Ellen looked up. She was surrounded by a sea of empty seats. She’d noticed the noise of the cleaning machine had stopped. But hadn’t thought beyond that. Now she glanced at the floor. It was so shiny she had to look away. A man wearing a khaki shirt and the same color pants stood in front of her, holding the handles of his waxing machine. Ellen noticed that his moustache was gray, but not his hair. She took a breath, then looked into his eyes. They seemed blank, and safe.Read More
Writing & Pictures
Hopper’s work is all about the space between people and things, space that is usually filled with light that never really illuminates, space that exists on its own plane, space and light that create their own tension.Read More
I will recall this as a happy time. I can do that. I doubt that Gloria can, will ever be able to. Why I keep the picture, this picture, in the drawer. Gloria never goes near the drawer. I think she knows why, even though she won’t say, but I think it would kill her, or close to.Read More
You asked about what happened, so I tried to remember. Mama never talked about it, not to me at least. What’s here is what I pieced together, through overheard words, voices raised and lowered, looks—the shards stuck in a brain corner, wanting to merge, waiting for a stray sunbeam to strike the remnants from, say, pieces of broken glass, and suddenly, there’s a pattern.Read More
The guy in the picture came back into my life like Marley’s ghost. Of course I knew that face. It was the lead picture in my exhibition in that winter of ’95. When I walked into the gallery, there he was, sitting by the window, an older guy in a trench coat looking like the wind would blow him into the Hudson. He stared, then motioned me to come over. I was surprised he knew who I was.
He answered my question without my asking: “I saw you back then. I got a good memory,” he said. Thirty years ago I was a kid.Read More