Sans-Souci (This threshold between a dematerialized and a historicized body), 2015.
Acrylic and ink on linen, 108 x 74 inches.
in the small ripples of the state’s terra firma. Even today, the
place I hike to most often with my son is a brook. Really it’s the
tiny outlet of one lake and inlet of another — a tenth of a mile or
so of running water. But it babbles to me like a long-lost relative.
“Car, car, car,” my son says, pointing to each tree as we walk to
the brook, even though I know he can make the t sound and also
that he knows full well these are not cars, nor have anything in
common with them. He has learned that “car” is an opening for
conversation, that it elicits a response, always, from my husband
and me. It’s an easy way for him to ask a question.
“Birch,” I say and lean close to one, so that he can touch the
smooth, white bark from his seat in the infant carrier strapped to
my waist and shoulders. “Lenticels,” I say, pointing to the dark,
rougher, horizontal strips that cut across it.