystals for
different purposes. It's important that the one you have
for your own use be different from the one you intend to
use in healing someone else. This is my own personal one."
She held it up. "Energy flows into me through the crystal
when I hold it in my left hand. In my right hand I can wave
it all about and cleanse the room with it. Send out energy."
"Helen, for those who don't already know, I'd like to
interject that the left side is the receiving side and the
right is the giving, the sender forth side. It takes an
unblocked flow through the body to create a healthy balance
of energy." This was the redheaded guy.
Left side, right side. Susan's heart was hurting.
"Yes, and the quartz crystals help keep our energy flowing,"
Helen said. "The smaller ones can be worn for jewelry but
should be worn pointed-end down, like Donna's and Larry's.
If you do wear one, it needs to be on a chain long enough
for the crystal to rest against the solar plexus, one of the
most vulnerable spots in the energy field. A crystal worn
over the solar plexus is a shield against negative vibrations
from others, the environment, even unfriendly entities from
other realms."

She looked around for more questions. "After we're
through, if you decide you're interested, go look at the
crystal display. These crystals are reasonably priced.
Also, take a look at the chain and metal cap that Donna and
Larry had made for their crystals." Then Helen Turner shook
her finger. "Never, never drill a hole through one to insert
a chain. Remember this is a living, breathing being.
Solidified light. The way to care for your crystal is to
keep it in some soft fabric. It likes velvet, does nicely
in silks. There are some lovely little pouches stitched
with love by friends of Donna and Larry, if you'd want one
of those. But never put it in a metal container or keep
different crystals together. Does anyone have any questions?"
"You said— uh— to put the crystal in the sun— I was
wondering how long you leave it there," said a man with a
booming voice.

"I left mine in sunlight, oh about two or three days
ought to do it. Also, these crystals, being light, take on
the properties of the color they're stored in. I know a young
man who was feeling low-energy and wanted to revitalize
himself. So he put his crystal in an orange container of water
and left it up on the window shelf for three days. Then he drank
the water and felt immediately renewed."

That did sound a farfetched to Susan.

But so did a lot of things. After all, drinking orange
sunlight didn't seem strange. What was strange was her
husband replacing her with a woman she had thought a friend.

When the hurt in her chest did relent sometimes, a
pressure remained. The pressure was a weight specifically
between the breasts. It made a barrier her breath would not
go through. She wanted it out. Now, on top of that, she figured
she must have an extremely vulnerable solar plexus consider-

ing all the negatives that had lately penetrated her energy 1|

"Helen?" The old woman in the bright green pant
who had helped unpack boxes, raised her hand. "Would
speak a little about what some of the different colors s'
for?"

"Of course, dear. Green is the healing color. Yo
probably noticed that many hospitals use green. Yello'
the color of teachers and teaching; gold for wisdom. Lavei
and the shades of purple are for the New Age, the transmu
violet flame."

Susan contemplated the deep green of her sweater,
gray of her corduroy slacks. Neutral.

Helen said, "Blue has the quality of selflessness
you're having trouble with self-will and want to brin,
into alignment with God's will, then use blue."

Susan had been having a great deal of trouble with self-
Even though she knew thou shalt not, she wanted to kill M

Did she need help most with self-will or di\
forgiving?

"There's the right crystal for each seeker. Any
plans to take one, hold several, one at a time,
feel the energy. I'll read the crystal you select as 1
as my own energy holds out," Helen offered. "After aw
with so many, I get sort of muddled messages. But my ■
crystals have been such an important source of healing
me, I wanted to share that with you tonight. Now, I've t
getting letters from all around the country. People
concerned. They hear about universal love, and sen^
peace, brotherhood. And yet, when they look around t
see more global wars than ever before, and two-third;
the world hungry. Friends, at this time we're gettiii
closer to God. It's time we grew up, recognized we
co-creators with Spirit. As we come nearer the light
it shines on our dark places, we see the garbage in
corners and the—"

What did crystals look like growing in the earth, Sui
wondered. Light shining in the good dark within the eai
She considered the spectrum. Mike's favorite color
green.

"—and oh yes, before we close, one other announcemi
For those interested, there's New Age Survival Food
display at this other table back there. And thank you
coming. You are blessed."

They all stood, joined hands, and chanted, "We are c
We are one. Thank you Father-Mother. We are one. We
one."

Susan forced herself to go to the table which displa
crystals in cotton-lined boxes. There were large clust
for ten dollars. Singles were priced according to size
seven, five and two dollars.

Consoled about the cost she went to Helen Turner,
young mother bounced the baby on a hip as she chatted v
Helen.

Susan blurted, "Will you help me find my crystal?"

Helen Turner smiled at her and held out her hand,
you have it yet, dear?"

"Oh," said Susan. "No."

"Well, you go pick one. Fold it in your palm. W)
it warms up, you'll feel the energy pulsing up your a!
When you find the one that's right, bring it to me and
see whether its energy matches yours."

"I knew when you started talking about crystals t
mine was over there. I've been collecting prisms a cou
of years— see— I wear this one." Susan leaned forward

34

id the glass pear.

Yes. Very pretty. I've always liked these, too,"

[ Helen, "but now it's time for us to get the real thing."

usan nodded and stepped aside. She realized she had

ken into a line in front of Helen.

mbarrassed, Susan stood alone in the middle of the floor.

he table of crystals was crowded. It was draped in

:k velvet. On it were rows of white jewelry boxes,

erent sizes, lined with white cotton. Nestled in those

es were living spirits.

he wondered why the quartz crystal contained more

inity than this sparkling machine-cut prism she wore.

ire was divinity in everything, even people. A human

. operated the machine, had packaged the crystal, and so

down to her. Nearly everyone who saw it was attracted

t. Was that because it was a reminder of the light?

lelania leaned an arm on her shoulder. "Well, what

you think?"

It's— it's amazing, "said Susan.

It is?"

Yes. It can't be an accident that crystals are here

night I am." She dangled her necklace. "I've got a
ection started for the children. You know, snowflakes
;heir Christmas stockings, hearts for Valentines."
Hmn. You're collecting them anyway. But I question
this selling. And the dependency on things to save us.
Dugh Helen doesn't usually sell anything, so she must
ik this is important."

And she's helping out her young friends," said Susan.
;elania said, "Let me know when you're ready to leave."
t was Susan alone looking at the New Age Survival Food
iducts and the two old women guarding them. The grouchy
i sat with legs crossed behind the table. The softer one,
green, stood at the end of the table. "Try some of the
sese spread on a cracker," she offered.
Thank you," Susan heard her voice respond as a polite
rp. She dipped a small griity cracker into a little bowl
sd with yellowish custard. The two women stared at her.
re these whole wheat crackers?" Susan asked.
'I don't know." The woman fumbled brown-spotted swollen
ids toward a package in the display.
(Usan had only meant to be conversational. "Don't go

any trouble, please." She bit into the cracker. "My
3dness, this is delicious. A healthy alternative to
eez Whiz. My kids would love it." As soon as she said
she knew they would hate it.

'Here." The woman read the ingredients from the cracker
ic. "Whole wheat flour, soy flour, hydrogenated palmseed

^ thin-faced woman came up to the table and dipped a

icker in the custard. "Good."

'It is, isn't it? I was just saying my children would

'e it."

'This isn't all natiu-al, however," the woman said out of the

e of her mouth. She held a can toward Susan, tapped a fmger-

il on "artificial color" and said "I guess you add water and

r for cheese. When you're in— whatever— when the holocaust

mes— if— if the continent cracks down the middle or the

clear reactors leak— whatever— "

rhe woman in green pulled brochures from a folder and came

the front of the table.

'Delicious, dear." The thin-faced woman touched a green

)ow as she moved on.

Susan watched her go. She admired the ease with which the

others ha'J sampled, U^uched, and lf:fl. She Btaye'J, trapped by

the brochure.s.

"Helen recommend.s these survival kits only X/i her friends.
It's a co-op. Helen doesn't get any profit herself. Mf.rfst of thi«
you prepare with your own bottled water, nee, b>ecaujie all the
other water will be contaminated in a diisaster. But it's gvxl
for emergencies like ice st/jrm.s when you can't get V) a store."

"I see," said Su.san. "And how much are these kits?"

"The ninety day for four— runs aU^ut three hundred dollars."
The woman flipped pages in a pamphlet, "If you break it down
per meal, you see, you have powdered eggs, powdered yogurt,
powdered chocolate pudding—"

"It sounds like a wonderful deal," said Susan, stepping back
to the cheese and crackers to stand beside the man with the red
beard. "Good isn't it?" she asked him.

He smiled.

"Stocking up for emergencies is probably a good idea." A lady
in a jumpsuit stepped to his other side, reaching long nails into
a dish of nuts and sesame sticks. "But I never plan ahead. Too
disorganized. Did you drive down tonight with Helen?"

"Yes. But we were late getting started so we came in with
her in a flutter and her aura all jagged. How have you been?"
He walked away from the table; the lady's hand possessed his
arm.

Susan stared at the can of powdered pudding in her hand. The
grouchy woman's jerky movement forced her to focus. The old
woman picked up the bowl of nuts and sesame sticks and whisked
it to the floor next to the wall behind a cardboard box. Susan
watched sideways only.

From the end of the table, the one in green whispered, "What
are you doing?"

The corners of her grouchy mouth were even further down
as she mouthed without sound, "It's got bugs in it."

Her friend nodded once. The incident was closed. They
scrutinized Susan.

Susan coughed. She did not want them to be embarassed that
she knew. "I'll certainly keep New Age Sunnval Food in mind
if I can ever afford it—"

"Here honey, take this with you." The woman in green stuff-
ed pamphlets and brochures into her hand. She crammed them
into the outside pocket of her shoulder bag and headed for the
crystal table, where she had wanted to be in the first place.

She decided her crj'stal had to be in the five doUar box. He
held one. Then another. Then picked up a third one. It was about
twice as long as her thumb and twice the diameter. A big flaw
was chiseled into one of its sides. Its point was car\-ed lopsided.
One of its facets had a groove as if a mining tool had slipped.
Little shapes were suspended inside it. She put it back guess-
ing that it was the right one. But no extraordinar%- sign was
given to affirm that.

All of the crj'stals had flat bumpy ends where they had been
cut from a cluster. Those ends were murky inside.

She held a smoother-sided one. No flaws. Nothing strange con-
tained within it. she thought she would take the one more
carefully mined. Yet she put it down and reclaimed the one with
the flaw.

She went to the end of the line of people clutching quartz
crj'stals waiting for Helen Turner to read their selections.

When it was her turn, she handed her cn,-stal to Helen. She
knew she had the right one. Still she could be wrong.

Helen smiled, held the crj-stal as if her palm were listening
to it, studied Susan, and said. "This one is strong enough for
you." She held up the cr>-stal between thumb and finger. "It
looks like it has a phantom in it."

Susan took the crystal. "You see, when you're talking I think
you're speaking straight to me and when you were talking about
the heart— I have this constricted area around my heart chakra
and sometimes it hurts— and I didn't know whether to go with
the blue or pink."

Helen took her hand, looked down into her palm, deep, as if

seeing all the way through it, and then deeper. Then she looked

straight into Susan's eyes. "You can never go wrong with pink."

Helen's hair did catch and send out light. Was this an aura?

Susan hated pink.

She nodded and moved on. Helen had said to keep these
crystals separate from others and stressed how they took on
the quality of the color they were stored in.
Susan was going to wrap hers in pink.
She splurged and bought a tiny two dollar crystal to wear for
jewelry. When she ever found a cap to fit it to hang from a
necklace, she too could guard her solar plexus from negative
vibrations, the environment, and even unfriendly entities from
other realms.

She dropped the smaller crystal into her change purse with
an apology and a promise that it was only temporary in case
polluted coins were bad for its spirit. But she did not want to
lose it. The large, strong one she put in the left pocket of her
jacket, which she pulled on as she motioned to Lelania.

Lelania had bought a quartz crystal, too. In Susan's station
wagon, the engine running in front of Lelania's house, her friend
said, "I thought it would be warmer, today was so sunny, so
I put on my yellow socks. Too soon, I guess. I don't know. I'm
questioning everything these days. That's why at first I didn't
even go over to the crystal table. Then I thought I'd at least
look at them. And when I picked it up and felt it— it does feel
good." She unpuckered her tense mouth to smile as she tossed
her crystal from palm to palm.

Susan wondered whether she should pull to the curb, cut the
engine. The muffler was puffing exhaust fumes into the car. She
checked to see that the window was cracked. "It's possible to
become a New Age junkie."
Susan said, "Yeah. There are limits."
"I get this Aquarian Explorer newspaper— it's free— and I was
noticing the other day how it's changed over the past several
years." Lelania shopped for words. "Ads are all over the
paper— more and more things to buy— from peacock feathers
like gurus whack you into enlightenment with to tote bags per-
sonalized with your mantra. Seems like the counter culture's
not so counter to anything."

"I guess so. But my friend Marie gave me this book by this
real spiritual man. He says we don't have to merely acknowledge
the material world but we've got to see the divinity in it and
transform it."

"I already know about all that," Lelania interrupted. "I'm
looking at my own life; I want to live even more simply. That's
all."

Simplicity. Susan considered it and considered single-
parenting her small children, living on child support and the
minimum wage teacher's aide job. He life stretched ahead as
endless, hurried, irritable, and guilty. She could say that she,
too, wanted to hve life more simply. But she did not know what
that meant. They were quiet, then Lelania said, "Anyway, good-
night, Susan. Thanks for the ride."

"Goodnight." They hugged across the car seat. Susan lit a

cigarette as soon as her non-smoking friend got out of the car,

and waited until a light came on inside the dark one-story house

recently rented by Lelania.

She drove off with the car doors unlocked. Nobody would jump

into her car. That was not the kind of thing that happened to 1 1

When she helped Lelania move into the house, the remod«i

kitchen reminded her of Mike's carpentry work. This was j

kind of job Mike did and it shouted greetings at her. The brc

patterned vinyl floor edged with plain unfinished molding m

her chest ache. She kept forgetting to ask Mike, when he p

ed up the children on Sunday afternoons, whether he had bi'

subcontractor for that job. \

She was learning in counseling that she was the source of

own feelings. No one could hurt her unless she allowed it

Still, her heart did not feel like she had broken it. It felt :

Mike had done it to her.

"Utterly. Totally. Completely. Absolutely," she said aloud
the windshield. "You bastard. I could— I could— Okay, Sus
breathe."

She turned down the deserted vnde-lane parkway. Wires i
trees outlined the trail through the park where she used to w
home after junior high school. Driving to her mother's mi
where the children were sleeping over, she knew that she 1
wanted to go back there to sleep because she did not wani(
go home. She was going to sleep alone at her mother's, in :|
old room long since converted into a guest room. She was
ing to sleep in the bed she and Mike had slept in when they sta;
there occasionally over the years. The crystal was in her i,
pocket.

She locked the front door behind her and went through
living room where the children were sleeping on the sofa b
After she closed the bathroom door behind her, brushed 1
teeth, rationalized the unpleasant aging mirror, she went ii
her room and dropped her jacket on the desk chair.

She undressed and took her pajamas out of the tote she I
left when she brought the children over. They were clovra
pajamas, bought with Christmas money, bought since Mike k
The bottoms were bright blue with red knit cuffs. The top v
fuzzy with blue and white stripes. It was baggy with red k'
wrist cuffs and a wide red band around the bottom which read
almost to the knees.

Then, under the shaded nightlight clamped to the headboa
left on for her, she held the crystal and looked at it.
"It looks like it has a phantom in it," Helen had said.
Susan looked into it. Would the deva be here, watching o-vl
this piece of living, breathing light? Or would the crystal de
be down in the earth, near the crystal mine, where the growi
process happened? She lay down and pulled up the cove
thought-drifting. It was not a question of either— or. It was y,
and yes. The crystal deva, being v^rithout form, could be he^
and there at the same time.

She slipped the crystal, warmed in her hand, under the bli
and white striped pajama top and placed it over the hard sp
in her chest, between her breasts, and held the crystal, t;
solidified godlight there.

She turned out the nightlight and practiced breathing. s\

had been a chronic breath-holder ever since she could rememb<

She began to hear her heart. When she was small she w

afraid to feel or hear her heart. It made her think she was d

ing, and so to stop it, she held her breath.

Tonight she listened, through the fear, to the heart thud. SI
breathed long and deep. A tremor ran up from her solar plex:
to her throat. She prayed that the pressure in her chest wou,
melt.
I've really gone crazy.

But she held the crystal against her warm skin, wondered wh
qualities it might take on overnight from this silly pajama, ai,
curled up and slept with it between her breasts all night.

36

Jan Couch

38

HOMER YOST

PLATO

What were you thinking

when you saw the scrub pines

wind sculpted on the rocky shores of Greece,

or on a bright night watched the moon

infuse the olive trees with its spectral light;

or did the branches shape the moonlight
and give it form, and send it dancing
on the floor of the desert night?

When you watched a fish

flicking its fins beneath a riffle.

waiting for whatever the stream sends down

or a stone, breaking the stream's flow,

were you sorrowed?

Did it sadden you to watch, by a pool, at dawn,

as the first pale light

bloomed from the East,

a face float from the nighfs smoky water

then burn away?

David Robinson

40

NOW AND THEN

The scent of your

skin warmth
lingers,

surrounds,
pulls me back into

the days
we pondered politics,

resurrected the Renaissance,

argued academics
hour upon hour,
our palms sweating

side by side on desktops—
always close,

never touching
(with such intensity,

the shock would be great).
Chased from a dream—
if we went back now,

would we find our fingerprints
blending?

Teresa M. Staley

LETTING SLEEPING DOGS BREATHE

It's not often I get to lay in bed

And watch my dog sleep, dreaming dog dreams

With four paws tucked together, he forms a furry

triangle.
As the pace of his sleep-life changes
His breath wheezes to a crescendo
He jumpstarts! and yawns.
Cocks his head, checks the vacancy of the bed.
But somewhere in his mind he decides to ignore
The fleeting mischevious idea of leaping onto
A sleepy scribbing form of the guy-who-feeds-me.
Rubbing his head into the paws slightly, taps his tail

on the floor:
Soon the orchestrated dog breaths begin again.

Byron Emerson

41

MALCOM: LOW, WRY

Despair descends around the clouded head

Which in the maelstrom of depression sinks

And, bowed, has downed a moody round of drinks.

His final conscious thought is of the dead,

Locked in land. His lonely, liquored sleep

Is much like theirs, except it will not keep

Him dry. He urinates on a borrowed bed.

Despair descends the web. It waits,

Then settles, weaving round and thorny crowns

For this melancholic apostate

Who laments his wounds with dying sounds.

There are others whose chasms crossed were wider.

But, unfallen, did not contemplate

The maw and ominous jaws of the nether-spider.

Then joy ascends, as in the sky the sun
Rising loudly the sounds of airy day
On rolling water glistens. Blue eyes run
To water, and swells glide lightly in the bay.
The afternoon bus, and Margerie's arrival.
Accompanied by the chattering gravel,
His dogged dreams of travel allay.
He knows this place. He has made his home.

Mark Thomas

Second Place
42

KANDINSKYS LA LIGNE BLANCHE NO. 57

It is the poet's sorrel mare

with one disfigured eye.

She prances the field

through the misty red of dawn

and proud,

dances in the morning air.

Then she escapes,

and carries him

on paths that leave the road,

that undulate

through thick, primeval stands.

penetrating white.

L.L. Fox

43

Mark A. Corum

Kevin was all alone on the beach, running along the edge of
the water playing tag with the waves. The long stretch of white
sand, the million-and-one shells, bits of driftwood and all the
other assorted flotsam tossed up by the early morning high tide,
they were his now. His father was out deep sea fishing and his
mother had gone shopping— they couldn't understand that no
simple orders could keep a boy and a beach separated, even in
January. Gusts of wind blew out of the blurry grey to rush
through him despite his jeans and Spiderman t-shirt, but he hard-
ly noticed. His attentions were focused on the sights around him
and the distant figure of someone else walking on his beach.

He had no fear of not finding the way back to his family's
cottage— a short post, all that remained of a long-vanished pier,
marked the pathway up and a big shell on top of it made sure
it couldn't be mistaken. When he'd come by on his way down
the path, he'd found the shell knocked off the post and half-
embedded in the sand. It was a great, curling conch that his

father had brought back a few days earlier and set on the po'
as a decoration. Kevin had seen it through the window of tl,
cottage, but never close up. He picked it up and looked insic
at the whorls of pink and red and the shiny surfaces that loo
ed almost wet. Then, remembering something his mother hi
told him a few days earlier, he placed it to his ear and listene
to the same rushing sound of water that came over the dunt
at night. Then he stretched up as high as he could and place
the shell on the post where everyone could enjoy it before coi
tinuing on.

The sun was starting to break through and warm him whe
something distracted him from his play. Ahead, just a few fet
above the waterline, there was a hole in the sand that looke
like a giant footprint made by something that had taken or
step out of the surf, looked around, then changed its mind an
returned. He walked towards it, but just as he reached it, a wav
washed up to its edge and a mass of silvery fish that had bee
trapped there half-swam, half-squirmed their way into th
breakers through the mixture of water and wet sand. He ra

44

jrthem, but they were already long gone. All that remained
the hole were a few strands of seaweed and Sonne broken
ces of shells. He noticed another glint coming from one edge
;he hole and immediately pinpointed his quarry-one tiny fish
I failed to make the break with its companions and was now
pped without any possible exit. It swam around the way his
ther paced when she was nervous or mad. He stepped on the
id beside the hole. The fish jumped from side to side, stop-
g only when it hit the walls of its sandy prison.
Cevin felt a little funny— knowing he was controlling life and
ith, if only for a fish. He took his hand and dug a tiny canal
ining down towards the waves from the side of the hole. The
ict wave stopped short of the hole again, but it washed up the
;le channel he had made and into the giant footprint. In an
tant the little fish was gone back into the breakers while Kevin
it sat there in his soaked Nikes, trying to watch it as it swam
ay.
ie continued down the beach, watching how the sand dried

for a moment around his feet each time he took a step. He
nped along in long strides, looking down at the marks he made

the sand, and didn't stop until he almost tripped over a big

een box full of shiny metal things and plastic fake fishes. He

)ked up.

[n front of him was a tall man with grey hair and a scraggly

ard. He wore blue jeans and a torn blue and red shirt that

vealed dark hair on his chest that didn't match the locks that

ick out from under his black fishing cap. Kevin watched as

e stranger picked up his fishing rod and heaved one of the

r lures out into the surf. He then placed the rod into a tube

at stuck up from the sand next to two other rods that trailed

les out into the waves.

"You live 'round here?" the old man snapped at Kevin without

en looking over at him, his eyes remaining fixed on the lines.

"No," Kevin replied, realizing a nod wouldn't work here.

"Then what're ya doin' out here?"

"Just watching."

I 'Then come over here and get a real look."

Inquisitive to a degree that overrode the fear his parents had

led to instill in him, Kevin walked over and stood by the old

an, alternating glances between the rods in the sand and the

an's face.

"Watcha doing?"

"Fishing. You ever fish?"

Kevin nodded no.

"Wanna learn?"

He nodded yes, eliciting a tobacco-stained grin from the old

an. "Okay," he said, holding up a piece of curved metal for

evin to examine. He spoke with none of the baby talk that most

f the grown-ups Kevin met used on him. "This is a hook.. .and

3U stick your bait on it like this (he demonstrated) and then

irow it out there and wait for them to bite."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do they bite?"

"Cuz otherwise I can't reel them in."

"Why do you reel them in?"

"Cuz they're damned hard to fry while they're still swimmin'
round out there. Don't your dad fish?"

"Sometimes, but mom says they're not clean and I don't think
he likes giving them baths."

The old man laughed for a second before the rod to the far
;ft took a hit and the reel screamed. "Got one!"

"Where?"

"Believe me, it's out there, " the old man said as be cranked
the reel tight and sUrted U) pull the fwh in. "Lodu like I got

me some lunch after all."

A moment later a silver form waa pulled onUj the sand, Btfll
flopping violently and trying hopelessly U) get away. The old
man stepped on top of the fish, deftly removing the hvjk from
its mouth, then Ujssed it back l->eside a big green cooler when
another of the rods jerked with a strike.

"Must've hit a school of 'em," the old man said as he wrestl-
ed with the second rod. "THAT'S how you fish!"

Kevin knelt by the fish on the sand and kxjked down at it. It
wasn't pretty like the fishes he'd seen in the little pool down
the beach. It bled from the mouth and opened and closed the
little cuts on the sides of its head like it couldn't breathe right.
As it moved more and more slowly, sand stuck to it and all the
shiny silver and rainbow colors that had painted its sides turn-
ed grey and dull like cement. Even as he watch, it changed into
something ugly.

"Damn," the old man said from behind Kevin, who turned just
in time to see him reeling in what remained of a broken line.
If there had been a fish on the other end. it was gone now.

"What does he do now?" Kevin asked with a worried look the
old man wasn't ready for. "I saw his babies down there," he
added, pointing.

"He goes in my frying pan now, after I've cleaned 'im," the
old man laughed, his voice strained because he didn't know what
else to say. "I'll have him for lunch later."

Kevin looked down at the grey and drying thing— all dull now
except for the shiny ebony eyes that glared up at him. As the
old man reached to pick the fish up, Ke\'in spoke again.
"But he wants to go back like the rest of them. He's lonely."
"Its just a damned fish-fish don't get lonely. They're for
eating— just ask your dad." Then, as if to prove his point, the
man pulled out his knife and stabbed the fish through the head,
ending its movement to begin the process of cleaning it. Blood
dripped from the knife blade onto the sand.

Kevin stood there, watching with impossible eyes. The old man
tried to answer as Kevin t\imed away and ran back down the
beach, pausing only once to pick up a shoe he'd stepped out of.
"Why else would I be fishing?" the old man yelled after him.
He stared after the boy for a moment, then returned to tending
his lines.

Kevin didn't stop running until the old man was a speck in
the distance and the post that marked the path back to his house
was almost upon him. He didn't know why he'd been running-
he hadn't been scared, just a little dizzy. His insides felt warm
and thick like hot syrup had been sloshed around in his stomach.
As he sat down and pulled his shoe back on. he kept thinking
about that fish.. .that was what his father had been out doing
all those days he was gone, ^^^ly?

Sitting there, he picked up a shell, then, bored, dropped it in
favor of a handful of pebbles. He hurled one out and watched
it as it kerplunked into the face of an incoming wave. Then he
turned without even looking back and started up the path to
his parents' vacation cottage, hoping they hadn't returned to
find him gone without permission. As he chmbed the path, he
flipped the rocks at in\-isible enemies, pre%-iously unnoticed,
hiding in the windswept sea oats that covered the dunes. He
passed the post and headed for the screened back porch of the
house, then stopped when he discovered two small stones left
in his hand.

The second one he threw shattered the shell on the post-
scattering forever tiny, shining fragments that could not get
back to the sea.

45

HER CHORUS

She was here once—
her laughter composing its way
through greener days,
singing of daffodils and lavender,
of patchwork color and cool sand-
offering lullabies to blue-eyed ringleted
girl and rosy-cheeked baby boy.

She was here once—
her knitting needles harmonizing
in time with the pull of her rocking chair-
and the slow hum of her smile blending
in time with pumpkin-colored days
and noiseless crescendo of twilight.

She was here once—
her melody grand and proud,
sweeping over measures of pain,
of empty days, and her eyes-
reflecting echoes of moss-grown songs
with frost-bitten tempos-
all fading into gentle silence.

1 will bring her yellow, dancing flowers.
She is still virtuoso In my dreams.

Mary Beth Ferrell

46

MANHASSET BAY

the present like a dream seemed a memory with premature beginning
P.J. snugly clothed in a blue snowsuit and red rubber boots.
hand-in-hand sauntering to the beach, the sun staring omniciently
about the modest remnants of the morning rush, the stillness like
a blank slate to be gingerly filled full of laughter and play
remembered by two or.. .realistically one; the moment, the hour
a retreat from the cyclic tedium- we passed a kitty, trying to
outguess its next move, we stood for a moment wondering, waiting.
entering the inquistiveness of unbound youth, then, as we ap-
proached the beach- the blacktop defiled with cigarette butts.
beer cans, and broken glass- disgusted. 1 lifted him into my arms
rebuking the evils of the world and feeling a knot-like cancer
settling in my gut as I faced my powerlessness to protect P.J.
from polluted men, we continued toward the peppered sand where
the earth again became worthy of his boots, the dancing seagulls
edged up the shore from a panorama of cottony clouds in the
lightened distant sky, the graceful birds made a love offering
to innocence, forgotten a month later, the impression of purity
leaves eternal favor to a generation so camoflaged by damned
neutrality.

Alison Kimmeiman

47

SWIMMING IN LATE OCTOBER. OCEAN ISLE, N.C.

The setting sun makes silver on the ocean.

far as my eyes can see,

pink and purple cumulo-nimbus skies,

in the Fall on Ocean Isle,

after the Oyster Festival.

The crows watch from the shore

as I wade slowly, tentatively

into the sea. toes curling, flesh goosing.

And the breakers, white caps

slapping you in the face

and salty breeze and undertow

always there tugging, pulling

as your legs wobble.

The seagulls aren't bothered or intimidated.

nor the crane and pelicans

flying low, swooping up high

looking for easy prey;

then diving straight down

for their catch, one clean shot...

But it's cold to me. until

I let go and dive in. giving myself over

to the sea.

head first, cutting a wave in half

and then coming up for air.

floating like a jellyfish.

or on my back.

crawling, butterflying like the pros.

Now its easy. I'm on a roll.

riding the waves like a porpoise

until the roar of sun. salt, song and wind

carries me one last time

to shore.

Bruce Piephoff

^^^

48

Jill Couch

49

QMS CLODmTE

50

51

52

charle:

TIGLIANO

53

!

r

\

}

i

f

1

1

1

1

i_

SIM GRRY

54

LITTLE JOHNS LAMENT

He blew his horn
As weakly as a dying soldier
Whose lungs are full of blood.
And when I heard that sound
Not Jesus, God, or Mary

Could have kept me from his side.

I'd not hurt a woman in my life
til the Prioress barred my way
And out went my fist
And on her arse she went.
Squawking like a puffin.

Her face all blood and angry tears.

I broke three doors and my shoulder
And then 1 finally found him.
He'd come for a bleeding of his ills
And by God's wounds they'd bled him,
But like a pig and not a man.

For he'd turned all his linens red.

Unable to stop the leak the blooding iron
Had opened in his wrist,
Too weak to flee, dying there.
Behind those stout oak doors,
He'd blown his horn

Knowing 1 would come.

"Master, there is one boon. " I said
As I held him in my arms
Upon the bloody bed. "Let me burn
This place, these cursed nuns,
This stinking hall. For that,
Hell would be worthwhile. "

"Nay, nay, friend John, not ever thaL
For I've not hurt woman in my life.
Nor any man in her company.
Now give me my good bow
And where the arrow lands.

There may you dig my grave."

His fingers quivered on the string
Which I had to help him draw.
Then he died.

And the arrow missed the window
And rebounded from the wall. My tears
Were the first I ever shed.

I'd followed Robin half my life
And loved him more
Than God

Or the Blessed Virgin

Or the lop-eared dog I'd owned vvjien I was six
Or any woman I'd ever touched.

Now I, John of Lancaster,

A big man with hands like shovels

And no more brains than a bony-plated turtle

Wander through lost and broken places

Under a sky

As empty as I am.

Ian McDowell

In the Medieval ballad ■The Death of Robin Hood. Rot)in. suffering from
an unnamed malady, visits his cousin, the Dame Prioress of Kirth .\bt)e>'. to
be bled for his ills. The Pnoress, however, has become the lover of the
Sheriff of Notingham. and she uses the bleeding iron to open a major \'ein
instead of a minor one and then leaves Robin locked up in his room. p>ing.
he blows his horn to summon Little lohn to his aid.

Honorable Mention

55

PENLAND WINDOW SERIE

Elisabeth Pric

56

|MMr

Pff"

57

58

59

60

61

62

THE BOUDIOR

He knocked

and the sound of your timid feet

in white cotton socks hurrying into the closet

didn't come near

all he could hear -"^

was the snore of the fan

and the ringing of the phone.

He unlocked

the door, your door (so long ago

you gave him the key can't

remember did he ask for it?)

and glanced around in his

morgue-silent way.

He was shocked

to see your party dress

of pink satin

and your freshwater pearls

and your ribbons

on the bed in anticipation

and the letter on the desk

with the ink barely dry.

Ronda Messick

ELECTRONIC MUSIC

well first off Its good
there

and the people who make It look Japanese

and they work late at night in dimly lit laboratories, surrounded by banks of synthesizers, sequencers, digital
recording equipment, amplifiers and speakers
the dimmer the light the better a synthesist they are
the best ones work in the dark
Interrupted only by the twinkling lights of the equipment that surrounds The Chair

one time a synthesist disappeared

they found the studio in complete disorder

windows shattered they were made of thick glass too acoustic paneling scorched pieces of things all over

there was a reel of tape still running on a recorder in the corner I

they never played that one back 1

they actually found the synthesist later on in the middle of an african rain forest, playing with cheetah
he didn't know either

that tape still exists somewhere
nobody's ever played it

not yet

byron woods

UNIVERSITY

ARCHIVES

UNC-G

ULU I I I 1 L.

_l I I I I U4JU

r^ jff^i^

>r^4^«^<J*-^M>^>|w'S>^^r^«wi>«Pi>4ntf

rH -f

Charles Sti^liano

63

Gregg Balkcum

64

CONTRIBUTORS

Beth Atwater
Gregg Balkcum
Chris Clodfelter
Mark A. Corum
Ian Couch
Jill Couch
Byron Emerson

Lynne Faulk
Mary Beth Ferrell

L. L. Fox

Geoffrey Fraser

Sara Gray

Eric Hause

Alison Kimmelman

Geli Kiimek

Ian McDowell

Ronda Messick

Jon M. Obermeyer

Bruce Piephoff

Jo Jane Pitt
Elisabeth Price

Bill Rankin

David Robinson

Uli Schempp

Tom Severa

Elisabeth Rochelle Smith-Botsch

Teresa M. Staley

Charles Stigliano

Mark Thomas

Byron Woods

Homer Yost

UNIVERSITY

ARCHIVES

UNC-0