The Poet to the Artist | Part 1

Imaginate (on view through June 5, 2016), my first solo exhibition at the Boston Sculptors Gallery, has been a tremendous opportunity for me to exhibit a body of work and connect with the community. I am so grateful for the relationships that I have made over the last several weeks. Through conversations with artists, curators and enthusiasts, I have learned a great deal about individual works and my practice. Artist, poet and friend, Stephan Anstey of Western Avenue Studios, Lowell, MA attended the opening reception of Imaginate. It wasn't long before his encounter with the works before him forced his pencil to paper. I am most grateful for the following exchange — a collaboration of sorts — in three parts — with more to come.

Reflect    the twisted pink around the silver   contrasts against the mahogany   — i ask no questions    i consider the angles   the depth & the meaning    my childhood is there — she doesn't know   i was a boy of sunny days   of South Africa and New Hampshire Birch


The twisted pink around the silver
contrasts against the mahogany
— I ask no questions

I consider the angles
the depth and the meaning

My childhood is there — she doesn't know
I was a boy of sunny days
of South Africa and New Hampshire Birch



The cords are taut
fixed to poplar and canary wood

seven inches square
I see the symmetry
4 inches deep
I consider where this might rest

The notion of vertical pulls me
first down — then up and away


The yellow cord is tightly woven
like a thousand ideas I'll never have

I reach to understand
what is beyond me — but I can't grasp
the situation

The contrast of the poplar and birch
reminds me to let go and just appreciate


I was a boy
I know this
I sat there in the maple tree
my hands sticky from her wounds

The green, the hinge
inside the shed a model A ford from 1934

Goodbye, I almost wept when I left there
hello, I almost wept when I returned


The distance from base
to the ends of the hooks
is spanned by pink cord
my mind goes back
to a day in a canoe
untethered — the distance
between me and the shore
only growing with time


The placement of the holes
through the white
seems almost (though
not quite) precise
this is secure — wanton and ready
to be whatever it choose
regardless who might support
the decision its decision to be there




The oceans are wide
I close my eyes
every atom of my being
travels back along a flame cord
to that tree in Africa
was I so young?
was I this man even then?



For a moment, in the middle of Boston
I hide in a room with only 3 walls
three quarters of a 6-inch cube

I am afraid this is real:
I am truly this small.

I am afraid this is not real:
I am truly this big.

There is no comfort in the hiding.


This platform is small
but the black cord holds tight
to the silver fastened to the wall

It is no tiny thing to leap
from this precarious imagining

A reflection of black cord
through a small hole and knotted tightly


The dangling over
a word at a time
a tying of logic to oak
of dream to zebra wood
to poplar
to birch
a letting go — who am I to dare to be
this wilding man in such a tame place?



Yes, I know, we are the gold
twisted and turned
tied and fleeting as we rise
and fall — up and back again

It is the reaching, I tell myself
but of course, I can't hear my voice
over the flowering ash
swaying gentle in the wind


This is a study in left
to right — the right
to have left. No this
is not that at all. This
is turning point
not about me at all

I consider the source
and the hardness of the wood

(All poems courtesy of Stephan Anstey)